“Then send more.” I cross my arms. “Or better yet, send Federico with me.”
Silvo looks at his brother, who immediately holds up both hands.
“Don’t look at me,” Fed says. “She makes a compelling argument.”
Silvo’s eyes return to mine. I can see him wrestling with it—the practical need to keep me contained, warring with the understanding that keeping me locked inside these walls indefinitely isn’t sustainable either.
“Two hours,” he finally says, his voice tight with reluctance. “Fed goes with you. Tony and Paulie on the doors. You stay in Rittenhouse Square, you don’t deviate from the route, and if Federico says it’s time to leave, you leave. No arguments.”
“No arguments,” I agree.
“I mean it, Carmela.”
“So do I.” I cross to him, pressing a quick kiss to his jaw. “Thank you.”
He catches my wrist before I can pull away, his grip firm. “Two hours,” he repeats, his eyes serious. “Then you’re back here.”
“Two hours,” I confirm.
He releases me, but I feel his eyes on my back all the way to the door.
Federico falls into step beside me in the foyer, shrugging on his jacket with a grin. “You know he’s going to track your phone the entire time.”
“I know,” I say, grabbing my purse. “I’m counting on it.”
Tony and Paulie are already waiting by the car, armed and alert. We drive to Rittenhouse Square in relative silence. When we arrive at the boutique, Federico takes a position just inside the entrance while Tony and Paulie cover the doors—visible enough to deter trouble, but far enough to give me space to breathe.
After twenty minutes of browsing, Fed appears at my elbow, nodding toward the window. “Everything seems calm. Tony and Paulie have the doors covered.” He pauses, the picture of innocence. “There’s a boutique across the street I wouldn’t mind checking out.”
I glance up from the rack I’ve been browsing, raising an eyebrow. “A boutique”
“What? I have impeccable taste.” He straightens his jacket pointedly.
I laugh despite myself. “Go. I won’t tell Silvo.”
He grins and disappears through the door, leaving me to the quiet pleasure of browsing alone for the first time in weeks. I run my fingers over a silky emerald dress, admiring how the fabric catches the light. Isabella recommended this place for their exclusive European imports, and I needed the distraction from our family’s escalating situation. For a few precious minutes, I let myself simply exist—no surveillance photos, no threat assessments, no war.
“That shade would complement your eyes perfectly.”
The voice behind me is unfamiliar. I turn to find a striking dark-haired girl about my age examining the samerack. Something about her seems oddly familiar—the confident posture, those intelligent dark eyes.
“You think so?” I ask, holding the dress against me.
“Absolutely. Green on green creates depth.” She smiles, extending her hand. “I’m Valeria.”
My breath catches. Valeria Moretti. The daughter of our enemy. I’ve seen her in the surveillance photos, but they didn’t capture her warmth.
From the corner of my eye, I see Tony stiffen near the entrance. I give him a subtle look—it’s fine—and he reluctantly stays put, though his hand hovers near his weapon.
“Carmela,” I reply, hesitating before taking her hand. I don’t add my last name. She doesn’t either.
A tall blonde joins us, her blue eyes widening slightly as she looks between us. “Val, I found those shoes you—” She stops abruptly.
“This is my friend Adele,” Valeria says. “Adele, this is Carmela. She has impeccable taste in formalwear.”
Adele’s expression betrays nothing, but I recognize her too—the girl in the photos with Nico Moretti. The tension in the air could be cut with a knife.
“That’s quite a statement piece,” I nod toward a sapphire jumpsuit Adele’s holding. “Bold choice.”
