“Perfect,” I say, my voice rougher than intended.
The look that passes between us is loaded with everything we’renotsaying.
She takes a small step toward me, then stops, her teeth catching her bottom lip in a way that makes me want to close the distance between us and finish what we started in her study.
“Alessandro,” she says quietly, and hearing my name on her lips like that nearly undoes me.
“Yeah?” I take a step closer despite every rational thought telling me not to.
She opens her mouth like she’s about to say something important, then seems to change her mind. Instead, she reaches for another magazine with hands that aren’t quite as steady as they were a moment ago.
“We should practice the timing,” she says, but her voice has gone breathless again.
“Right. The timing.”
But neither of us moves to resume training.
We just stand there, close enough that I can see the pulse beating rapidly at her throat and can smell that damn perfume that’s been driving me crazy for days.
The awareness between us has shifted, intensified.
Working this closely while maintaining appropriate distance isn’t just difficult—it’s becoming impossible.
Especially when watching her embrace the darker aspects of her nature only makes me want her more.
11
BIANCA
I stare at my reflection in the full-length mirror, adjusting the collar of my black silk blouse one more time.
The outfit is perfect—a fitted black skirt that shows off my legs, knee-high leather boots with just enough heel to make me feel taller, and the blouse tucked in to show I mean business.
My hair falls in sleek waves past my shoulders, and I’ve kept my makeup minimal except for the dark eyeliner that makes my blue eyes look sharper, more dangerous.
I look like money. I look like power. I look like someone who belongs in this world.
What I don’t look like is a nineteen-year-old girl who’s about to commit her first murder.
I exhale and look around.
The penthouse hotel suite around me screams luxury—floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking Manhattan, expensive furniture, and a marble bathroom bigger than most apartments.
I moved here after returning from Montreal, needing space that belonged entirely to me rather than existing in a world built on lies.
But even surrounded by all this expensive comfort, I can’t escape the low murmur of voices in the background of my thoughts.
Show them no mercy,the harsh voice growls.Make it quick and brutal.
Play the part,the softer voice whispers.Let them see reluctance even as you pull the trigger.
Consider your positioning,the familiar voice cautions.Think about witnesses and angles.
I squeeze my eyes shut, trying to push them away.
It’s been days since they first appeared during the Families meeting, and they haven’t gone away.
If anything, they’ve gotten stronger, more distinct. More…real.
