Page 146 of The Cost of Silence

He’s shorter than Nico, broader through the middle, his expensively tailored suit straining a little at the buttons. His hair is iron-gray and slicked back, his eyes small and sharp in a heavy face that might read as jovial if you didn’t know what he did for a living.

He claps his hands once, softly, like a host checking if his guests are awake. “Ah,” he says. “Sleeping beauty joins us.”

“Wrong fairy tale,” I say. My voice comes out rough but steady. “I don’t think the princess wakes up in a kidnapping fantasy.”

He chuckles. “You have spirit. Domenico said you did.”

“Domenico,” I repeat. The taste of the name in my mouth is bile. “Is he here?”

“For the moment.” Orlov strolls into the room, the men flanking him but staying just inside the door. “We have some business to finalize before we move to our… main event.”

“Main event,” I echo. “Let me guess. The part where you try to kill the Mancini brothers.”

His smile widens. “See? Quick. I like that in a woman. It’s a shame we’re on opposite sides.”

“We don’t have to be,” I say, because if there’s one thing I’ve learned from interviews with dangerous men, it’s that they love to talk. “You could just… not do this. Go home. Drink vodka. Retire. Find a hobby that doesn’t involve bullets.”

He laughs, genuinely amused. “You think I’ve come this far to walk away? No, little reporter. This has taken years to arrange. The pressure, the leaks, the article… all threads in a very careful web. We’re in the middle now, and that’s where the feast happens.”

I swallow. “You’re planning to ambush them at the docks.”

“Ambush is such an ugly word,” he says mildly. “I prefer… correction. Course adjustment. The boys have been sailing the ship in the wrong direction. Time to remind them whose map they’re using.”

“And me?” I ask. “What am I? The siren? The sacrifice?”

“Bait,” he says, shrugging. “And leverage for a little while. A symbol. You’ve been useful, Isabella. Your article did more to shake their foundation than anything my men could have arranged. But like all tools, you have an expiration date.”

My hands curl at my sides. “You think killing me will make them fold?”

“Oh, I don’t plan to kill you,” he says.

Relief hits so hard my knees almost go, then he adds, “That’s Domenico’s pet project.”

The relief curdles.

“He has his own… unresolved business,” Orlov continues. “Debts, as you know. Old wounds. Men like us, we have long memories.”

“He murdered my father,” I say, because I want to hear it in this room, with these men, less like a nightmare and more like an accusation. “In the street.”

“Your father should not have poked his nose where it didn’t belong,” Orlov says without heat. “But it served a purpose. It taught Enzo a lesson about whose secrets were truly dangerous.” He frowns for a moment. “Unfortunately, it also made him grow a conscience. Which has no place in our world.”

Hearing that Enzo Mancini was affected by my father’s death gives me a tiny measure of relief. “And Nico?” My throat tightens. “Did it teach him something, too?”

“Ah.” His eyes gleam. “There’s the heart of it. You wonder what he knew. What he hid. Whether his hands are as clean as you convinced yourself.”

He’s not wrong about the wondering, but the sting in his tone makes something stubborn rise in me. “You can say whatever you want,” I tell him. “He’s not you. Or Domenico. He doesn’t get off on this.”

“Doesn’t he?” Orlov asks, mildly. “He plays the clean businessman very well, but when I look at him, I see his father’s eyes when the mask slips. You’ve seen it too, I think. That flash of something sharp when someone threatens what’s his.”

“That’s called loving people,” I say. “You wouldn’t recognize it.”

For a moment, his smile drops. Then it’s back. “You’ll find out soon enough.”

Footsteps sound in the corridor. A moment later, Domenico appears in the doorway, coat on, gloves in his hand, looking like he’s about to head to a family dinner instead of a potential bloodbath.

“Ready?” Orlov asks.

“Almost.” Domenico’s gaze slides over me, assessing. “You should have seen the way she looked at me when I told her about her father,” he says conversationally. “Like a kicked dog that still wanted to bite.”