I was a hunter, a shadow, not a protector.
And yet, the image of her in Professor Delgato’s office, the subtle tension in her posture, the way his gaze lingered—it refused to dissipate.
I lowered my weapon, the tension slowly draining from my shoulders, replaced by a weary resolve. The silence of my apartment was a stark contrast to the chaos of the city outside, a constant hum of life and danger that I navigated with practiced precision. But tonight, the silence felt more profound, more isolating. I needed to shake this feeling, to reassert control. The information Cesar wanted was paramount, and any personal distraction, any flicker of misplaced concern, was a liability I couldn’t afford. I would continue my observations, gather the facts, and deliver them without emotion.
That was the mission.
That was the Vitale way.
A chill unrelated to the predawn air slithered down my spine. I rubbed my temples, attempting to dissipate the throbbing behind my eyes. The city, a beast that never truly slept, was stirring now, its lights beginning to fade as the bruised purples and oranges of dawn bled into the sky. I needed a distraction, a purpose to anchor me before the weight of yesterday’s actions, and the dread of today’s, crushed me completely. The thought of Savannah Scott, and the unease that clung to me like a second skin, was a dangerous distraction, but one I couldn’t seem to shake. I’d spent the night replaying images of her face, the fleeting moments of tension and uncertainty in Professor Delgato’s office, searching for a reason for my disquiet.
It was a weakness I couldn’t afford, a deviation from my mission.
My phone buzzed on the nightstand, a harsh intrusion into the quiet.
It was Luca.
I ignored it. Let him stew. Let Cesar wonder. I needed to be alone, to process the unsettling currents running through me, to compartmentalize the gnawing doubt that Savannah Scott had sown. This assignment was supposed to be straightforward,a data-gathering exercise, but she was becoming more than a target, more than a name on a dossier. She was a question mark, an anomaly in the meticulously ordered world of the Vitale family, and her very existence felt like a threat to the carefully constructed walls I’d built around myself.
I stood and walked to the floor-to-ceiling window; the city spread out below me like a dark, glittering tapestry. The neon signs were dimming, replaced by the crisp, unforgiving light of morning. The chill of the night still clung to the glass, a physical manifestation of the cold dread that had settled deep within me. I needed to be sharp, decisive. Not for Cesar, not for our family legacy, but for myself. To reclaim the control I felt slipping through my fingers like grains of sand. And for that, I knew, I needed distance and a clear head—something the memory of Savannah Scott was making increasingly difficult to achieve.
The familiar weight of my gun pressed against my hip as I left my apartment, the cool morning air a stark contrast to the stifling unease that had held me captive all night. The city was waking up, a symphony of sirens and distant traffic, but for me, the only sound that mattered was the relentless thrum of my own thoughts.
Savannah Scott. Her name was an insistent whisper in the back of my mind, a persistent question mark in my otherwise meticulously ordered existence. Her innocence, the quiet dignity with which she navigated her seemingly ordinary life, and the unsettling glint in Professor Delgato’s eyes—it all coalesced into a disquieting puzzle I couldn’t solve. I needed to get back to observing, to dissecting her life with the cold, clinical precision Cesar expected. Anything else was a dangerous distraction, a deviation from the path that had kept me alive, that had kept us all alive.
My car purred through the waking streets as I navigated the familiar cityscape with ease. I was a weapon, honed andsharpened by years of brutality, and yet, a sliver of doubt had found its way into my armor. This assignment was not about eliminating a threat, but about unearthing secrets.
Cesar’s motives remained a mystery, a dark void I was tasked to fill with information. He called it family matters; information was power. But as I replayed the image of Savannah Scott, a fragile bloom in the heart of this hardened city, I couldn’t shake the feeling that this was more than just routine surveillance. It was a probe, a subtle manipulation, and I was the instrument.
The thought of her, so out of place in the world I inhabited, gnawed at me. Was she truly as innocent as she appeared, or was there a hidden current beneath her placid surface? The Vitale family built its empire on layers of deception, on the careful curation of truths and lies.
To assume anything at face value was a rookie mistake, one I had long since shed.
