"My name is Charlotte."
"I know what your name is." I push off the doorframe and step into the room. Not far. Just enough to claim the space. "I also know you've been sitting in this room for two days reading old news and pretending you're not terrified, when what you should be doing is telling me what you saw at Marchetti Holdings that was worth sending four armed men to put you in the ground."
Her chin lifts. "I already told you what I saw. The ledgers."
"You told me about the ledgers. You didn't tell me everything."
Her fingers tighten on the newspaper. Barely. A millimeter of pressure that most people would miss.
I don't miss shit.
"There's nothing else," she says.
"You're lying."
"I'm not."
"Principessa." I crouch in front of the bed so we're eye level. This close, I can smell the compound's soap on her skin, cheap and floral, the kind they stock in bulk. Underneath it, something warmer. Her. "I've been reading liars since I could walk. My mother was the best liar I ever knew, and she taught me every tell in the book. Your left hand just tightened on that newspaper. Your breathing shifted up about four beats per minute. And your pupils dilated when I said 'Marchetti Holdings.'" I let that sit. "You saw something. Not on a screen. Not in a file. You saw something with your own eyes, and you haven't told anyone because you think keeping it to yourself is what's keeping you alive."
She holds my gaze. I'll give her that. Most men in this compound can't hold my gaze for longer than a few seconds before they find somewhere else to look. Charlotte stares right back at me like she's daring me to blink first.
"And if I did see something?" she says. "What happens when I tell you?"
"Then I deal with it."
"Deal with it how?"
I stand. Look down at her. She's pretty in a way that's inconvenient. Sharp jaw, sharp cheekbones, sharp eyes. Everything about her is icy, and I've got a feeling she knows exactly how to use every edge.
"The way I deal with everything," I say. "Quietly."
She folds the newspaper. Sets it on the nightstand. Every movement controlled, economical, like she's rationing energy for something she hasn't told me about yet.
"I'll think about it," she says.
"Don't think too long. The people who sent that hit team aren't patient, and I'm not either."
"You seem plenty patient to me. You've been standing in that doorway for four minutes without saying anything useful."
The laugh escapes before I can strangle it. Short, rough, more air than sound. Her eyes widen for a half second before the mask slams back down.
"Goodnight, principessa."
"Don't call me that."
I pull the door shut behind me and stand in the hallway with my hand on the keycard and a grin I can't get rid of.
The way her mouth moves, animated yet guarded, her eyes alight with mischief and somehow walled… it makes me want to dig inside her head and scoop her out. Figure out exactly who she is before putting her back together the right way.
She’s fucking dynamite and the way my pants tented and I had to hide it tells me that she is going to be fucking trouble.
And yet, first things first.
She's lying. She saw something at Marchetti that goes beyond ledgers and laundering, and she's holding it like a grenade with the pin half out. Smart. Dangerous. The kind of move that keeps you alive in the short term and gets you killed in the long.
I pull out my phone and call Emilio.
He picks up on the second ring. There's music in the background. A woman laughing. My brother is allergic to silence and solitude.
