My phone buzzes.
Kristen Thomas: I've thought about it and I really appreciate the invitation, but I won't be able to make it tonight. Thank you for understanding.
I read the message twice. Three times.
My jaw tightens.
She's backing out. Politely, professionally, with just enough gratitude sprinkled in to make it seem like a reasonable decision rather than what it actually is.
Fear.
I type my response without thinking.
Nico: You don't have a choice.
Three dots appear. Disappear. Appear again.
Kristen Thomas: Actually, I do. It's called free will. Maybe you've heard of it? It's this thing where people get to decide what they do with their own time.
My thumb hovers over the keyboard. The corner of my mouth twitches.
Nico: The car will be there at 6:30.
I toss the phone onto my bed before she can respond again.
Apparently, I'm picking her up myself. Whether she wants me to or not.
I can't play games anymore. Not with the housekeeper situation unresolved, not with Giulia leaving in three days, not with my mother emotionally invested in thanking this woman properly.
The armored SUV glides through Chicago's streets.
Liam Blackwood sits behind the wheel, steel-gray eyes scanning every intersection, every pedestrian, every shadow. The man doesn't blink. I'm fairly certain he doesn't breathe either, unless oxygen is tactically necessary.
Liam is Pietro's shadow. Former SAS. The British equivalent of being raised by wolves and trained by the military to be even more lethal. When Pietro doesn't need him, I'm next in the chain of command. Which means tonight, I get the pleasure of his silent, assessing company.
"Left on Ashland," I say, checking the address on my phone.
Liam doesn't respond. Just turns. The man communicates in nods, single syllables, and the occasional devastating dry comment that makes you question your entire existence.
The neighborhoods shift as we drive south. Glass towers give way to brick walk-ups. Boutiques transform into check-cashing stores with bars on the windows.
I watch the transformation without judgment.
Funny thing—Kristen Thomas is terrified of having dinner at the Sartori compound, but she lives here. A place where the streetlights flicker like they're sending Morse code warnings. Where the corner store has bulletproof glass between the cashier and customers.
She's more scared of eating a thank you dinner than walking home at night in this neighborhood.
I don't judge her for that. Fear is rarely logical.
When I was a kid, maybe eight or nine, I used to sneak away from the compound to play with the neighborhood kids many blocks over. The ones who went to public school. Who didn't have private tutors or armored cars or bodyguards named things like "Big Tony."
Giuseppe found out eventually. He didn't punish me. Just sat me down in his study, poured himself a whiskey, and said: "Niccolò, you can play with whoever you want. But never forget—you eat dinner in a different house than they do. And one day, you'll understand what that means."
I understood eventually. The system isn't fair. Never has been. Some people are born into marble floors and trust funds.Others are born into apartments with water stains on the ceiling and landlords who don't fix the heat.
I had the marble floors. Kristen Thomas has the water stains.
That's not a moral failing on her part. It's just math.