Storming into the family home, I didn’t give a damn about decorum. The scent of new money and stale cigar smoke, usually a comforting sign of Cesar’s dominion, assaulted my senses as I kicked the heavy oak door open. The housekeeper—a stern woman whose eyes had grown weary from years of witnessing family drama—merely flinched at my entrance and scurried away, her footsteps muffled against the thick carpet beyond the foyer. The chill of the marble seeped through the soles of my shoes, each echoing step a cold, sharp declaration of my displeasure, reverberating down the long corridor. Somewhere in the distance, I caught the faint clink of glassware and mutedvoices, reminders of a world that carried on, indifferent to my fury.
Guilio was already there, perched on the edge of a velvet settee, his posture exuding anticipation and the somber gravity of bad news. His hands were folded tightly, knuckles white, betraying the tension beneath his practiced composure. His gaze tracked me with a mixture of wariness and resignation, clearly bracing for the confrontation.
“Massimo,” he began, his voice tight and clipped, the usual veneer of calm now laced with condemnation and barely concealed impatience. “Cesar’s been expecting you.” He flicked his wrist toward the grand staircase, the mahogany banister gleaming under the dim light—a silent but pointed reminder of the wealth and power we wielded, and a power I now felt was slipping from my grasp. The air between us vibrated with unspoken challenge, every gesture meticulously designed to assert dominance while veiling unease.
Glaring at my brother, I demanded, my tone raw with accusation and disbelief, “Did you fucking know?” The words hung heavy, barbed with the sting of betrayal and a desperate need for answers.
Guilio didn’t flinch. He stood, the fabric of his expensive suit shifting as he straightened, his eyes hardening with disapproval—a flash of irritation crossing his face before he masked it with stoic indifference. “Know what, Massimo?” he replied, voice deceptively calm but edged with warning as he stepped closer and lowered his voice to a dangerous whisper. “Cesar knows everything. He always does.” The assertion was more than a threat; it was an admission, a reminder of our place in this ruthless hierarchy. His words carried a cold finality, closing the door on hope, suffocating any possibility of trust.
My frustration boiled over. Rage twisted in my gut—not just at Guilio’s evasiveness, but at the sense that I was losing controlover everything that mattered. The distant hum of voices faded, replaced by the pounding of my own pulse, my hands curling into fists as the cold marble beneath me anchored me to a reality I could no longer contain.
“Fuck you, Guilio. She’s not what I was led to believe,” I spat, my words laced with a desperation I couldn’t mask. “Savannah Scott is... Golden! What the fuck is going on? Why am I babysitting a Golden Skull?”
Guilio crossed his arms, a picture of unyielding authority. “Cesar is waiting.” He turned and ascended the grand staircase, his back as rigid as his unwavering loyalty.
I followed, each step a heavy echo of my own rising fury. Cesar’s study was a sanctuary of curated power, a space where decisions that shaped lives and futures were made with chilling detachment. The air, usually thick with the scent of expensive leather and the faint hum of suppressed ambition, now felt charged, heavy with the unspoken accusations I already knew I’d face. Guilio stood by Cesar’s massive oak desk, his silhouette illuminated by the muted light filtering in from the city’s distant glow. Cesar didn’t turn as I entered, his posture radiating a familiar blend of anticipation and disapproval. The rest of my brothers, all but Tommaso, lingered, waiting, and watched as I approached Cesar’s desk.
“She may have been raised Golden, Massimo.” Cesar’s voice, calm and measured, cut through the tense silence as he slowly turned toward me, his dark eyes fixed on mine with an unnerving intensity. “But she was not born Golden.”
“What the hell does that mean?”
Reaching for a folder on his desk, he handed it to me before taking his seat, while I read the contents, my blood boiling as my eyes scanned every word.
When I looked up, Cesar’s gaze remained locked on mine, a silent challenge in his dark eyes. “Her blood runs deep,Massimo. And the sins of the father, as they say, are visited upon the children.” He tapped his desk, the soft click of his manicured nails a stark punctuation to his words. He leaned back, the controlled power in his posture radiating an almost palpable aura. “I don’t care how you do it, but I want her in this house and in your bed by the end of the week.”
