I take a deep breath, mentally sorting through our limited options. "We need to pick neutral ground. Somewhere public enough that he can't make a scene, but private enough that we can actually talk."
Lucrezia nods, pulling her knees to her chest. "And it can't be anywhere Byron might expect. No fancy restaurants or hotel lobbies."
"What about The Café on 8th?" Scarlett suggests, leaning against the doorframe with a steaming mug in her hands. "It's busy enough for safety but has those secluded outdoor tables in the back garden."
I consider it, picturing the space. "That could work. It's far enough from both territories that neither of them has an advantage."
My stomach twists at the thought of facing him again. "Okay, let's call."
Lucrezia reaches for the burner phone Scarlett bought for us.
My hands feel clammy as she dials. She puts it on speaker, and the ringing seems to echo through the small bedroom.
"What?" Damiano's voice is sharp, exhausted. Just hearing him makes my heart race.
"It's me," Lucrezia says simply.
"Lucia." His tone changes instantly. "Are you hurt? Where are you? Is she with you?"
"I'm fine. We're both fine."
"Come home now. I'll send a car?—"
"No," Lucrezia cuts him off. "I'll come back only if you agree to hear what Zoe has to tell you."
The silence stretches solong I wonder if he's hung up. Finally, he speaks, his voice low and dangerous. "Why should I listen to anything she has to say?"
"Fine," he finally says. "Where?"
"The Café on 8th. Tomorrow at ten."
"I'll be there."
Lucrezia bites her lip before asking, "Are you bringing anyone?"
"No." His voice softens slightly. "Are you two really okay? Is Easton keeping you somewhere?"
"We're safe," she assures him. "It's just us. Byron doesn't know where we are."
"I'll see you tomorrow." The line goes dead.
I release a breath I didn't realize I was holding. "He agreed."
"He's worried sick about you both," Scarlett observes. "I could hear it in his voice."
"That doesn't mean he'll believe me," I whisper.
The line goes dead, the silence crushing me like a physical weight. I stare at the phone in my hand, Lucrezia's voice still echoing in my ears.
"We're both fine."
I run my thumb over the screen, my reflectiondistorted in the dark glass. Eight fucking days without knowing if my sister was alive or dead. Eight days imagining Zoe and Lucrezia ending up like Bianca, blood pooling around their bodies.
I slam the phone down on my desk and press the heels of my hands against my eyes. Exhaustion claws at me.
The knock at my door is hesitant, almost apologetic.
"Enter," I bark, straightening in my chair.
