I don’t move.
I count heartbeats.
I think about Pia’s hands on my face in that vault—soft, shaking, stubborn as hell when she told me I saved her.
Nobody saves anyone alone.
The door opens again.
Carlo Vescari fills the frame like a well-dressed sin. Hair slicked just enough to look earned. Smile milky and mean. Eyes that don’t light up unless someone is about to break.
“Bishop,” he says, stealing the title like a souvenir. “You came alone?”
I don’t nod. I don’t bow.
“I didn’t come to negotiate.”
His grin twitches. “Then you came to die.”
“I came to trade.”
He steps closer, jacket swinging open.
The gun rests high and neat near his ribs—close enough that if I wanted it, my hand could grab metal and end my life loudly.
“Trade what?”
I lift my chin.
“My life.”
The laugh that rips out of him is bright and delighted and sharp enough to flag men down to the joke underneath.
“You think we want you?” he scoffs. “A fucking priest?”
I step in.
Close enough to smell cologne and rot.
Close enough that the guards stiffen, thumbs sliding off lazy and onto triggers.
I stop an inch from him.
“I know what Giovanni told you.”
His eyes snap at the name.
“I know what’s in that ledger,” I continue softly. “Every burial. Every shell company. Every ghost he used to scrub blood into money.” I tilt my head. “And you don’t want her.”
Carlo’s smile slips like it hit ice.
“You want what she knows.”
A muscle jumps in his jaw.
I press further—quiet as a confession, sharp as a threat.
“You want his secrets. His inheritance. The keys to a kingdom he burned down so you could never touch it.” I lean closer. “You want the heir.”
