I open the door fully, but I stay there for another heartbeat, watching her stare down at the pages in her lap like she’s trying to disappear into it. Her breathing is too shallow, her fingers tapping anxiously against the spine, her whole body coiled tight with something she’s afraid of.
She’s hiding something that scares her, and I don’t like that at all.
I force myself to leave, pulling the door closed behind me, the sound echoing louder in the hallway than I expect. The moment I step into the elevator, my fake calm slips for a second because I hate the feeling of walking away from her like this, with her looking that pale and tense, with her hands trembling on the blanket when she thinks I’m not watching.
By the time I make it downstairs, anyone paying attention can see the shift in my mood, because the second I step into the meeting room and catch all their eyes turning toward me. Boris with his constant irritation, the Irishmen whispering among themselves, Marco pretending he’s relaxed even though he keeps bouncing his knee under the table, Luciano De Luca sitting at the head like he was carved straight into the chair, and two of his lieutenants hovering behind him like shadows. I already feel the atmosphere tighten around the room.
And this time, there’s someone else.
The man from last night, the one who teased Kira during the party, stands near the wall, half-hidden behind the lieutenants, flipping through a tablet. He’s wearing the same dark tailored jacket, sleeves rolled up to his forearms, not for comfort but because his wrist is wrapped tight in a thick bandage, the skin around it swollen and bruised in dark, angry shades, a reminder of the moment I snapped it without hesitation.
I study him for a beat, trying to place him, but before I can, one of the lieutenants calls out in a clipped tone, “Raffaele.”
So that’s his name.
He glances up briefly when he hears his name, catching my stare head-on for a second before dipping his chin in a professional acknowledgment that doesn’t soften anything in his face.
I sit next to Mikhail, opposite Luciano, dropping into the chair with a heaviness I don’t bother hiding, my hands resting flat on the table, my jaw tight enough to ache. I nod once, waiting for him to speak, but part of my mind is still two floors above us, in that room where Kira was gripping a magazine she wasn’t reading and looking like she was one breath away from shattering. It’s hard to focus, but I pull myself back into the present because this is not the meeting I can afford to tune out of.
Luciano finally leans forward, elbows resting on the polished table, his expression carved into something sharp and unreadable as he says, in that steady, controlled tone that always carries more threat than shouting ever could, “Mikhail briefedme on what happened last night, but I need the details from you directly. Those things do not happen in my hotel. Not under Camorra protection.”
He doesn’t raise his voice, but the weight of his words hits the room clean and quiet, and both lieutenants straighten behind him, their stances going rigid in a way that tells me they heard the warning woven under every syllable.
He fixes his eyes on me, steady and direct. “Tell me exactly how it happened.”
I hold his stare for a long second, letting the room settle, letting the silence stretch just enough so everyone here understands I’m not sugar-coating a damn thing. Then I lean back in my chair, resting one arm over the back of it, my voice low and even when I finally speak.
“It started with a noise,” I say. “Metal scraping. I was already awake. I saw the door handle move before the lock clicked, so I told Kira not to move. The second the door opened, the guy rushed in fast.”
Gregorio shifts in his seat, but I ignore him.
“He went straight for her,” I continue. “Didn’t look at me, or scan the room, didn’t even hesitate.”
Luciano’s jaw tightens a fraction, subtle but there.
“I intercepted him before he made it three steps,” I say. “He fought back, but he wasn’t trained enough to make it. He tried to use a knife against me, and I slit his throat with it. It was over in less than ten seconds.”
One of the lieutenants clears his throat quietly, but Luciano doesn’t look away from me.
“Any indication who sent him?” he asks.
“No,” I reply. “But he was prepared. Someone gave him her location and told him exactly what to do. And he didn’t care about getting out alive.”
Luciano nods once, fingers tapping slowly against the table, thinking. “Where is the body now?”
“Mikhail handled it,” I say.
A tiny smirk twitches in Mikhail’s direction.
He shrugs. “All clean.”
Enzo makes a disgusted noise under his breath, but I don’t entertain it.
Luciano continues, “Did the man say anything? Anything at all?”
“No. He wasn’t there to talk.” I pause. “He went for her because she was the target.”
That gets everyone’s attention.
