Chapter Twenty-Six - Upstairs

Rocco comes back alone.

That, in itself, tells me something.

He doesn’t reach for his gun. Doesn’t bark orders. Doesn’t look at me like I’m a bomb about to go off.

Compared to Marco—who looks like he might pass out if I breathe too close—Rocco is… tolerable.

“Alright,” he says, keeping his tone neutral. “We’re moving.”

He steps closer and carefully undoes the cuffs around my wrists. The metal clicks open, and for half a second, my muscles tense on instinct.

I don’t move.

Rocco watches me anyway, sharp-eyed but not hostile.

“Follow me,” he says. “Please.”

Please.

Interesting.

I do as he asks.

We head upstairs, and I catalog everything automatically. Habit. Training. Survival.

A marble side table near the stairwell—heavy enough to smash a skull if tipped right.

A decorative vase full of dried branches—one snapped at the right angle could puncture a throat.

A wrought-iron railing—wrap, pull, twist. Neck broken in seconds.

A glass lamp—shatter, use the base, drive it upward.

Fifty ways to kill him before we reach the landing.

I don’t take any of them.

Rocco glances back once, maybe sensing it. “You alright back there?”

“I’m fine,” I say calmly.

We reach the upper floor, and the house opens up—clean lines, dark wood, too much money poured into making everything look effortless. Security cameras tucked into corners. Reinforced doors that blend in if you don’t know what you’re looking for.

He gestures down the hall. “This side’s yours.”

He opens a door and steps aside.

The room is large. Clean. Minimal. Bed neatly made. Window reinforced but wide. A sitting chair by the wall. No obvious weapons. Of course.

“This is where you’ll be staying,” he says. “Security’s going to be tighter now. More patrols. Fewer blind spots.”

I nod. “Smart.”

He blinks, clearly not expecting agreement.

“You’ll still want to stay alert,” he adds. “Just in case.”

I look at him. “Thank you.”

He freezes.

Actually freezes.

“…Sorry?” he says.

“For the warning,” I clarify. “And for not treating me like an animal.”

Rocco stares at me like I just spoke another language.

“What?” I ask. “What’s the problem?”

He scratches the back of his neck. “I just—didn’t expect you to be… polite.”

I tilt my head. “Why wouldn’t I be?”

He hesitates, then shrugs. “I figured someone like you would just take what they want. Wouldn’t care who gets stepped on.”

I consider that for a moment.

“That’s how I was raised,” I say finally. “Not how I see the world. Or people.”

Rocco studies my face, like he’s recalibrating.

“Huh,” he mutters. “Guess that explains a few things.”

“Like what?”

“Why the boss listens to you.”

I don’t answer that.

Rocco clears his throat. “Someone’ll be here shortly with clothes for you. In the meantime, just… wait here. Dante will come for you when he’s ready.”

I nod once. “I will.”

He pauses at the door. “For what it’s worth… I’m glad you didn’t kill me.”

I allow myself a small, dry smile. “So am I.”

The door closes behind him.

I stand alone in the room, hands free, senses sharp, mind already running three steps ahead.

Security’s tightening.

New clothes are coming.

And Dante Valenti will be back soon.

I walk to the window and rest my hand against the glass.

My father tried to erase me.

Instead, he dropped me into the lion’s den.

And I’m not sure he understands—

I’ve always been more dangerous when I’m given time to think.