I’ve spent the last three nights pretending I’m studying her—her patterns, her contacts, her leads.
But every time I scroll through another photo, I find myself lingering too long.
Zooming in on the curve of her jaw, the faint smudge of ink on her thumb, the kind of details that have nothing to do with strategy.
And everything to do with weakness.
Nicole catches me staring once, her reflection sharp in the glass.
“You’ve never given this much time to anyone who wasn’t family,” she says quietly.
I don’t look at her. “She’s a liability.”
“She’s a woman doing her job.”
“She’s a problem,” I correct. “And problems deserve attention.”
She doesn’t argue. She doesn’t have to. The look she gives me says she knows exactly what kind of attention I mean.
By the time dawn breaks, I’ve memorized Isabella’s life without meaning to.
Where she buys her coffee. The route she takes home. The tiny studio she calls an apartment, filled with books and chaos.
Her world is small, simple. Too pure for mine.
I tell myself I’m keeping her alive.
That’s what men like me do when the truth tastes too much like guilt.
Lorenzo steps into my office just after dinner, phone in hand, expression tight. “We’ve got a situation.”
I arch a brow. “Which kind?”
“The kind that bleeds.”
He slides the phone across my desk. A photo of shattered glass, a street corner, flashing police lights.
“Drive-by. Midtown. The woman wasn’t hit.” His gaze meets mine. “Isabella DeLaurentis.”
The words land like a bullet to the ribs.
For a second, I can’t breathe. My chest tightens—sharp, unfamiliar. Not anger. Something worse.
“She’s alive?”
“Yes. Shaken, but unhurt. NYPD’s calling it random.”
“Nothing’s random in my city.” My voice comes out low, rough. “Who did it?”
“We’re looking. Could be one of the mayor’s people trying to scare her off. Could be someone using your name.”
The muscle in my jaw locks. “Using my name?”
Lorenzo nods. “A text was sent to her after. Mentioned the Don. Word’s spreading she’s been ‘warned.’"
The glass in my hand cracks before I realize I’m squeezing it. Whiskey bleeds down my knuckles.
I stand slowly. “How long?”
