At The Don’s Mercy

Before The Ink Dries

ALICIA

Time did that thing again. Stretched. Warped. Made me feel like I was watching myself from across the room.

I sat on my bed, staring at my phone like it would grow teeth and explain itself. The text was gone. Vanished into whatever digital black hole anonymous messages crawl into. But the words were still there, burned behind my eyelids.

The contract is a trap. If the Don signs tonight, New York burns.

I ran through names. Caruso. The other families. Someone inside our own house. My father? No, he wanted this deal too badly. Marcello? Maybe. He's got that desperate look lately, the one men get when they're about to do something stupid.

I didn't know. That was the worst part. I was walking blind into a room full of knives.

"Alicia. It's time."

My father's voice through the door. Flat. Clinical. Like he was calling a dog inside.

I stood. Smoothing the front of my cream silk gown which looked almost bridal. That wasn't an accident. If I was going to throw myself into the lion's mouth, I'd at least dress like I belonged there.

I opened the door. He was in a tuxedo. He looked like a man who'd already spent the money in his head.

"You look presentable." He turned his back before I could answer. "Go to the western drawing-room. Stay there. When the Marcone family arrives, I don't want you near the study. Bastian doesn't need to see our liabilities."

"Of course, Father."

Sweet. Empty. Chin tilted down. He didn't look back.

The main floor was a morgue. Guards standing so still they might've been wax figures. No one spoke. No one moved. Outside, headlights cut through the fog. Five, maybe six armored SUVs, engines rumbling like they were hungry.

I didn't go to the drawing-room.

I took the service stairs. The ones the staff use, the ones that creak if you step too fast. I knew every squeaky board in this house. I'd been mapping escape routes since I was twelve.

The hallway outside my father's study was dark. I pressed my back against the silk wallpaper and listened.

The Click. Click. Click of Barbara's heels like a metronome counting down to something awful.

"The perimeter's locked down," she said. "My father's men are at every exit. If your captains try anything stupid tonight, they'll be dead before they blink."

"We're cooperating," Marcello said. I could hear the sweat in his voice. "The contract's on the desk. The girl's ready."

"She better be. Bastian has no patience for theatrics. He's signing the papers, taking the girl, securing the lanes. Everything else is noise."

I looked across the hall. The waiting room door was half-open. Mia sat on a leather sofa, drowning in white lace. She looked like a ghost in that dress. Her hands were over her face, shoulders shaking.

Something in my chest cracked open.

Not broke. Cracked. Just enough to let the cold in.

She couldn't do this. She'd walk into that devil's mansion and disappear. Barbara would pick her apart like a vulture on a carcass. Bastian wouldn't even notice.

But me? I'd been picking locks and hiding secrets and smiling through hatred for seven years. I knew how to live in the dark. I knew how to find the sharp edge of things.

A rumble shook the courtyard. The engines outside cut off, one by one. Silence rushed in to fill the space.

He was here.

I crept toward the side terrace. Peered through the frosted glass.

A black Maybach rolled to a stop. The driver got out fast, nervous and opened the passenger door.

Bastian Marcone stepped into the rain.

My breath caught. I hated that it did.

He was bigger than I remembered. Broader. The kind of big that makes you feel small just standing near it. Charcoal suit, long overcoat, no umbrella. Rain clung to his dark hair, slid down that jawline I'd been trying to forget since last night.

His eyes swept over the house. Cold. Assessing. He didn't look like a man coming to sign a treaty. He looked like a man checking the locks on a cage he already owned.

"Don Marcone has entered the foyer," a guard whispered into his radio.

The front doors swung open. Submissive greetings. My father's voice trying to sound important, trying to hide the shake.

"Bastian. Welcome to my home."

"Cut the s**t, Cavallo."

His voice. That low, gravelly rumble. It went straight through the walls, through the floor, through my ribs.

"I'm not here for bourbon or lies. Where's the contract?"

"In the study, Don Marcone. Right this way."

Footsteps. Heavy. Rhythmic. Getting closer.

Every instinct screamed at me to run. Hide. Lock myself in a closet and pretend I wasn't here. My skin went cold, my hands started shaking—

Hold your breath, little bird.

I closed my eyes. Saw Mia's face. Saw that white lace dress swallowing her alive.

I straightened my spine. Smoothed my skirts. Stepped out of the alcove and walked into the main hallway just as the study doors swung open.

Bastian walked in first. Overcoat billowing.

He stopped.

His eyes locked on me. Silver-gray, sharp, cutting through the dark like a blade.

The air between us went thick. Electric. That same suffocating tension from the study. His jaw tightened. He didn't speak, but his gaze traveled down my cream dress. Slow, deliberate and then back up to my face. Like he was reading something.

"Alicia!" My father's voice cracked behind him. "What the f**k are you doing here? Get back to your room."

I ignored him.

I stepped forward. One step. Then another. Looking straight into those cold, assessing eyes.

"The contract's a trap, Don Marcone." My voice came out steadier than I expected. Clear. Loud enough for everyone in the hall to hear.

He didn't flinch. Didn't blink. Just watched me like I was a puzzle he hadn't decided to solve yet.

"If you want a Cavallo bride who'll survive your world," I said, "you're looking at the right sister."

Silence.

So thick I could taste it.

Bastian tilted his head. Just slightly. The smallest movement. And then the corner of his mouth twitched. Not a smile, not quite—and he said nothing.

Just stood there. Waiting.

And I realized, too late, that I'd just painted a target on my own back.