6.

~NICO~

I sit up in my bed, reaching for the journal I read every night before I go to bed. It’s mine now, as much as she is. The feel of it in my possession makes satisfaction roll through me.

I open to a page I flagged before, and start reading.

It’s the one where she pushed herself.

Day 50,

Fifty days of touching myself and moaning into my pillow.

Fifty days of wanting a man and settling for a buzzing toy until the battery dies.

I tell myself to stop. I never do.

My hand won’t obey, and when it’s over, I’m left wondering if it would feel different with a man instead.

Safe to say this isn’t going anywhere.

So I’ll let it stay.

~C.C

I smirk at the way she writes, so casual yet deliberate, like she’s scolding herself for needing relief, for craving something her hands and little toy have to give her.

Her words are filthy but innocent, desperate but disciplined.

I catch myself smiling, darkly amused. Most women hide these thoughts, bury them deep. C.C, as she calls herself, writes them down like she’s showing them to the world. Or maybe to herself. Either way, it’s dangerous, addictive, and it makes her human in a way no one else could be.

I close the journal and lean back, staring at the ceiling. I imagine how she’d react if she knew I had it, if she knew I had seen this part of her. Would she fight me? Would she be furious? Would she try to punch me in my face?

Most importantly, what is your name C.C?

My phone vibrates against the nightstand, I groan and pick it up seeing Enzo’s name on the screen. The irritation hits before the curiosity.

“What?” I murmur, like the sound itself can keep the moment I had with the journal intact.

“I know you only just got home,” Enzo’s voice is brisk, clipped, “but you need to see this.”

I sit up fully, my hand lingers on the journal for a brief second before I force myself to move. “What happened?”

“The new drug shipments caught fire at customs,” Enzo continues. “It’s… bad. The DCSA already have their guys in.” (Direzione Centrale per i Servizi Antidroga)

I run a hand through my hair, “Maledizione!” {Damn it!}

Bad is not a word that communicates urgency in my world. But his tone does.

Without a second thought, I tug on a black shirt, black trousers, and a jacket. I comb my hair down, and catch my reflection in the mirror, allowing myself a small, controlled smirk.

I take the journal, and lock it in my safe behind the towel rack in the bathroom.

Heavier than it looks, that little book.

Paper and ink shouldn’t feel like leverage, yet it does. Like holding a pulse in my palm.

People think power comes from guns, money, men who answer when you call.

They’re wrong.

Power is knowing someone’s secrets.

Power is knowing the exact sound they make when they’re lonely.

I rest my hand on the safe door for a second longer than necessary, exhaling slowly.

“Attenta, piccola,” I mutter under my breath. {Careful, little one.}

You have no idea who’s reading you.

Gun in place, tucked behind my pants where it belongs, I run my hands over the jacket one more time, smoothing it down, checking the fit.

“I’m on my way,” I say, “Any info on the guys at the scene?” I asked.

“Guardia di Finanza has the port locked down,” Enzo says. “Customs is sealed. DCSA is coordinating the drug unit from Rome. This isn’t a routine seizure.”

I take the stairs two at a time, phone wedged between my shoulder and ear as I head into the kitchen. The lights flick on automatically. Reaching for the fridge, I cut myself a slice of chocolate cake, grab a fork, and dig in like I’m not needed at this very moment.

Cake always does it.

Puts me in a good mood. Keeps my hands steady, and my head clearer. If I didn’t have it now, I wasn’t entirely sure what I’d do when I got there. And that uncertainty was dangerous for everyone involved.

There’s a brief pause on the line. “Don’t fucking tell me you’re having cake right now,” Enzo says flatly.

“I won’t then,” I reply, a smirk pulling at my mouth. “But I’ll see you soon.”

I hung up, as I took the last bite, drop the plate into the sink, and grab a bottle of water on my way out, already calmer, already focused.

Some men pray before walking into chaos.

I eat cake.

“Ignacio,” I call out as I step into the hall.

“The car is ready, sir,” Ignacio confirms without looking back. I slide into the backseat as he shut the door after me, settling into the drivers seat.

“Customs. Fast,” I order, as he drove out of the compound, as a certain pair of mismatched eyes flashed through my mind.

“Ignacio,” I say again, staring out the window.

“Yes, sir?”

“Your job depends on the answer you’re going to give me to the question I’m about to ask you. What do you call people with two different colored eyes?”

He hesitates. Just for a beat. “Heterochromia,” he answers carefully.

I nod once. “Right. Is it genetic?”

Another pause. Longer this time. “It can be,” Ignacio answers. “Not always. Depends on the type.”

I hum quietly, the sound barely audible. Not that it matters. It’s not like I plan on having children with the little miss mismatched-eyes. This is a contract. One year. Terms, conditions, boundaries. Accidents happen when people stop being careful, and I have no intention of being careless.

“Hmm.” I adjust my cufflinks, the thought already locked away where it can’t be examined too closely.

“How long until we’re there?”

“Ten minutes, sir.”

“Good.”

I lean back, smirking.

Soon principessa.

Tomaso Greco thinks time has buried what he did to my father. He’s wrong.

And this is only the first move.