I save the files to the device's internal memory, my jaw tight. Then, with a shaking thumb, I disable the transmission protocol. I kill the signal. No uplink.
"I can't do it," I whisper to my reflection.
I close the phone with finality. Then I pull out my own phone.
We need to speak. Tonight. At the club.
I press send before I can talk myself out of it. I don't wait for a reply. I just go back to bed and wait for the man I love to come upstairs, unaware that his wife is the one holding the map to his grave.
The club is a sensory assault.
The bass is a physical pressure against my ribs, a dark, pulsing heartbeat that matches the anxiety clawing at my throat. The lights are a frantic strobe of neon purple and cold blue, catching the glint of crystal glasses and the sharp edges of expensive suits. It’s a celebration of power, a gathering of the Brotherhood’s elite, and I am the ornament on Rafael’s arm.
He hasn't left my side all evening. His hand is a constant, possessive weight on my waist, his thumb caressing my dress in a way that makes my skin hum with a desperate, unwanted heat. Even as he talks to the other leaders, even as he navigates the territorial optics he asked me about, his focus never truly leaves me.
"You're quiet tonight, little Gia," he murmurs, leaning down so his lips brush my ear. The scent of cedar and expensive scotch is an intoxication I’m struggling to resist. "Is the noise too much? Tell me, and I’ll burn this place down just to give you a moment of silence."
"It's just a lot," I say, leaning into him, letting the heat of his body steady my shaking knees. "I think I’m still a bit of a Parisian hermit at heart.”
He chuckles, the sound vibrating through his chest and into mine. "We’ll leave soon. I just need ten minutes with Matteo and the others to finalize the arrival sequence. Stay here? Or do you want a tactical escort to the bar?"
"I think I can manage the walk to the restroom on my own, Rafael. I’ve been doing it since I was six. I promise not to get lost in the velvet."
He grins, a rare, unguarded flash of teeth that makes my heart ache. "Fine. But ten minutes. If you’re not back, I’m sending the cavalry to drag you back to me."
"I'll be back," I say, and the lie tastes like copper and salt.
He lets go of my waist, and I feel the cold immediately. I walk toward the restrooms, my head held high, my "Resting Bitch Face" firmly in place to ward off any stray glances. Security nods as I pass. They assume I’m heading for the stalls. They assume I’m safe.
I don't go to the restroom.
I slip through a side exit near the coat check, the heavy door muffling the bass behind me into a dull, distant thud. The air in the service corridor is cool and smells of damp concrete and stale smoke. I move quickly, my heels clicking a frantic rhythm on the tiles, until I reach the parking area at the rear of the building.
The rain is a fine, grey mist, blurring the edges of the black SUVs lined up like obsidian coffins. In the far corner, a single black sedan is idling, its exhaust a white plume in the cold air.
I walk toward it, my heart a frantic drum. The rear door opens before I even reach it.
I climb inside. The door closes with a heavy, mutedthump, and the world goes silent.
The car smells of old leather, expensive tobacco, and the cold, clinical scent of my childhood. Salvatore De Luca is sitting in the shadows of the backseat, his profile a sharp, predatory silhouette against the window. He doesn't look at me. He doesn't greet me. He just stares at the back of the driver's head as if I’m an employee he’s about to fire.
"You're late, Gia," he says. His voice is a low, flat monotone that makes my skin crawl.
"The security is tighter," I say, my voice sounding steadier than I feel. "Rafael doesn't let me out of his sight. I had to wait for a gap that wouldn't raise alarms."
"What do you have for me? My patience is not as expansive as your husband’s estate."
I look at him, the man who sold me, the man who is currently counting down the seconds of my sister's life. "Nothing. I have nothing for you, Father. I'm done."
He turns his head then. His eyes are two pits of dark, frozen glass. "Nothing? You've had weeks. You've had access to his study, his bed, his trust. Don't tell me my daughter has forgotten how to be an asset. Or has the Butcher managed to buy your loyalty with a few shiny trinkets?"
"I’m not an asset! I’m a human being!" I snap, my stubbornness flaring through the terror. "I can't do this anymore. The situation has gone too far. People are getting hurt—Rafael took a bullet meant for me! And the information you want... it’s not justterritorial data. It’s an assassination. I won't be the one who hands him over to be slaughtered."
My father listens without visible emotion. He just reaches into the breast pocket of his coat and pulls out a tablet.
"You talk of people getting hurt," he says softly, the words like a velvet noose. "Let us talk of people who are still whole. For now."
He taps the screen and hands it to me.
