The man who steps into the light moves like a predator—all controlled grace and coiled power wrapped in an expensive suit.
He’s tall, maybe six-two, with dark hair that looks like he just stepped out of a salon.
His face belongs in a magazine or on a movie screen, with sharp angles and perfect symmetry, except for the faint scar that runs along his left jawline.
But it’s his eyes that make me want to run.
They’re so cold they make the warehouse air feel tropical.
Everything about him screams danger.
From the way he holds himself to the casual indifference in his expression when he looks at my beaten father, this is not a man who loses sleep over other people’s suffering.
“Giuliana Conti.” He says my name like he’s tasting wine, rolling it around on his tongue to see if it meets his standards. “You’re exactly what I expected.”
Oh my god, he knows my name.
“Who are you?” I manage to choke out, though my throat feels like it’s closing up. “What do you want?”
“My name is Luca Marchetti.” He adjusts his cufflinks with the kind of precise movement that suggests violence is never far from his thoughts.
He looks me up and down, one eyebrow rising as he takes in my wardrobe. My cheeks flush with embarrassment. “And what I want is very simple. Justice.”
He gestures toward my father with one elegant hand, and Dad’s one good eye finds mine across the circle of light.
There’s terror there, and shame, and something that looks like guilt.
What did youdo, Dad?
“Your father owes me a debt,” Luca continues, his voice cultured and smooth. “A debt that’s been accumulating interest for a littleover three years. Unfortunately, it’s the kind of debt that can’t be paid with money.”
“I don’t understand.” But I do understand, at least partially. Dad’s gambling has been getting worse since Mom died. The late-night phone calls, the men who come to his door at odd hours, the way he flinches whenever someone mentions his name too loudly in public.
This is all aboutgamblingdebts? Goddammit, Dad.
“How much does he owe you?” I ask, wanting to do anything to get my father out of harm’s way. “I can get money, I can?—”
“This isn’t about money.” Luca’s voice cuts through my babbling. “This is about blood.”
He reaches into his jacket, and I tense, expecting a gun.
Instead, he pulls out a photograph and holds it where I can see it.
A young man with dark hair and kind eyes, laughing at something off-camera. He looks like he could be Luca’s brother.
“Marco Marchetti,” Luca says, and for just a moment, something that might be pain crosses across his perfect features before his face smooths out again. “My cousin.” He puts the photograph away with the same careful movements he uses for everything else. “Your father sold the information that got him killed.”
The warehouse seems to tilt around me. My worst nightmare is coming true. The secret I’ve carried for three years is finally catching up to us.
“That’s not,” I start to lie, to protect him the way I’ve been protecting him. “My father wouldn’t?—”
“Wouldn’t he?” Luca’s smile is sharp enough to cut glass. He looks at my father like he’s shit under his shoe. “Antonio, tell your daughter what you did for fifty thousand dollars.”
My father’s voice is barely recognizable through his split lips and swollen face. “Gigi, I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. I never meant for anyone to get hurt. I?—”
“Stop.” The word tears from my throat, raw and desperate. I already know this story. I lived through it once, three years ago. I never imagined it would come back like this. “Stoptalking.”
“But he’s not going to stop,” Luca says conversationally. “Neither am I. Because you see, Giuliana, I’ve spent three years planning exactly how Antonio Conti is going to pay for what he took from me. And now, finally, I’ve found the perfect method.”
