The words come easy. Natural. Because they're true.
I could end James Rogers tonight if I wanted. One phone call. A quiet accident. A mugging gone wrong in the wrong neighborhood. His family would mourn, the police would investigate nothing, and Vittoria would never know.
But there's no sport in killing a puppy.
Not unless it bites.
"Keep watching him," I say. "And tell Megan to let me know how Vittoria reacts to the flowers."
"Already asked. She said—" Yuri pauses, clearly reading a message. "She said Vittoria took one look at the living room, said'you've got to be kidding me,' and went back to her room. Hasn't come out since."
Perfect.
I end the call and lean back against the leather seat.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Vittoria
The security protocols for Valentino's arrival blur on my screen. I've been staring at the same access matrix for twenty minutes, but my brain refuses to cooperate. Tomorrow, my cousin lands from Sicily, and I need to have his clearances ready.
My phone buzzes. Amanda, probably, wanting details about last night's dinner. I ignore it.
Focus, Vittoria.
I pull up Valentino's file again. The man is paranoid about security, which honestly makes my job easier. He'll actuallyusethe protocols I set up instead of treating them like suggestions the way Bruno used to.
A knock interrupts my concentration.
"Vittoria?" Mamma's voice filters through the door. "Someone sent you a gift. It's in the living room."
My fingers freeze over the keyboard.
"Coming," I call out, saving my work.
The walk to the living room feels longer than usual. I catch myself smoothing down my sweater like I'm about to face a firing squad instead of a delivery.
Get a grip. It's just a gift.
I round the corner into the living room and stop dead.
Flowers.
Not just flowers. Anexplosionof flowers. Roses in every shade of red imaginable, from deep burgundy to pale pink to blood crimson. Lilies. They cover the coffee table, the side tables, the floor near the windows. Crystal vases line every available surface, their contents spilling over like something out of a funeral home's fever dream.
My stomach turns.
"Isn't it beautiful?" Mamma appears beside me, her hand pressed to her heart. "There must be two hundred roses here. Maybe more."
Two hundred corpses,I think.Two hundred living things, cut at the stem so they can slowly die in expensive crystal for someone's viewing pleasure.
I hate flowers.
Not the growing kind. I have three succulents on my windowsill that I've managed to keep alive for two years. Butthis? This performative waste of life? Cutting something beautiful from its roots just to watch it wither in a vase?
It's barbaric. And people callmyfamily monsters.
"Who sent them?" My voice comes out flat.
