Total pages in book: 51
Estimated words: 48854 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 244(@200wpm)___ 195(@250wpm)___ 163(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 48854 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 244(@200wpm)___ 195(@250wpm)___ 163(@300wpm)
Too late.
I freeze, fingers still pressed to the underside of Ignacio’s desk drawer where I just felt the hollow space. My heart kicks once, hard against my ribs, and I know I’ve been caught. I didn’t think anyone would be up and about this late into the night, but before me, I see the man who watches me like a hawk. I slide my hand out slowly, smooth my expression, and turn.
Marco leans against the doorframe, arms crossed in front of his chest, and his eyes are sharp as he watches me. “Didn’t expect to find the bodyguard in the Boss’s chair.”
He’s not smiling.
I match his look with one of my own, relaxed but not casual. “Didn’t expect the Boss to leave his office unlocked.” I shrug it off, but the tension in the room is thick and heavy.
Marco walks in, slow and deliberate, like he’s stepping into a crime scene. “You lost, Nico?”
“Just waiting for Ignacio. He told me to meet him here at midnight. Thought he wanted to speak privately without anyone eavesdropping. Said he had a change in security protocol for the wedding. Thought I’d wait inside.”
“Uh-huh.” He glances at the desk. “And the drawers?”
I shrug, chuckle, hoping it sounds nonchalant, and say, “I got bored.”
He doesn’t laugh. He walks behind me, casually, like a shark circling a swimmer. “You’ve been with Lia a lot lately.”
“She’s my assignment.”
“She’s also not yours,” he adds after I look at him. The man is wary. I don’t blame him, but I also want him gone. I’ll gladly end him here right now, but that will only raise more eyebrows. I have to play my role too.
I tilt my head slightly, just enough to keep him in my periphery. “Funny. She doesn’t seem to think she belongs to anyone.”
That earns me a pause.
He stops beside the window, backlit by moonlight, watching me like he’s waiting for something to crack. I don’t move. Don’t blink.
“Where are you from again?” he asks suddenly.
I give him a look. “New York.”
“Yeah, I remember. But where exactly?”
Shaking my head, I smile before looking at the floor, then up at him once more. He’s fishing for answers, for information, but he won’t get it from me. “Near Brooklyn.”
He squints as he assesses me. “You ever work in Long Island?”
“No.”
“Ever come to Italy, perhaps Palermo?”
I shake my head once. “You always this chatty?”
He smiles, slow and thin. “Only when someone’s acting like they’ve got something to hide.”
I settle into the armchair that overlooks the desk, giving me an easy view of Marco as he leans against the window. I allow my arms to drape over the sides like I own the place. “You think I’m hiding something, Marco?”
“I think you’re the kind of guy who shows up with clean papers and no history and somehow gets handed the most valuable piece in the house.” And there it is. It’s not about me, it’s about Lia. He’s jealous.
“Lia’s not a piece.”
He looks at me, long and level. “Then what is she to you?”
That’s the wrong question.
That’s always the wrong question.
I lift my shoulders in a shrug. “She’s my job.”
He tips his head to the side, this time narrowing his gaze as he asks, “You sure about that?”
“Are you?” I throw back quickly, easily. There’s no tension in my tone because I’m more in this role than I have been in a long while.
We hold the silence between us like a blade, sharp and waiting to drop. I don’t flinch. He doesn’t press. He’s still watching, but he doesn’t see it—that in my jacket lining is a folded envelope of names, dates, codes. The list my father wants. The one that could burn Mosca to the ground.
After a beat, Marco walks to the desk, runs his hand over the polished wood, then looks down at me.
“Ignacio doesn’t like people touching his things.”
I smile. “Then he shouldn’t leave his door unlocked.”
He studies me one more time. I meet his eyes, steady, unblinking.
Finally, he steps back. “Just keep your hands where they belong, Nico. And your eyes off things that aren’t yours.”
He walks out and shuts the door behind him with a quiet click.
I wait three full seconds, then pull the folded paper from inside my jacket and slide it deeper into my boot.
Ghosts don’t leave fingerprints.
And neither will I.
Chapter 21
Lelia
The silk feels heavy against my skin.
Not the weight of the fabric—no, that was light, delicate, like something stolen from a dream. The real weight came from what it meant. What it represented.
A dress stitched from centuries of power, blood, and silence. A legacy built by men like my father, cemented by marriages like mine. And now, in just two days, I am meant to walk down marble steps into a courtyard full of ghosts dressed like guests and say yes to a man I will never love.