She’s in the heart of Santoro territory and she’s still thinking like Ghost. Still looking for leverage.
“Dante is expecting us.”
“Your brother. The boss.”
“Yes.”
“I’ve read his file too.” She keeps pace beside me, her stride shorter than mine but refusing to fall behind. “The ice king of the New Orleans underworld. Known for his control, his precision, his complete lack of mercy toward anyone who crosses him.” She glances at me. “Sounds like a family trait.”
“You read files. You don’t know him.”
“And you don’t know me.” Her voice sharpens. “But you dragged me out of my apartment at gunpoint anyway. Fair’s fair.”
I stop walking. She stops too, turning to face me in the dim hallway, light from a wall sconce catching the angles of her face.
“You’re not a prisoner.”
“No?”
“You’re a guest. With conditions.”
“That sounds like a prisoner with better furniture.”
“Believe what you want.” I start walking again. “Dante’s study is this way.”
She follows. Her footsteps behind me. Her breathing.
I’ve walked this hallway a thousand times. Tonight it takes longer.
Dante’s study smells like cigars and old books, a combination so familiar it’s close to comforting. He’s behind his desk when we enter, posture perfect, face giving nothing away. The ice king. My brother.
His gaze shifts to Isabella, and he does what I did. That same stare. Dissecting her.
“Ghost.” His voice is controlled, modulated. “You’ve been busy.”
She doesn’t blink at the name. No apology. No explanation. “I’ve been motivated.”
Dante’s eyebrow lifts a millimeter — he’s interested. He gestures to the chair across from his desk. “Sit. We have things to discuss.”
She sits. I move to my usual position by the window, half in the shadow.
“My brother tells me you have information on the Benedettis.” Dante steeples his fingers, his wedding ring catching the lamplight. “Locations. Routes. The infrastructure of their operation.”
“I have years of surveillance data on every Benedetti holding in the Gulf region.” Isabella’s voice is steady. Professional. “Financial records, shipping manifests, communications intercepts. I know where they move product, how they launder money, and which local officials are on their payroll.”
“Impressive. Why should I believe you haven’t sold this information to the highest bidder?”
“Because the highest bidder doesn’t want to destroy them. I do.”
Silence. Dante and Isabella locked onto each other. Two people who don’t blink first.
I’m clocking how she holds herself in that chair. Not cowering. Not pleading. Meeting Dante’s gaze like a colleague.
“The terms,” Dante says. “You give us everything on the Benedettis. In exchange, we help you retrieve your sister.”
“And if I refuse?”
“Then you leave here with nothing.” Dante’s voice doesn’t change, but something in it goes colder. “And I hand over your identity to the Russos and the Valentinos. You’ve been inside their systems too. They’ve been looking for Ghost as long as we have.” He pauses. “They’re less inclined toward negotiation.”
