Marco shifts in his chair, and I notice his phone buzzing constantly with notifications he keeps dismissing. The screen lights up every few seconds, but he doesn’t even glance at it anymore.
“Shipments delayed. Contacts going quiet. Three of our regular suppliers have backed out of contracts without explanation. Nothing major, just enough to cause problems.”
“You think someone’s interfering with business operations?”
“I think someone wants us to think Dante’s alive.”
“What?” I shift in my seat. “Who would do that?”
“Could be anyone. Boris Petrov trying to create chaos. A rival family making a power play. Hell, could be some opportunist who thinks he looks enough like Dante to cause trouble.” Marco’s voice drops lower. “Or it could be someone inside our organization, someone who knows enough about Dante to make the impersonation convincing.”
The thought makes my stomach turn. An inside job would explain how the impersonator knows where to appear, how to time the sightings for maximum disruption.
“What do the sightings show exactly?”
Marco scrolls through his phone again. “Always from a distance. Always in situations where positive identification is impossible. Like someone wants to be seen but not confirmed, the Sacramento footage shows a man in a hotel lobby, but he’s wearing sunglasses and a baseball cap. Portland was at a restaurant, but he left before anyone could get a clear look.”
“Have you told Alaric?”
“Not yet. I wanted more concrete evidence before bringing it to him. He’s got enough to worry about with the Russian situation.”
Something in his tone makes me study his face more carefully. Marco has always been the family member who tells Alaric everything, who values transparency and communication. Why would he suddenly decide to keep information from his uncle?
“Marco, is there something else? Something you’re not telling me?”
“No, just…” He glances at his phone as it buzzes again, and this time, I see frustration flash across his face. “Just trying to figure out what’s real and what’s manipulation.”
“We should tell Alaric anyway. Let him decide how to handle it.”
“Maybe. Give me another week to investigate? If I find anything concrete, we will tell him immediately.”
I want to argue, but the exhaustion on Marco’s face stops me. He’s been handling West Coast operations mostly alone, dealing with whatever disruptions are happening out there. Maybe he’s right to want solid evidence before alarming Alaric.
“One week,” I agree. “But if anything else happens?—”
“You’ll be the first to know.”
His phone buzzes again, and this time he actually looks at the notification. His expression changes immediately, tension replacing the tired worry. Color drains from his face, and he stands abruptly.
“Everything okay?” I ask.
“Work call. I should take this.”
He starts to walk away, then stops. “Kasi? Are you feeling alright? You look pale.”
Now that he mentions it, I do feel off. My stomach has been unsettled all morning, and the smell of coffee from the kitchen made me nauseous earlier. I blamed it on stress from the contract negotiations, but maybe I’m coming down with something.
“Just tired. Too much paperwork.”
“You should rest more. Recovery takes time.”
Marco walks toward the garden’s edge, lifting his phone to his ear. I turn back to the German contracts, but I can hear his voice drifting across the space.
He’s speaking Russian.
The realization makes my skin crawl. Marco doesn’t speak Russian—at least, he’s never mentioned knowing the language in all our conversations. But the cadence, the pronunciation, it’s definitely Russian.
I strain to make out individual words, but he’s too far away and speaking too quietly. Then I hear something that makes my blood freeze.
