“I’ll come.”
The room had too much light.Mia sat facing the garden, hair pulled into a simple knot, bare legs crossed, a coffee cup between both hands.Catrina perched at the other end of the table, a bruise yellowing at the edge of her jaw, fury smoothed into poise.
When Mia’s gaze locked on mine, she didn’t smile.She stood.
“How long will you keep telling me I’m safe?Because if that’s the plan, call it what it is: this place is just a glorified panic room.”
Catrina’s mouth tugged.“Good morning, brother.”
I waited until the maid finished setting down the pastries and left.Then I took the seat across from my wife.“The plan,” I said, “is to make the men who came for us think they succeeded.”I lifted my cup and set it down again untouched.“It’s working.”
“Congratulations,” Mia said, deadpan.“You’re terrifying.”
Catrina snorted.“To traitors.”
I stared at her.“How’s the jaw?”
She tilted it, showing me the fading mark.“I’ve had worse and you know it.”
She rose, kissed Mia’s temple, and slipped out.
“Now, tell me what’s really going on.”
I slid the letter across the table just enough that she could see the edge of my name.Not enough that she could read what a dead man thought he still deserved.
“Not now,” I said.“But soon.”
She held my eyes and nodded.Not acceptance.
“I heard you last night,” she said.“In the hall.Gallo.”
A small current passed through my spine.Of course she had.“Dante.”
“Is he the son?”
“Yes.”
“Did your father—” She cut herself off, jaw tightening, mercy fighting curiosity.“No.Not like this.You’ll tell me when you can.”
“I will,” I said, and told myself that a promise was not a lie if it arrived late.
She leaned back, one ankle looping over the other, the shirt pulling just enough to remind me.“What do you need from me,” she asked, “besides obedience?”
“I don’t need obedience.I need you.”
She stood, crossed to me, and set her hand on my shoulder.“You prefer control,” she said, thumb pressing once into the muscle as if she could knead the word out.“But I’ll take attention.”
Her fingers slid down my sleeve, a touch that warmed and warned at once.Then she was gone.
I waited until her footsteps faded and then picked up the phone.
“Flowers to the Gallo mausoleum on Via del Leone.Anonymously.”
“You want him to know you’re visiting the graves,” Marco asked.
“I want him to be impatient.Impatient men make mistakes.Also, I want our traitor to feel important.Feed him something almost true.‘We’ll meet for a shipment at San Rocco at midnight.’The men guarding San Rocco will be the ones I don’t mind firing.”
“We can do that, brother.”
