Page 84 of Accidental Alliance

Giovano had said Amos wrote in his ledger religiously. Why wouldn’t it be with the rest of the other pieces that helped run his empire? If he were a smart man, he would never have allowed it to leave this room except for business ventures.

I shut the third drawer harder than necessary, the sound cracking through the room. The maps on the walls seem to stare at me. For a moment, I brace both hands on the desk and lower my head, breathing through the pressure building in my chest. If there is a chance the ledger was stolen—or worse, destroyed—then there is no hope of proving his claims.

I am not an anxious man. I have never had the luxury of being anything but steady in everything that I do. But this house is getting under my skin in a way I had not expected since the moment I crossed the service entrance.

I force myself to slow down and think like Amos.

Not like Alessio, who would tear the room apart and give up at the first sign of finding nothing on the surface. Like Amos Russo, the strategist. A man who might have known betrayal would come wearing a familiar face and needed to ensure the survival of the only piece of proof he had.

I crouch down to the floor, running my fingers along the underside of the desk. The wood is smooth in most places, rough where age has warped it. My fingers follow the seams and grooves of it, finding nothing at first. Then a subtle ridge catches beneath my index finger, too deliberate to be damage.

My pulse slows to a brutal, focused beat. I hook my fingers around the small latch and pry it away from the desk. It resists, years of disuse holding it stubbornly shut, but I work it loose with the edge of my nail until something clicks and a narrow panel drops open.

For several seconds, I do not move as I stare down at it. Inside is a leather-bound journal, exactly like Giovano described. The leather is stiff beneath my fingers, a soft smear leaving traces of dust behind when my fingers glide over the top cover. It is heavier than I expect, thick with pages of proof and whatever truth it holds after being trapped inside it for too long.

The first few pages are covered in Amos’s slanted handwriting. I flip through the early entries that are filled with details regarding his family’s alliances and strategies, payments made to other various syndicates in Italy before striking a deal with ours.

Some he describes in cool, concise words while cataloging their weaknesses while others are simple notes attached with deeper thoughts about interpersonal relationships and future agreements to be made.

I keep turning the pages one after the other. It isn’t until I reach the final few that my hands begin to shake.

The first entries are calmly written, though laced with obvious concern about shifting alliances with both of our families. Pressure from eastern route disagreements has caused my father’s requests for preemptive strikes against the smaller syndicates to become more aggressive.

The notes then shift to my brother, about pushing through intermediaries, Bianchi’s name surfacing more frequently in relation to potential countermeasures that may be called on to quell the budding hostility.

Then the tone changes. The handwriting grows slightly more forceful, each letter pressed harder into the page, the ink biting deeper into the paper and making it practically bleed through.

My eyes land on one entry and my body goes cold.

Alessio Conti approached me privately to offer a deal to consolidate our territory with the Contis’. Promised money in exchange for stepping back. He wants to take over both families and absorb them into one, creating a stronger force to move against other syndicates. When I refused, he threatened to remove me as an obstacle in his way.

I read it again and again, each time, the words become less comprehensible and more absolute.

My first instinct is denial. Not because Alessio is incapable of murder.

Christ, no. My brother has enough blood on his hands to fill this room ten times over with it. But against Amos, our closest ally?

A man whose death would knowingly shift the balance of power so completely that even now, eight years later, the ground beneath us is still moving with uncertainty?

He would never be that stupid, that brash, to think the repercussions of assassinating Amos would be absorbed easily.

I turn the page with fingers that no longer feel like mine.

Met with Davide tonight for advice. Warned him Alessio is moving against us. Something is wrong inside the Conti family—Vittorio may know about plans, no confirmation currently. Elio is being kept in the dark. He would not want this.

A rough breath leaves me.

He saw me, perhaps better than my own father ever has. He knew I would not be leading the move against him because I had no reason to. I did not understand there was a game being played around me, that I was standing in a room full of traitors with knives drawn behind their backs, waiting to strike at the perfect moment.

The words should absolve me from this crushing guilt, but all it does is deepen the wound forming.

Blindness is not a virtue to celebrate. It is what made me useful in allowing my brother to scheme behind my back and let my family’s empire remain intact while Amos’s life burned to the ground.

If I had been less trusting, perhaps none of this would have happened.

I keep reading.

Giovano—If anything happens to me, protect Isabella. She is the only one who can see the board clearly. Show her these journals.