Viktor interrupts twice to ask for names, and I give him some, but not all. A lieutenant in Naples, A courier out of Bari, one of Marchetti’s accountants who drinks too much when he travels and gets chatty after midnight.
It’s enough truth to build on, but even I know better than to give up all my ammunition.
Then I get closer to what they actually want.
“Vincenzo’s father is tightening control around the Trieste line, despite the agreement at the summit the other day,” I start, looking at both him and Viktor. “Not because customs are close—at least not only because of that. He’s worried about internal leakage. Something has been off in his manifests for weeks now.”
My father folds his hands on top of the ledger in front of him. “How worried?”
“Worried enough that he’s double-checking routes personally. Worried enough that he’s cut two men out of the chain last month.”
I mention that Aldo has become increasingly interested in tracking which family allies request private rooms during summit weekends, and which couriers carry sealed packages between floors.
That part comes from the documents I shouldn’t have touched three nights ago.
Viktor’s gaze narrows slightly. “Did he tell you that himself?”
I lean back and let a little mockery touch my smile. “Salvatore tells me plenty. That doesn’t mean I’m stupid enough to repeat it the way he says it.”
Which is true, in its own ugly way. Salvatore doesn’t hand over information directly. He talks around things. He vents to me and says more with what he rolls his eyes at than what he states plainly.
I know how to listen between his lines because I’m already too invested in the shape of his mind.
My father taps his fingers once against the desk. “What about the Americans?”
I hate how much effort it takes to talk about the next part, because when I found out about it, I fucked Salvatore so hard, he passed out right after he came untouched.
Marriage alliances with political parties.
Aldo Vieri is too practical not to use marriage eventually, and the family he’s chosen for Salvatore has the kind of stateside reach that would make sense for a union meant to strengthen transatlantic power.
I don’t know if it’s final, or even if Salvatore knows about it yet. All I know is that our time together is limited.
Viktor looks toward our father. “That changes things.”
“It confirms what I had already suspected,” my father says, then his attention returns to me. “And Salvatore?”
There it is. They want to know how vulnerable Salvatore is and whether my work is progressing as intended.
I keep my body loose when I say, “He left documents in the pocket of his coat when I fucked him a week ago. If that doesn’t scream that he trusts me, I don’t know what does.”
I think of Salvatore asleep with one hand curled around my wrist. I think of him getting angry when I laugh at women for too long at dinner because he thinks he hides his jealousy better than he does.
I think of the way his face changes when he stops performing and lets himself be tired with me. I think of him trusting me with the silence he doesn’t give anyone else.
And I want to die.
My father studies me for a long time, and I let him see the version of me he prefers—strategic and cold enough to use a man without blinking.
Finally, he nods. “Well done. You’ve handled this exactly as you’re meant to.”
I’ve spent my whole life being trained for that approval, and hating myself every time part of me still wants it.
Maybe all sons are pathetic in that way, no matter how ruthless they become. Maybe the ugliest weakness in any house is that boys never really stop being boys when their fathers say they’re proud of them.
I incline my head once, because anything more would look too hungry. Viktor looks at me with something close to respect. Not softness, but acknowledgment. In our family, that’s often the closest thing to affection.
“After this is finished with Vieri, we’ll move forward with the next step in your progression,” my father says, and pushes a folder toward me. “The Orlov girl. You’ll be married before the year is over.”
