Chapter Sixteen.

Chapter Sixteen.

The sun light streamed through my high windows like a censure, unwanted and golden. I hadn't slept. Not precisely. My brain had stayed caught in the same web all night long—Vincenzo's insinuating menace, Isadora's almost imperceptible caution, and the treacherous, subtle way my breath had hitched to behold him sleeping in the library.

I wasn't meant to care about him. Not confusion, not sympathy, not curiosity. But something had shifted. The edges of hatred were dulling, softened by proximity, by the mask he wore sometimes—the one that nearly seemed human.

I shrugged my shoulders, shoving the thought away.

I had a job.

I buckled the knife under my leg. Just in case. Vito had taught me better than to go into a house like this unarmed. And today, I was going to find out if Isadora's warning was paranoia— or a very real noose tightening around our necks.

By the time I entered the hall, the house vibrated with silent motion. Servants moving like ghosts. Guards in black standing more openly than usual. Tension percolating just below the surface like an earthy vibration. And just as I passed by the main staircase—

"Francesca."

Vincenzo's voice. Smooth. Effortless.

I turned, expression unreadable. "Mr. Lombardi."

He stood at the top of the stairs, crisp in a charcoal suit, the morning light catching gold at his collar. His eyes swept over me—calculating, unreadable. "Walk with me."

I fell into step beside him, keeping pace as we went down the corridor.

"I've been thinking," he said, absently, hands behind his back. "You've been a valuable addition to the household. Efficient. Silent. Professional."

I nodded once. "Thank you."

"And yet."

He was looking at me now, the faintest flash of something harder in his eyes. "There's something wrong with you."

"Wrong?"

"You answer right. Do everything right. No mistake. It's almost.too right."

A challenge. He was testing me.

So I offered him a little. Just enough to provoke him.

"Perfection is my shield," I said softly. "Some people live by being nice. I live by being capable."

He stood there and regarded me for a considerable beat. And then, to my surprise, he laughed. A hard, bitter laugh.

"Fair enough." He opened the door to the sunroom. We went inside. "Sit."

The sunroom was glassed in, with ivy running over its rim. The breakfast table was laid—coffee, toast, sliced fruit, blood orange juice.

He poured two cups. No guards. No Isadora. Just us.

"Tell me something true, Francesca," he said harshly. "Something that isn't in your file."

I blinked. "You've read my file?"

He took a sip of his coffee, avoiding the question.

I lingered there, unsure. The silence stretched out.

Then I replied, "I don't like thunderstorms."

He was taken aback.

"Why?"

"They remind me of something I'd rather forget."

He leaned in, interested now. "And yet you didn't jump once during last night's storm."

"I said I didn't like them. Not that they scare me."

He smiled hesitantly. "You're treading carefully with your words."

"So am I."

His eyes narrowed into something akin to amusement. Or threat. "You're not like the others who have worked for me. You don't look away when I speak. You don't grovel."

"Should I?"

"No." He settled back. "That's what I like about you. You're risky. Like a knife hidden in silk."

I allowed the barest smile. "And do you enjoy having weapons around?"

He gazed at me. "Only the ones I can use."

Something cold and charged slid between us. An instant, too long to be dismissed as transient. Too dense to be refused.

Then he got up. "Take care, Francesca. Not everyone in this house likes you as much as I do."

"And do you like me?"

He stood in the doorway. Glanced back.

"I haven't decided yet."

And he was gone.

—

I found Isadora in the music room, pretending to practice piano. Her fingers didn't move on the keys.

"He knows," I grumbled to myself as I walked up behind her.

She kept playing. "How much?"

"Enough to watch us both closely. He shifted the ledger. Increased the security."

She nodded slightly, gaze on sheet music. "We have to hurry."

"I require some time. I have no idea where the new location is."

"Marco might."

I narrowed my eyes. \"You want me to question Vincenzo's consigliere?"

She gave a small, hard smile. "He's susceptible to brunettes with accents."

I exhaled. "I'll attempt it."

—

I saw Marco that night in the basement, inspecting wine crates. A thin man with an always furrowed brow and sour disposition. The kind who believed in silence being power but whose eyes darted everywhere.

"I'm looking for something dry," I said, tracing a hand along the bottles. "But not so bitter that it hangs on the tongue."

He regarded me. "Try the Montepulciano. Shelf number two."

I stepped closer. Let my hand brush against his as I stretched.

"You always spend your afternoons down here?"

"Sometimes. It's quiet."

"Got to be hard to find quiet in a house like this."

He shrugged. "You learn where to look. And what not to see."

I gazed at him. Let silence stretch between us.

Then I spoke, casually, "I heard Vincenzo had to move some of his.records. For security. Can't be too careful these days."

He gritted his jaw. "Who told you that?"

"People talk."

"You shouldn't listen."

"But I do." I moved a little closer. "Particularly when it's good stuff."

He hesitated. Then muttered, "West wing. Third floor. Behind the false panel in the study. Biometric lock. Only he and I know the code."

I grinned. "Thanks, Marco."

"Don't mention it."

"I never do."

—

Back in my own room, I looked out of the window, the wind stirring the hedges below. I could almost see the path forward. The secret panel. The lock. The shadows. But there'd be a cost. There always was.

There was a soft tap at the door.

I opened it.

Vincenzo waited, collar undone, sleeves rolled up. No guard. No mask.

"May I come in?" he said.

I stepped aside.

He didn't sit. He just looked at me for a long time. And then he said, "You look like someone I trusted once. She's dead."

I swallowed. "Was it your fault?"

"Whatever happens in my house is my fault."

He glared down at his fists, which flexed once.

"If you're here to kill me," he said softly, "get it over with. Before I start thinking I can trust you."

I glared at him. My hand moved towards the knife hidden under my robe. My body went numb.

But I didn't move.

And he didn't, either.

When he left, the air felt chiller. Or maybe it was me—breaking apart.

I was supposed to be the knife in the shadows.

But I couldn't tell whether I was still holding the knife… or whether I had already dropped it.