I roll my eyes and slide the phone back into my jeans without replying, but the moment the screen disappears the memory of what happened earlier surfaces again.
The fact that I was attacked.
The thought settles badly beneath my skin.
The entire helicopter ride over, my mind has been cataloguing possibilities, family enemies, opportunists, old grudges resurfacing, even Death itself.
My father has made it painfully clear that I am next in line to take the reins of the Bellanti leadership.
That alone paints a target on my back.
He has not made it official yet, but he has never exactly hidden it either.
Some men still choke on the idea of a woman holding power.
So it truly could be anyone, someone trying to hurt my father through me, someone who doesn’t want me to lead, someone with too much to lose if I take the reins of the Bellanti legacy, and the sheer number of possibilities sets my nerves on edge.
And because Markev interfered so early in the attack, I am left uncertain whether they meant to kill me outright or drag me away instead, whether this was an execution or a botched attempt at abduction, but either way the entire thing leaves a persistent unease running through me.
My instincts are screaming at me, and life taught me long ago that ignoring a warning like this never ends well.
Perhaps this is about Death after all, because I have always known that what I do is dangerous, that the men I hunt are powerful, protected, connected in ways that stretch far beyond what I can see, and it would only take one of them learning my name, hearing a rumour, recognising a pattern, deciding that the simplest solution is to remove me from the board entirely.
But no.
I push the idea aside almost immediately, because I am meticulous, I make sure they are dead, buried, silent, and people who are dead don’t come back for you.
And I know, with absolute certainty, that nothing ever leads them back to me, because I never go after these men myself, I don’t place my name anywhere near them, leaving Adriano to move through intermediaries, through people who are not connected to us in any way that can be traced, so that my face, my presence, my existence never enters the equation.
The only moment I ever step into the frame is at the very end, after the transport, when they are already stripped of protection and reach, when everything has been arranged, and there is nothing left for them to see but me, and nothing left afterward to lead them anywhere at all.
Adriano opens the door and I slide into the back seat, and a moment later he joins me as the driver pulls away from the landing pad.
He fills the silence with logistics and timing, but I barely hear a word of it, my attention drifting until my phone vibrates again in my pocket, irritation flaring as I pull it out and find yet another flood of notifications waiting for me, more likes, comments.
And all of them from Markev.
An idea forms in my mind, and a slow smile begins to pull at the corner of my mouth, because if he has decided to stalk my social media, then perhaps it is only fair that I give him something more interesting to look at.
I turn to Adriano.
“Put your hand on my thigh,” I say.
He stares at me, pure disgust written over his face.
“Ma che cazzo…?” he mutters, his brows knitting.
“Just do it,” I say dryly. “I am not thrilled about the idea either.”
He hesitates, then finally complies, his sleeve sliding back a fraction as his hand settles against my thigh, the face ofhis watch flashing briefly in the low light, his grip firm and unmistakably masculine.
Perfect.
I lean closer, angle the shot, and snap the photo.
I upload it instantly to my profile, I had meant to post it to my story, but I change my mind.
A sardonic smile forms at my mouth as I type the caption.
