On the unmistakable line of his jaw. The shape of his mouth. The expression in his eyes—too familiar. A mirror I had avoided looking into.
My breath stalled.
“They’ve known,” Giovanni said quietly. “Or they strongly suspected. This”—he tapped the screen—“was proof.”
The room seemed to tilt.
My hand closed around the edge of the desk—wood groaning softly beneath my grip.
Chapter 11
DMITRI VOLKOV
“Then again, Antonio is back in Lake Como,” Giovanni said without preamble, his voice roughened by pain he refused to acknowledge or treat.
I didn’t look up at first. I was still standing behind the desk, hands braced against the wood as if the grain itself could anchor me. “Back,” I repeated slowly. “That didn’t last long.”
“Word is a marriage is being arranged between him and the second Orlov daughter.”
“Elena?” I leaned back into the chair, leather creaking beneath my weight as I settled.
Elena Orlov—quieter than Seraphina, sharper than she let on. The kind who smiled while counting knives. “Interesting choice.”
“Yes. Seraphina’s younger sister.”
I shrugged, deliberately casual. “Once they’re married, he’ll take her to Rome. That’s always been his base. His influence here has been limited because he never stayed long. Frankly, I’ve found his absence convenient.”
Giovanni didn’t mirror my ease. His eyes flicked to the iPad in his good hand, jaw tightening before he spoke again. “If that were the full story, I’d still be sedated and arguing with nurses.”
I straightened. “Meaning?”
“The agreement Antonio struck with the Orlovs is different this time,” Giovanni said. “After the wedding, he stays.Permanently. In Lake Como. He’s relocating three hundred of his father’s best men with him.”
The room went very still.
Antonio did nothing without calculation. Rome was his kingdom—the south bent to him because he understood power wrapped in civility, brutality delivered with a smile. For him to abandon that seat, even partially, meant something was shifting. Or being forced.
My fingers tightened against the armrests. “He’s not here for love.”
Giovanni’s mouth twitched. “Men like Antonio don’t move armies for honeymoons.”
“He has an agenda,” I said.
“Already digging,” Giovanni replied. “Quietly. But whatever he’s planning, it intersects with Orlov interests. And by extension—yours.”
I exhaled through my nose, irritation threading with something colder.
I rubbed my jaw, the rasp of stubble grounding me. “Keep eyes on Antonio. If he so much as breathes in my direction, I want to know.”
Giovanni inclined his head. “Already done.”
Silence stretched, heavy with unspoken calculations.
“And lastly,” he said finally. “Pen.”
Giovanni tapped the screen, bringing up a dossier. “She has no family anyone can trace. No public records that extend beyond the last five years. No grieving relatives. No loose ends.”
“That’s impossible,” I muttered.
