Then I force myself up.
Safe.That’s the joke.
Because she isn’t. Not with me. Not with enemies waiting for a weakness. And she’s already wormed her way into being something she shouldn’t be.
I stand, forcing my gaze away, and step back. The room feels too warm, too close. Still, I linger a second longer than I should, staring down at her.
Rounding the couch, I move toward the arch that will lead me into the garden, but just before I’m out the door, my phone rings. Theo.
“What is it?” I answer, keeping my voice low enough not to wake her up.
“I’ve secured the meeting with the Mancinis. They’ve agreed to meet at Di Matteo’s. At nine tonight.”
“Di Matteo’s, the Pizzeria? Tell them that I’ll be there at ten, and not a minute earlier.”
“Right. I’ll let them know. They seem to be the meeting.”
“And they are?” I urge Theo to carry on.
He clears his throat before answering. “No guards. Just you and the don and his brothers. Guns are allowed, but that’s as far as they’ll go when it comes to security.”
Running my hand down the front of my neck, I debate whether to entertain the idea or just flat-out refuse. But with someone under my protection, I can’t take as many risks as I would if I was here alone. I turn my head slightly, looking back at where Mara is still sleeping, unaware of the danger that circles this place like a noose.
“Fine,” I mutter under my breath.
Theo confirms with me what I’ve agreed to before ending the call.
Di Matteo’s at ten. Tonight will either end with bloodshed or with the Mancinis standing down the way it’s meant to be.
The weightof my gun sits heavy in my jacket pocket, as familiar as a second spine. By the time I pull up outside Di Matteo’s, the streets are already half-asleep, neon bleeding into the puddles on the cracked sidewalk.
This is neutral ground, but neutral doesn’t mean safe. Every instinct in me says this is a trap. Too easy, too fast, too quiet. But I walk in anyway, because that’s what men like me do: we walk straight into the lion’s den, gun drawn, smile steady.
As I step inside Di Matteo’s, the bell above the door rattles, and the air is filled with the scent of scorched dough and cheap wine. Three men already wait at the table in the back, their guns gleaming under the low light. The Mancinis don’t waste time pretending this is anything other than what it is: war dressed as dinner.
Fausto sits in the center, of course. The eldest, if the lines cut into his face are anything to go by. Broad shoulders fill out his black blazer, the fabric tailored within an inch of its life. His hair is slicked back, dark and precise, and his jaw is trimmed to perfection, like everything about him has been sharpened for control. His eyes track me the way a chess master watches the board: calculating, patient, already five moves ahead. The kind of man who doesn’t need to raise his voice to slit your throat.
On his left sprawls Vittorio, or Vitto. Taller than his brother, leaner, with that wiry restless strength that comes from street fights and bad decisions. His white shirt is half-unbuttoned, collarbones gleaming under the low light, a cigarette dangling from his mouth like an afterthought. He grins when he sees me, sharp and mocking, smoke curling around the edges of his smile. There’s a wildness in his eyes, a volatility that says he’s just waiting for an excuse to flip the table and start shooting.
And then there’s Moreno. The youngest, but no less lethal. He doesn’t posture, doesn’t smile, doesn’t even lean forward like the others. He sits back, long legs stretched under the table, jacket open over his broad chest. His dark curls fall loose over his forehead, shadowing a face cut from stone—silent, steady, unreadable. He doesn’t need theatrics. It’s written in the set of his shoulders, the unblinking weight of his stare. He’s the kind of man who lets his brothers talk, because when he finally does, the world listens.
Three predators in tailored suits. Each one dangerous in his own way. And together…they look like a storm waiting to break.
I don’t sit. Not yet. Fausto tips his chin, the smallest acknowledgment, like a kind humoring a visiting envoy. His fingers drum lightly against the table near the barrel of the gun gleaming under the low light.
“Esposito.” His tone is smooth, controlled. “You’re late.”
“I’m on time,” I counter flatly, letting my coat shift just enough to show the butt of my Glock. “Which is more than I can say for anyone stupid enough to keep me waiting.”
Vittorio’s grin sharpens. He leans forward, smoke curling from the end of his cigarette, eyes glittering with the kind of amusement that comes from knowing he’s the most dangerous man in the room—or at least believing it.
“Careful, Nicolo. Talk like that, and I might think that you don’t like our company.”
“I don’t,” I say. Simple. Cold.
That earns a low chuckle from him, but Moreno doesn’t move. Doesn’t blink. He just watches me with the steady stillness of a world biding its time. His silence is louder than his brothers’ words.
Fausto raises a hand, and the room stills. Even Vittorio leans back again, his smirk curling slow and lazy.
