Camilla will go back to her life. And I'll go back to mine, having successfully collected a debt that seemed impossible to recover.
That's how this ends.
I review the final details. Matteo has positioned security throughout the villa. Not to protect the buyers, but to ensure everything appears legitimate. The kitchen staff has prepared an elegant menu with fine wine.
All for show. All to maintain pressure until the families break.
My phone buzzes with a text from Matteo:All preparations complete. Kozlov arrives at 8 PM, Al-Rashid at 8:15, Torretti at 8:30.
Something cold begins to settle in my stomach. It's been hours since my last communication with either family. Hours of silence when I expected desperate phone calls, frantic negotiations, emergency funding arrangements. Especially after Camilla’s phone calls with them.
I check my watch again.
7:45 PM.
If all goes as planned by midnight tonight, Alessandro will have wired the money. That's how these situations resolve. Pressure, leverage, the inevitable collapse when people realize you're not bluffing. I've done this a hundred times with different stakes. Money, territory, business arrangements, everyone has a breaking point.
The Rossis and Colombos will find theirs tonight.
My phone buzzes. Matteo:Kozlov arriving now. Al-Rashid five minutes out. Torretti just cleared the gates. Ready for you in the salon.
Right on schedule.
I finish my scotch and straighten my jacket. Time to greet three men who've flown across Europe for an opportunity that will evaporate the moment a wire transfer hits my account. They'll be compensated generously for their time. I'm not in the business of burning professional relationships. I still have other deals that require discretion and reputation.
But they won't be leaving with Camilla Colombo.
Another text from Matteo:Boss? They're waiting.
I pocket my phone and head for the door.
By midnight, this will be resolved.
Someone will pay.
Because if they don't—
I cut off that thought and open the door.
Chapter 23: Camilla
I return to my room after the briefing with Renato.
I have what I need. Detailed profiles of three men who plan to assess me tonight, and the knowledge that Renato is already falling apart.
I make my final preparations methodically. The sharpened fountain pen I've been working on goes into my bra, nestled against my ribs where it won't show through the silk. One sharpened nail file slides into my shoe, under my foot as a backup.
I study myself in the mirror. Black silk dress, pearl earrings, gold bracelet. I look elegant and composed. Exactly like merchandise worth fighting over.
Perfect.
At eight PM sharp, Matteo escorts me downstairs to the main salon. Three men are already there with Renato, drinks in hand, conversation flowing in multiple languages. They stop talking when I enter.
Viktor Kozlov and Ahmed Al-Rashid barely react—they've already examined me two days ago, circled me like predators evaluating prey. But the third man, Franco Torretti, studies me with fresh interest, his gaze clinical and assessing.
Renato makes the introductions with the smooth professionalism of a man selling expensive wine, though his voice carries an edge of tension.
"Gentlemen, you remember Camilla. And Franco," he gestures to Torretti, "may I present Camilla Colombo."
