Page 34 of The Devils in the Details

The lighter clicked.

I knew that sound. The fast rhythmic click—open, shut, open, shut—the tempo that preceded someone’s very bad day. Ari’s hand was doing that thing where the lighter moved without his conscious input, the way a pianist’s fingers found the keys when the muscle memory was older than the thought behind it.

Open. Shut. Open. Shut.

“Your neck,” Ari said. Quiet. The kind of quiet that made the air in the room feel thinner.

A pause. Theo’s shoes shifted slightly. The expensive leather squeaked against hardwood, a small sound that carried in the quiet. “What about it?”

“You have a scratch. Four inches. Above the collar.”

Another pause. Longer this time. I could picture Theo’s hand moving to his neck, fingers finding the mark he hadn’t noticed because adrenaline is a hell of a drug and marble against skull tends to prioritize certain sensory inputs over others.

“It’s nothing,” Theo said. His voice had developed a faint edge, the particular edge of a man who had just realized he was standing on thinner ice than he’d calculated. “I caught it on a doorframe. The palazzo’s hallways weren’t built for modern proportions.”

“The palazzo,” Ari said. The lighter kept clicking. Open, shut, open. “You keep using that word.”

“It’s a family property.”

“It’s my property.”

The silence that followed had weight. The kind of weight that pressed against the underside of the desk where I was sitting with my knees to my chin and my laptop bag clutched to my chest like it contained state secrets, which, given what was on the hard drive, it technically did.

“Everything in this family belongs to me.” Ari’s voice stayed low, measured. “The palazzo. The estate outside Livorno. Every account. Every asset. Every room you have ever stood in and assumed was partly yours.”

Theo’s shoes shifted again. The leather squeaked. A nervous tell. I filed it under “useful information about people who grab my arms” and made a mental note to never be in a room with him again without a larger paperweight.

“You have a right to the quarterly dividends,” Ari continued. “Nothing else. Not the books. Not the staff. Not the man working at the desk in the east study.”

My heart did something. A quick, traitorous jump that started somewhere behind my sternum and radiated outward before I could stop it. The man working at the desk. Me. I was a desk man now. I had achieved desk status.

This was either a promotion or a demotion and I was too busy not breathing to decide which.

“If you cannot demonstrate basic respect for that arrangement,” Ari said, “you can lose the dividends too.”

Theo’s voice climbed. I heard it happen—the upward lilt of a man whose composure was developing structural issues. “You can’t just—that’s not how this works. I’m blood. I’m Romano blood. My father built—”

“Your father managed what Geno broke.” Ari’s voice dropped lower. Quieter. The kind of quiet that made Theo’s climbing volume sound desperate by comparison. “I rebuilt it. With my hands. With men I chose. Not with blood. With loyalty.”

The contrast was something you could feel even from under a desk. Theo’s expensive suit, the manicured hands I could see gripping the edge of something—the desk, maybe, or his own composure—and the scratch on his neck he still hadn’t fully registered.

Ari’s rolled sleeves, the denim vest with its hidden knife pockets just visible at the edge of my limited sightline, the absolute stillness of a man who had already made a decision and was simply filling in the paperwork.

The lighter clicked. Open, shut, open.

“I want you out of the palazzo,” Ari said. “Tonight. Leon will arrange transport. You can collect your things from the estate tomorrow, under supervision.”

“This is—” Theo started. Stopped. Started again, his voice tighter now, the polished charm cracking around the edges. “My mother will hear about this.”

“I’m counting on it.”

Theo stormed out. I heard it—boots on hardwood, the door opening, expensive leather taking corners too fast because the man wearing it was currently operating several standard deviations outside his comfort zone.

The door closed. Not slammed. Closed with the controlled precision of someone who understood that slamming doors was for people who had run out of better options, and Theo Romano, whatever his faults, had not yet reached that milestone.

Ari’s voice, lower now, directed at Leon. “Put someone on him. Change the locks. Here and at the estate. His access is revoked until further notice. I want it done tonight.”

Leon’s boots moved. Toward the door. The sound of them was efficient, unhurried, the sound of a man who had just received an order he had no questions about. The door opened. Closed. The latch caught with a soft click that sounded final.