I frown at him. "What exactly are you saying?"
"I'm not the only person you should be afraid of. There are other people involved and they're very displeased with you and the situation. More so than me, if that's possible."
"And those people," I say, the words catching in my throat, "those people are dangerous?"
His expression doesn't change. "Very."
“Who are they? If I’m being threatened, the least you can do is tell me their name.”
“Scorpione Nero.”
The Black Scorpion.
I know enough basic Italian to translate the name. Honestly, it sounds terrifying.
For a second, I don't say anything. I pick up the fork, a small, shiny thing. I stare at my reflection in the polished metal, seeing a distorted, scared version of myself. The confident, sassy persona I project online, the one I use to face the world, feels incredibly flimsy right now.
"What now?" I ask.
"Now you're involved," he states, as if it's the most natural consequence in the world. "Whether you like it or not. Your exposure has made you a part of this. There's no going back."
I shake my head, a slow, insistent refusal. "This isn't fair. This isn't right. I didn't choose this. I was just making content. I was just living my life. I didn't choose to be a pawn in your criminal chessboard."
"Neither did I," he says.
I look up, startled. That's the first crack I've seen in him. A tiny one. But real. A flicker of something that sounds almost like… vulnerability. Or maybe just a shared burden.It's unexpected and makes me pause. He's always so perfectly controlled.
"Why are you like this?" I ask, pushing, leaning forward, trying to peel back another layer. "All control and cold logic. All strategy. Do you ever feel anything? Do you ever react? Get angry? Get scared? Or are you a robot in a fancy suit?"
He doesn't answer right away. "Feeling gets people killed." Then he reaches for his wine glass. His hand, for a fleeting moment, seems to hesitate. "You're not what I expected."
"Oh? What did you expect? An airhead with extensions and a ring light? Some vapid influencer who would just cry in a corner? Did you think I would just fall apart without Wi-Fi?"
"Something like that," he admits, the corners of his lips twitching, almost forming a smile.
"Well, surprise. I have some depth. I have a personality that goes beyond my follower count. And," I lift my hand, making a fist, "I have a mean right hook. Just in case you thought I was totally helpless."
For a split second he smiles. Barely. A ghost of a smile. But it's there. And it changes his face, softens it just for a second. It's unsettling.
He motions at my plate and I take a bite. The risotto is actually good, creamy and flavorful. But we eat quietly, carefully. Two animals circling each other in a dimly lit arena. The tension never really leaves, but it shifts.
For the first time, I feel like maybe I'm not just a prisoner. Maybe I'm a player in a game I didn't know I joined. A dangerous game, sure. But a game nonetheless. And I've always been good at games. Maybe there's a way I can play my way out of this mess and get back to my life.
When dinner ends, he walks me back to the room. He doesn't touch me, of course, or speak. Just walks beside me, his presence a heavy weight in the quiet hallway.
At the door, I turn. My hand hovers over the handle, not quite touching it. "Is this where I realize my life is over?"
"We'll talk in the morning," he says.
I step inside, and press my back against the door, heart thudding a frantic rhythm. Because part of me is absolutely terrified.
I don’t know what scares me more, what he’s already done, or what he’s still deciding to do.
CHAPTER 8
RAFE
Ireturn to my office after walking her back to her room. I should be reviewing intel or finishing the report that’s been blinking in my inbox for two days. Instead, I pour a glass of scotch I don’t want and stare at the same screen I’ve been obsessing over since she got here.
