The way he says his brother’s name sends a chill down my spine. He takes one last look at me, then heads toward the hallway where my grandmother is still humming to herself in the kitchen.
For a moment, he looks almost human—tired and regretful—then it’s gone.
He moves toward the door, pausing just long enough to say, “Betray me again, princess, and we won’t talk about it. I’ll act upon it.”
The door closes behind him.
I stand there shaking. The sunlight on the carpet hasn’t moved. The roses on the counter gleam white and perfect, as if none of this just happened.
I sink into the chair and press my palms against my face. My heart won’t stop pounding.
He’s watching.
He’s always watching.
And I can’t tell if that terrifies me, or makes me feel safer than I should.
8
Benedikt
The knock on my office door comes sharp and controlled—one, then two. Artem’s code.
“Come in,” I call out, already knowing who’s behind it.
The door opens, and Artem steps through first, holding it open for two men who look like they’ve never heard the word humble.
“Volkov,” says the taller one with a deep Italian accent, sweeping off his coat as he crosses the room. “You’re a difficult man to get on a plane for.”
I give a small nod. “I appreciate you coming, Giovanni.”
Giovanni Santoro.
One of the old families from Naples.
His family’s been running the southern ports with his father since before mine got his first gun. Behind him comes Matteo Ricci, his right-hand man. Quieter and sharper, the kind who listens twice before speaking once.
Artem shuts the door and takes his usual spot by the bookshelf, near enough to watch, and far enough to disappear if needed.
I motion to the leather chairs across from my desk. “Please.”
Giovanni lowers himself into the chair like a king taking a throne. Matteo follows, his back straight, and his hands clasped loosely over his knee.
“Long flight,” Giovanni says. “And short notice.”
“I appreciate the impromptu meeting just the same.”
“You should. We don’t come when most men call.”
“I’m not most men.”
Matteo tilts his head, his eyes boring into mine from beneath heavy lashes. “So we’ve heard.”
They’re testing me. I can feel it in the way Giovanni leans back, waiting for me to start first and show my hand.
Instead, I pour three glasses of whiskey, set them on the desk, and slide two forward.
“Let’s make this simple,” I say. “You know why you’re here.”
