"Don't worry, I already know what I'm going to do," I said as my driver pulled away from the curb, the SUV's tires crunching through fresh snow.
Glancing out my window, I caught sight of her just as we moved. The ruthless killer, who'd just been in fatigues and combat boots, was now wearing a knee-length, large black winter coat with a faux-fur hood. The transformation was striking, jarring, even shocking. If she'd been smart, she would have put the hood up; it would have almost hidden her face, as she was trying to do with her dark hair. But vanity, or perhaps confidence, kept it down. Snow caught in her hair, melting on contact with her skin.
She briefly lifted her eyes, and I locked onto them, watching her until she disappeared. Even from this distance, even in the darkness, I could see the exhaustion surrounding her, the weight of what she'd just done. Over the past year, my glimpses of the woman had been few, much to my disappointment. I took whatever I could get, hoarding every sighting like a miser with gold.
I'd heard Vincent Carminatti's daughter was beautiful, but 'beautiful' didn't quite capture it. The word felt too weak, unableto fully describe what I saw. The night I saw her across the symphony hall, I froze mid-step and sank back into my chair just to watch her. It was like being struck by lightning — that moment of recognition that something fundamental had shifted in my world.
The curtain had fallen; the lights came on, and I was more than done with my date. She'd sighed eighty-five times since the performance began. I counted each one, growing more irritated with every breathy exhale. Why hadn't I come alone? I didn't need a date, and I definitely wasn't taking her to bed, which I knew was her plan with the outfit she was wearing. The low-cut dress basically revealed her navel and gave anyone who looked at her an anatomically correct view of her breasts. It's the symphony, for Christ's sake. She'd dressed as if she were heading to a nightclub, not the Chicago Symphony Orchestra.
Looking up during intermission, I saw a woman across the venue. She was sitting alone in one of the private boxes, looking at her playbill with her head bent in concentration. I locked eyes with her when she lifted her gaze. The connection was electric, immediate. Dark brown hair, perfectly curled and draped over her shoulder, and a blue dress featuring an elegant neckline. The color reminded me of midnight, deep and mysterious. It definitely didn't reveal anything outright. Instead, it hinted, suggested, made a man want to discover what lay beneath.
She looked elegant and poised, and she stared back at me, but it was as if she didn't even see me. Her gaze moved through me as if I wasn’t there. As if I were just another face in the crowd. It was infuriating. The sound of a door opening behind her caught my attention, and I saw an older man and woman walk into the box. Vincent Carminatti and his wife were dressed in their usual ostentatious finery. She stood, kissed both his cheeks, and smiled tightly at him. The gesture was perfunctory, obligatory.
Grabbing my date's opera glasses. Years of surveillance work made reading her lips second nature. 'Father, Mother, I'm sorry you missed the first half of the show. It was beautiful.' Her tight smile softened into a genuine one that reached her eyes when she spoke about the music. Suddenly, the curtains around the booth slid shut, blocking my view and cutting me off from seeing the stunning woman. The heavy velvet shut like a door slamming.
"Well, well, Ms. Carminatti, I finally get to see you in the flesh," I muttered to myself, satisfaction warming my chest. I finally had a name for the face that had been haunting me.
Snapping my fingers, my bodyguard came and stood at my side, looming and silent. "Make sure my date isn't allowed back in here. Take her home, to a club, I don't care. Just get her the fuck out of here." The man nodded, understanding in his eyes. He'd dealt with my discarded dates before. And I waited for the curtain to open again, patient as a predator at a watering hole.
Now seeing her only feet away through the SUV window, separated by glass and snow and the roles we both played, I was blown away by the woman. She was everything I'd imagined and nothing I'd expected. Deadly and delicate. Ruthless and refined. A killer in a designer coat. Grabbing my phone, I dial a number I've memorized over the last few years. The man was in trouble, but I was about to give him much more.
The phone rang once. Twice. Three times before Vincent Carminatti answered, his voice thick with sleep, confusion, and what I suspected was a heavy dose of whatever kept him compliant these days.
