“We didn’t agree to a meeting for a dick measuring contest,” Fausto says. “We want peace. But peace requires…cooperation.”
My jaw flexes. I’ve heard this speech a hundred times from a hundred different men, and it always ends the same way: with blood on the floor.
“Peace,” I echo, the word tasting like ash.
“Yes,” Fausto continues, voice silken. “Your little Castello. Your little…guest.” His hazel eyes gleam sharp. “Word spreads fast, Nicolo. The American Camorra doesn’t give away their jewels without reason. So, tell us…what’s she worth to you?”
The air shifts, heavy with tension. Vittorio’s smirk widens, as if he’s already picturing the answer. Moreno finally leansforward, elbows on the table, his gaze pinning me in place like a blade to the throat.
My hand itches for the Glock. My pulse pounds steady, a drumbeat in my chest. They’re watching me. Watching for a sign that I care. They won’t find what they’re looking for.
I let the silence stretch, let them feel the weight of it, before I finally speak.
“She’s worth nothing. To me and to you.” My voice is low, clipped, lethal. The lie tastes like blood in my mouth. “And if you so much as whisper of her again, I’ll make sure the Mancini line ends tonight. Here. On this floor.”
The words hang, thick and cutting.
Vittorio exhales a plume of smoke, grin unfaltering. Moreno studies me like he’s carving my face into memory. And Fausto? He just sits back, his mouth curving into the faintest, coldest shadow of a smile.
“Then I suppose…” he murmurs. “We understand each other.”
The bell over the door rattles again, a sudden intrusion that cuts through the tension like glass shattering. All four of us turn, hands sliding toward our guns in unison.
And that’s when I hear her voice. Bright. Defiant. Out of place in this den of wolves.
“Wow. Cozy little dinner party you’ve got going on.”
My blood turns to fire, and the world tilts. I growl, the sound torn from my chest before I can stop it.
“What the fuck are you doing here?”
25
MARA
Something soft and scratchy brushes against my cheek. I groan and swat at it, but it only persists—wet, sandpapery, stubborn. My eyes peel open to find Duchess crouched on the cushion beside my head, licking me like I’m her personal salt block.
“Gross,” I mutter, voice still thick with sleep. “Kisses are supposed to be cute, not exfoliating.”
She purrs, vibrating against the hollow of my neck as she burrows close. I exhale and sink deeper into the couch cushions. My robe’s twisted around my body, the throw blanket slipped down to my waist. Cool air skates across my bare shoulder where the silk’s fallen loose.
It takes me a second to realize where I am: the living room. The oversized cream couch that swallows me whole. I must’ve dozed off sometime after watching TV with Duchess curled in my lap.
That’s when I hear it. The ring of a phone behind the couch. My heart jolts.
And then his voice.
I go still, straining to listen. His tone is low, clipped, the kind has to mean business. The kind of tone that makes even his men straighten like they’re under inspection. But I catch the words anyway, sharp in the silence.
“…Di Matteo’s. Ten tonight.”
My brows knit; my chest squeezes.
A pause. His footsteps slow. I hear the faint crackle of whoever’s on the other end, muffled but present.
Then his reply, just as dry. “Fine. I’ll be there.”
Another scrape of movement. The muted creak of the door leading to the garden opening. And then silence. I bolt upright, Duchess tumbling into my lap with a startled mewl. My pulse slams in my ears.
