Chapter Four
971 Words
The First Test
The photograph haunted me all night.
The crimson s***h across my face refused to leave my mind. Every creak of the house made me look toward the shadows.
I didn't sleep.
By morning, I had reached only one conclusion. Someone inside the De Luca estate wanted me terrified. They wanted me to break, to run, to give up.
I refused to give them the satisfaction.
I dressed quickly, my fingers fumbling with the buttons of my dress. The photograph was still on my nightstand. I picked it up, folded it, and slipped it into my pocket with the bullet. Then I walked downstairs.
The hallway was cold beneath my feet. The silence was heavy, thick, pressing against my ears like cotton. I could hear my own heartbeat.
Marco wasn't at breakfast.
The empty chair caught my eye before anything else. His absence felt heavier than his presence. Enzo ate in silence, his fork scraping against the plate. Gabriel watched me with that same unreadable smile, his fingers wrapped around a cup of coffee. Stefano scrolled through his phone, his expression blank. Adrian kept his gaze on his plate, his shoulders hunched.
No one mentioned Marco. No one asked where he was.
I didn't ask either.
But I felt it. The weight of his absence. The silence where his taunts should have been.
I sat down and reached for my coffee.
Where is Marco?
Lorenzo found me after breakfast. He didn't ask how I slept. He didn't ask about the card. He simply said, "The meeting starts in ten minutes."
I looked up. "Meeting?"
"You wanted to be Don." His gray eyes held mine, steady and cold. "Now be one."
He turned and walked away. I followed.
----
The car ride was silent. Lorenzo didn't explain where we were going. He didn't prepare me. He just sat there, watching the city pass through the window, his expression unreadable.
I watched too. My fingers pressed against the bullet in my pocket. The cold metal was grounding.
The De Luca empire was everywhere. We passed warehouses, docks, a casino, a hotel with the family name etched in gold above the entrance. I had never seen any of it before. I had only heard about it in whispers and reports.
This was my father's empire. Now it's mine.
We stopped at a shipping port near the docks. The air smelled like salt and rust, thick and cold against my skin. The gray sky pressed down like a weight, and my heels echoed against the concrete as I walked toward the warehouse.
Several men were waiting inside. The warehouse was cold and empty, the only sound was the distant hum of machinery and the scrape of my own footsteps.
They weren't captains. They were enforcers. The kind of men who settle disputes with violence. They stood in a loose circle, their arms crossed, their eyes fixed on me.
One of them stepped forward. He was tall, broad-shouldered, with a scar running across his cheek.
"Is this who Florentine left us?"
His voice held no respect.
I didn't flinch. My heart was pounding, but I kept my face still.
"The Don sent someone who knows exactly what you've been hiding."
I opened the file and found the page I had memorized the night before.
"You've been skimming from the port accounts for the last five years. Two million euros, give or take."
The man's face didn't change. But I saw it. The flicker in his eyes. Doubt. Fear.
"Who told you that?"
"I have my sources."
I didn't tell him about the files Lorenzo had given me. I didn't tell him I had spent hours memorizing every detail.
"You have two choices. Walk away and forget the money. Or stay and face the consequences."
He looked at Lorenzo. Lorenzo said nothing. He just watched, his gray eyes unreadable.
The man's jaw tightened. His hands curled into fists at his sides. I thought he might attack. But then he exhaled, slow and controlled.
He nodded once and walked away.
I didn't look back.
---
After the meeting, Lorenzo walked beside me toward the car.
He didn't say anything at first. But I caught him looking at me. Not with pity. Not with surprise.
Like he was seeing someone he hadn't expected.
"You handled that well," he said finally.
I looked at him. "You sound surprised."
"I am."
"Is that a compliment?"
"It's an observation."
I stopped walking and turned to face him. "That's not an answer."
He stopped too. His gray eyes held mine. "I expected you to break. I expected you to look at me for help. You didn't. You handled it yourself."
My chest tightened. "And now?"
He studied me for a long moment. The wind carried the smell of salt and rust.
"Now I'm wondering if I underestimated you."
As I got into the car, I noticed someone standing across the street.
A figure in a dark coat, barely visible in the shadow of a building. I blinked.
They were gone.
I scanned the street, my heart pounding. But there was no one there.
I reached into my handbag for my phone. My fingers brushed against something else.
A black envelope.
I pulled it out, my heart hammering against my ribs. Someone had slipped it into my bag while I was surrounded by bodyguards.
I broke the seal, my fingers trembling. Inside was a small silver key.
No note. No photograph. Just the key.
I turned it over. One word was engraved into the metal.
DAY THREE
DOWNSTAIRS.
Beneath it, in the same familiar handwriting, were four words.
THE GAME CHANGES HERE.
I read them again. My pulse quickened. My palms were sweating.
I stared at the key. It wasn't the key that unsettled me.
It was the message beneath it.
- Writer
