She turns to look at me. Fully looks at me, for the first time since the apartment. “Why do you care?”
I don’t. She’s an asset.
“The Benedettis are a problem. You have information I need. It’s transactional.”
“Transactional.” She repeats the word like she’s probing it for lies. “Okay.”
She doesn’t believe me. It’s written across her face.
The problem is, I’m not sure I believe me either.Cazzo.
Silence settles between us again. The city gives way to darker roads, older money, invisible wealth wrapped in iron and stone.
“Isabella.”
I glance at her. She’s still facing the window, but I catch her profile in the glass, her eyes on mine.
“My name. If we’re going to be working together, you should probably know it.” A pause. “Isabella Vitale.”
Isabella. The name settles into my mind, finding a place to root itself where it shouldn’t.
“Lorenzo.”
The name leaves my mouth before I think. She already knows.
“I know.” Her expression shifts. Not a smile. Close. “I told you. I read your file.”
The property rises out of the darkness like a fortress from another era. Iron gates, twelve feet high, the Santoro crest worked into the metalwork. Stone walls topped with security features that don’t show from the road. Cameras tracking our approach, guards I can’t see from here but know are there, positioned at every vulnerable seam.
This is home. The only place my shoulders drop since Mama died.
The gates swing open as we approach, smooth and silent. The driver pulls through without slowing, gravel crunching under the tires as we wind up the drive.
Isabella straightens in her seat. I watch her take it in. The grounds lit by subtle landscaping, the main house rising three stories, light glowing in the upper windows. The garden to the left. Mama’s garden. Still maintained even though she’s been gone for years.
Her breathing has changed. Faster now. She’s trying to hide it.
“This is your compound.”
“Yes.”
“It’s.” She swallows. “I knew the Santoros were powerful. I’ve seen your financials. But this is different.”
Different how, she doesn’t say. But I understand. Numbers on a screen are abstract. This is concrete. Stone and iron and money so old it’s become invisible. This is what she’s dealing with now. A family that could swallow her whole without breaking stride.
The SUV stops at the main entrance. I’m out before the driver can open my door, rounding to her side because she’s still staring at the house like it might eat her.
I open her door. She looks at my offered hand, then at my face.
“I can get out of a car by myself.”
“Then do it.”
She does, waving me off, stepping onto the gravel with her spine straight even though her legs aren’t quite steady.
“This way.”
I lead her up the front steps, through the heavy doors into the entrance hall. Marble floors, dark wood paneling, the chandelier that’s been here since before my father’s time. She’s quiet now, head turning, taking in everything the same way I studied her in the car. Her eyes sweep the hall. Exits, guards, cameras.
