I force a handshake, his palm dry and his grip weak—deceptively casual. I want to crush every bone in his hand.
“Don Salvatore,” I say flatly. “Pleasure.”
He laughs, deep and booming, as if I’ve just delivered the best joke of the day. “Please, call me Antonio. We’re family now, no? Come inside before we roast like pigs. You must be tired after your flight. There’s a bottle of our finest vintage waiting. And your future bride, eh?”
He glances at the girl behind him, smoothing her skirt. I barely acknowledge her. I don’t want her. I don’t wantanyof this. What I want doesn’t wear pearls or forced smiles. Shecarries secrets and defiance, she’s wild, untamed, alive. But it doesn’t matter. It never has.
“Tonight,” Salvatore says, “we dine, we talk, we drink. We can discuss the future. You’ll meet my wife, Vera, and get to know my granddaughter. She’s a sweet girl. Very obedient. Her mother—God rest her soul—made sure she understood her duties.”
I grind my teeth.Obedient.
That’s what they want. A son who plays the part and marries the girl. Pops out heirs. Keeps alliances stitched tight.
But all I can think about is Lily.
Five hours away in Lyon. So close. Too close.
She’s everything this girl is not. Sharp, where they demand softness. Wild where they want tame. She makes me feel alive, human.
And I miss her.
I miss her like a wound that hasn’t healed.
Inside the SUV, the cool air hits my face, carrying leather and faint cigar smoke. Nico slides in beside me, boxing me in between him and his father as a soldier climbs into the driver’s seat.
Turin’s outskirts blur past—industrial warehouses giving way to rolling hills, vineyards, and ancient villages baked by the sun. It’s a beauty laced with poison—seductive, dangerous, a trap disguised in sunlight.
Salvatore talks the whole way—business, family, how honoured they are the Points want to cement this business deal. Nico stays silent, phone glowing dimly as he types, eyes flicking up to me now and then, measuring.
I nod where expected, offer clipped responses, try to seem present enough for the sake of the charade, and keep my eyes off the girl sitting opposite me.
But my mind keeps pulling back to Lily.
The feel of her skin beneath my hands.
The way her voice wraps around my name like she owns it.
And then the darker thoughts creep in, oily and relentless—did she help her mother find girls? Funnel them to Angus and Benedict?
I don’t want to believe it. Christ, I don’t. I tell myself there’s no way. That Lily—the girl who’s spent her whole life clawing for freedom, burning too bright to be chained—couldn’t be tangled in that mess.
But doubt has teeth. Sharp, quiet, gnawing away until it bleeds. And seeing Jen say on more than one occasion Lily found her a new lead, a new victim, is like a knife to the back.
This morning, somewhere between London and Italy, I pulled up the latest file Liam sent. Benedict’s last wire transfers, emptied just hours before Helen killed him, as if he knew his time was up. One of those transfers went through accounts tied to Jen. The rest splintered into offshore banks in places I’ve only seen on money laundering reports.
I stared at the numbers, the ghost companies, trying to make the nonsensical make sense.
Was Benedict paying them? And if he was, where did Lily’s cut go? Or was he hiding money for her somewhere else? Where?The questions keep piling up, gnawing at my mind until it drives me fucking insane. My gut screams that nothing adds up.
If Lily was getting a cut, why start camming?
And I don’t know what scares me more—the thought that she’s innocent and needlessly in danger, or the idea that maybe she’s not innocent at all. Because if she is innocent… and we’ve exiled her like this for no reason… it doesn’t even bear thinking about.
I close my eyes, imagining her laugh, the tilt of her head, the fire in her dark eyes. And I swear, if anyone—anyone—dares to touch her, I’ll burn the world down to make sure they regret it. Because innocent or guilty, I am obsessed with her, and that’s never changed.
Outside, sunlight glints off marble statues and church domes. Even the trees look ancient, older than sin.
Eventually, we leave the main road, winding down a cypress-lined driveway. Stone walls rise around us, ivy clawing over iron gates the size of billboards. Everything here screams old money and darker secrets. Cameras tilt as we approach.