"Hello?" he sounded old and confused, nothing like the man who'd once commanded respect in our world.
I smiled in the darkness of the SUV, watching the city lights blur past. "Vincent. We need to talk about your family."
CHAPTER 3
EMILIA
In this life,everything is orchestrated. Its precision is like a conductor standing before their musicians; when they lift their hands, a collective inhale pulls all the oxygen out of the room. The silence that follows feels heavy with anticipation. But when he moved his arm for the first beat, the story was set in motion. Music flooded the hall, washing over the audience in waves of sound.
This moment has always soothed my soul, but something was different tonight. The air in the music hall was thick, oppressive, like it was the middle of summer, even though it was December. The heating system must have been working overtime, or perhaps it was just my imagination. A slight movement of the curtains behind me drew my attention from the Christmas carol the orchestra was playing.
The heavy velvet shifted, revealing a sliver of light from the hallway. Someone had entered our box, a man.
I could feel his presence behind us, a disturbance in the air, a shift in the energy of the small space. The cologne he wore was almost intoxicating. A mixture of cedar, lavender, and a hintof vanilla, an unusual combination, but it worked. The scent wrapped around me like smoke, impossible to ignore.
My God, Emilia, now is not the time to be entertaining the merits of a cologne.I silently reprimanded myself, refocusing my attention on the stage. I needed to be present and on guard. This man was a stranger. He shouldn't be here. My damn handbag had been too small to conceal a weapon, sitting neatly on my lap like a useless accessory, but it hadn't been too small for a syringe of potassium. The small vial pressed against the silk lining, a cold comfort. You're a ruthless killer, Emilia, not a love-struck woman. Get yourself together.
The stranger sat behind my father, who was seated to my right. The chair slightly creaked under his weight. It was a private box, surrounded by guards and bulletproof glass. No one else should be in here except the family. My pulse quickened, but I maintained a calm face and perfect posture.
"Relax, my belle, there is nothing to be anxious about." He reached over and took my hand, his fingers warm and firm around mine. His words were soft, but not at all reassuring. The Italian endearment felt wrong coming from his lips, too familiar. He made no attempt to remove his hand. For the next hour, he kept me in his grasp, his thumb occasionally brushing over my knuckles, leading me to think that not all was as well as he tried to convey. The musicians played on, oblivious to the growing tension in our box.
My father wanted to be feared and to lead, but he lacked the skills to think of anyone other than himself. He was all bluster and no substance, a hollow shell of what a don should be. He had no desire to expand his territory nor the financial ability to wage war against other families. Under his leadership, the Carminatti family stagnated, becoming a joke whispered behind closed doors.
Letting my mind wander, the music fading into background noise, I thought back to the days after Marco was killed two years ago. The golden son, the heir apparent, was shot in a warehouse dispute that never should have escalated. He lost his drive, he was a don without a male heir, a mob boss with no one he could trust in his organization to take over for him. Nobody but his daughters, and in his world, that was the same as having no one at all.
Except me.
Weeks passed, and the organization was in turmoil. Money stopped flowing. Deals fell through. Men questioned orders. That's when a silent member of the extended family stepped up and took control. Anonymous. Efficient. Ruthless.
My father corresponded with this person multiple times a day, encrypted messages on burner phones, and handed over all control and decision-making. Somehow, despite all his years in this life, he had yet to figure out it was me. When he'd pushed for meetings, I'd made them impossible. Scheduling conflicts. Security concerns. Always an excuse.
When deals were ready to go down, he'd get all of his information to pass on to the Capos, detailed instructions that left no room for error. Nobody knew where it was coming from, but it was all me. Every decision. Every order. Every drop of blood spilled in the Carminatti name for the last two years.
One trusted person in my father's inner circle knew the truth, but I'd made sure he knew what would happen if anything leaked. His loyalty was bought with equal parts ambition and fear. It helped that he hoped his future would include me at his side, and then he'd take over as don of the Carminatti family. A foolish dream, but one I’d let him keep.
