This man thought he could own her. Thought his money bought him the right to break her, train her, add her to his collection of human trophies.
"Is he expecting contact from Torretti?"
"Yes. Daily updates. But Torretti's dead, so..." The accountant trails off, understanding dawning. "Al-Zahrani doesn't know the deal fell through. He's still waiting."
Perfect.
"Matteo, I need hotel floor plans. Security schedules. Service access points." I check my watch. "We move tonight."
"Boss, that's a high-profile location. Lots of witnesses, security cameras."
"I don't care. He's been sitting in a luxury hotel for three days, waiting to own her. That requires an answer."
By the time dawn breaks, I have everything I need. Hotel layouts from contacts in building services. Security rotation schedules from a helpful concierge who owes me favors. A clear picture of the penthouse level and how to access it.
The Palazzo Vittoria is one of Rome's finest. Five-star luxury, discreet service, the kind of place where wealthy guests expect absolute privacy. Which means security is professional but not military-grade. They're there to provide safety, not defend against a determined assault.
"Service entrance here," Matteo points to the floor plans. "Leads to the kitchen, then service elevators to the penthouse level. We can get uniforms, blend in as hotel staff."
"Time it for early evening. When he's likely to be in the suite between appointments."
"The bodyguards?"
"We handle them quietly. I want Al-Zahrani alone and terrified when I walk in."
Matteo studies me for a long moment. "This one's different for you."
"He was going to own her. Forever. That's different enough."
"And if this goes wrong? If we get caught in a luxury hotel killing a foreign businessman?"
"Then we deal with the consequences." I fold up the plans. "But he's not walking out of that suite alive. That's not negotiable."
I drive back to the villa as the sun rises, my mind already working through the execution. This has to be clean but personal. Quick but devastating. A message to anyone else who might have heard about Torretti's failed delivery.
The work calms me in a way nothing else does. Clear objective, identifiable target, a problem that can be solved with violence and precision. Unlike the impossible problem upstairs who holds my entire future in her hands.
Back at the villa, I dismiss the household staff for the day. I need the illusion of normalcy, need to pretend I'm more than just a man planning murder before breakfast.
The shower is scalding, washing away the warehouse dirt and the accountant's blood. I scrub my hands until they're raw, trying to prepare myself for what comes next.
Not the violence—I'm always ready for that.
But the after.
Coming home to her with blood on my hands and truth in my eyes.
One man. One death. One message that Camilla Colombo was never for sale.
I dress in grey sweatpants and nothing else, too tired for anything more formal. My reflection in the mirror shows a man who hasn't slept properly in days. Exhausted eyes, tension inevery line of my face, the weight of planned violence sitting heavy on my shoulders.
This is who I am.
This is who I'll always be.
The question is whether she can live with that.
Chapter 37: Camilla
