My lovely betrayal

Chapter 5: The Check-In

The sun was fully up when I heard the knock.

I was still on the bed, the file spread around me like a crime scene. Photographs, bank statements, decrypted emails—the paper trail of my sister's murder, laid out on silk sheets that probably cost more than my first apartment. The irony wasn't lost on me.

The knock came again, three short raps against the door.

"It's open," I called, not bothering to hide the evidence. If Dante wanted to kill me, he'd had plenty of chances already.

The door swung open, but it wasn't Dante who walked in. It was a woman I hadn't seen before—mid-fifties, steel-gray hair pulled into a severe bun, carrying a breakfast tray that smelled of fresh bread and strong coffee. She set it on the table by the window without a word, then turned to face me.

"Mr. Marchetti sent me. You're to eat something before your call."

"I'm not hungry."

"Mr. Marchetti said you'd say that." She didn't smile, but something flickered in her eyes. "He also said to tell you that passing out from low blood sugar is a very amateur way to die, and he expected better from someone with your training."

I stared at her. "Did he actually say that?"

"Word for word, miss."

I wanted to be annoyed. I was annoyed. But I was also exhausted and hollowed out and running on nothing but adrenaline and spite, and the bread did smell incredible. I swung my legs off the bed and crossed to the table.

"What's your name?" I asked, breaking off a piece of bread.

"Greta." She busied herself arranging the coffee service, her movements efficient and practiced. "I've worked for the Marchetti family for thirty years. I knew your sister."

The bread turned to sawdust in my mouth. I forced myself to swallow.

"You knew Mira?"

"Not well. But she stayed here for three weeks before she died. She was kind. Polite. Tipped the staff even though we told her it wasn't necessary." Greta's gaze met mine, steady and unblinking. "She talked about you constantly. Her stubborn little sister who was going to change the world."

I set the bread down. My appetite had vanished.

"She said that?"

"She said a lot of things. Most of them proud. Some of them worried." Greta paused at the door. "She also said that if anything ever happened to her, you'd come looking for answers. She made Mr. Marchetti promise not to turn you away when you did."

The door closed behind her with a soft click, and I was left alone with the scent of coffee and the echo of words I didn't know how to process.

---

At nine o'clock exactly, I walked into Dante's study. He was already there, standing by the window with a phone in his hand, watching the lake glitter under the morning sun. He'd changed into a fresh suit—charcoal gray, impeccably tailored—and there was no trace of the exhausted, bare-armed man who'd poured me coffee at three in the morning.

"The call routes through a secure line," he said without turning around. "Webb will think you're still on the mission. You'll give him a standard update—nothing too detailed, nothing that raises suspicion. He needs to believe you're still gathering evidence against me."

"I know how to run a cover." I crossed my arms, planting myself in the center of the room. "I've been doing this since before you knew my name."

He turned then, one eyebrow arched. "I've known your name for two years, Lena. I just didn't know your face until you walked into my study covered in Luca's blood."

The reminder unsettled me more than I wanted to admit. He'd known who I was long before I'd set foot in his villa. Every move I'd made, every lie I'd told—he'd been watching from the other side of the chessboard.

"You're staring," he observed.

"I'm calculating how many ways I could kill you with the objects in this room."

"Any promising options?"

"The letter opener on your desk. The fireplace poker. That truly hideous sculpture on the bookshelf."

His mouth twitched. "The sculpture was a gift. I hate it too."

The phone in his hand buzzed, and the momentary lightness in the room evaporated. He held it out to me.

"It's time. Remember—"

"I know what to do." I took the phone, our fingers brushing for half a second. I ignored the spark that ran up my arm. "Stop acting like you're my handler."

"You already have a handler," he said quietly. "That's the problem."

I turned away from him and answered the call.

"Elena." Marcus Webb's voice came through the line, warm and paternal, exactly the way it had sounded when he'd comforted me at Mira's funeral. "Status report."

"Secured access to the inner compound," I said, my voice clipped and professional. "Marchetti is suspicious but not hostile. I'm working my way into his trust."

"Good girl. Any sign of the documents we discussed?"

"Not yet. He keeps his office locked when he's not in it. I need more time."

There was a pause on the other end. I could picture Webb in his sterile office, fingers drumming on the desk, calculating how much rope to give me.

"You have seventy-two hours. After that, we extract you and try a different approach."

"A different approach," I repeated. "You mean a kill squad."

"I mean whatever's necessary. Mira's killer doesn't get to walk free."

The mention of her name hit me like a blade between the ribs. My grip tightened on the phone. Across the room, Dante watched me with unreadable eyes, and I forced myself to stay calm.

"Understood," I said. "I'll check in at the next window."

"Stay safe, Elena. You're the closest thing I have to family."

The line went dead. I lowered the phone and stood there for a long moment, my heart pounding, my stomach churning with a rage so fierce I thought it might consume me.

"He said I'm the closest thing he has to family," I said, my voice hollow. "He killed my sister, and he called me family."

Dante didn't say anything. He crossed the room, took the phone from my hand, and set it on the desk. Then he did something I didn't expect—he pulled me into his arms. Not a romantic gesture. Not a seduction. Just a solid, steady embrace, his hand cradling the back of my head, his chest warm against my cheek.

I should have pulled away. I should have shoved him, threatened him, reminded him that I didn't need comfort from a man I'd sworn to destroy.

Instead, I let myself stand there for exactly ten seconds, breathing in the scent of cedar and smoke, letting someone else hold the weight of my grief.

Then I stepped back, smoothed my expression into something approximating composure, and met his eyes.

"Seventy-two hours," I said. "We need to move faster."

"We will." He reached past me and picked up the file I'd left on the desk. "But first, there's someone you need to meet. Someone who knew Mira better than either of us."

"Who?"

"My nephew." He was already walking toward the door. "The one she saved in Istanbul. He's been asking about you since the day he found out you existed."

I followed him out of the study, down a corridor I hadn't seen before, and through a set of French doors that opened onto a sun-drenched garden. And there, sitting in a wheelchair beneath a canopy of wisteria, was a boy no older than twelve, with dark curls and Dante's gray eyes and a smile that lit up his whole face when he saw me.

"You're her," he said, and his voice was breathless with wonder. "You're Mira's sister."

I opened my mouth to answer, but no words came. Because looking at this boy—alive, breathing, saved by the sister I'd spent two years mourning—I finally understood that Mira's legacy wasn't just a trail of secrets and betrayal.

It was also a life. A real, tangible, still-beating life.

And I was going to protect it with everything I had.