Last night with Becca was the first time I'd felt like myself in weeks. Without Marco's watchful presence, I could relax and forget about the pressure constantly weighing on me. Not only am I under surveillance in my own home, but I haven't been able to contact Marcello, and I desperately need to reach him.
I get dressed and pull my hair back in a claw clip, then walk straight to the front door and grab my sneakers.
"Where are you going?" Marco asks, looking confused.
"Why don't you just do your job and follow?" I snap without looking at him. I step outside, hearing him scramble to grab his things and lock up behind me.
I walk toward my favorite cafe, deliberately ignoring Marco trailing behind me. He can't even walk beside me like a normal person—he has to maintain that professional distance that apparently means so much to him.
At the cafe, I order my coffee and find a seat on the outdoor patio. Marco approaches my table, but before he can sit down, I point to a table across the space.
"We aren't friends, and there's no need for us to speak. You can watch me from over there," I say flatly.
If he wants to be nothing but a bodyguard, then that's exactly what he'll be. No more friendly conversations, shared meals, or casual interactions.
"Is this what we're doing now?" he asks.
"We aren't doing anything. That's the point." I take a sip of my coffee without looking at him.
He walks away without responding and sits at the distant table. I turn my chair so I don't have to see him, though I can feel his eyes on me constantly.
I sit and enjoy my coffee for almost an hour, letting the caffeine clear my headache and restore some clarity. Time to make my move.
When I stand, Marco immediately mirrors the action. I roll my eyes at how obvious he's being—anyone with half a brain can see he's watching me.
I approach the counter again and ask for a chocolate croissant to go. The cashier returns with my order, and I glance into the bag to confirm what I came for. Perfect. I thank her and head home, Marco following behind me like some kind of stalker.
Back in the apartment, I go straight to my bedroom and close the door. After hearing Marco lock up, I sit on my bed and open the pastry bag. While I do enjoy the chocolate croissant, what I really need is the note written inside the bag:Meeting tonight. Ten pm. Whiskey Tavern.
Whiskey Tavern? That's a new location. I've never met Marcello there before, but I shrug it off and begin planning my escape.
Marco has been staying up the past few nights, and I know he's exhausted. I plan to use that to my advantage. He's smart enough to know I'm desperate to meet with someone who can help me with my father's situation, but he doesn't understand the full scope of what I'm dealing with.
Marco thinks this is simply about finding my missing father. He doesn't know about the debt or the threats I've been receiving. The Irish know exactly who I am—Elio Messina's daughter. They've made it very clear they're using me as leverage to collect on his debt, and they see an opportunity to create chaos within Vito's organization at the same time.
The truth is, I often feel completely alone in this world. My mother died when I was young, I have no siblings, and my father essentially abandoned me. That's why having Marco around has been unexpectedly comforting—the companionship has helped ease the loneliness.
But now it feels like all the time we spent together meant nothing to him. If I'm just a job, then he better be prepared to work for it.
It's nine PM, and the tavern is about twenty minutes away. I need to leave soon—I don't want to be late and risk Marcello leaving, plus I like to arrive early at new locations to assess the environment.
Marco has two men stationed outside my building at all times, though they need serious training in subtlety. Escaping will be challenging, but I've done it before.
I gather my small bag and put it on, cursing silently when I remember my sneakers are by the front door. I told Marco I was going to bed after dinner, so he thinks I'm asleep. I've had my light off for an hour and haven't made any noise. I even opened my bedroom window earlier in preparation.
Looking outside, I see one of Marco's men in a black Range Rover positioned directly in front of my building's entrance. I'm counting on them being predictable.
I step onto the fire escape through my window, and immediately see one of the guards raise his phone. Perfect—call your boss. Then I hear the apartment's front door open and close.
Excellent.
I slip back inside, grab my sneakers from the front door, and exit the apartment. Moving down the back hallway to the window at the far end, I climb out onto the fire escape and descend to the back alley.
Suckers.
I put on my sneakers quickly and walk several blocks before hailing a cab. The driver drops me off a block from Whiskey Tavern so I can approach on foot and check my surroundings. It's almost meeting time, and I hate cutting it this close, but at least I'm not late.
Stepping into the tavern immediately feels wrong. The place has that deliberately rustic aesthetic—exposed brick walls, dark wood beams across the ceiling, Edison bulbs casting dim amber light over rows of whiskey bottles behind a scarred mahogany bar. It's the kind of spot that's usually packed on Saturday nights with young professionals pretending they appreciate craft cocktails.
