A beat.
Then she leaves.
Her footsteps fade down the hallway. The elevator chimes. Doors slide shut.
Quiet again.
I sit back, the paperwork in front of me untouched, my focus nowhere near it.
Tomorrow is the gala. Morenos, Contis, half the city pretending to care about charity while they measure each other for weaknesses.
I should be thinking about that.
Instead, the angle of her voice when she pushes back fills my mind. The way she looks at me like she’s already decided something I haven’t caught up to yet.
I close the file.
This is becoming a problem.
One I don’t fully understand.
And don’t entirely intend to solve.
7
RAFFAELE
The building is empty.
It’s filled with that particular stillness that settles over a space when the last footsteps have faded and the elevators have gone quiet. The cleaning crew finished an hour ago. Security is downstairs, half-asleep in front of monitors showing nothing but empty hallways.
And I’m here. In my office. Reviewing briefs that could wait until morning.
Lorenzo is at the gala, Marcy on his arm. Vincenzo is there too. The Morenos. The minor families. Half the judges in the city, the ones who can still be bought.
Everyone who matters is in that ballroom right now.
Everyone except me.
I set down my pen. Lean back in my chair.
This wasn’t strategic. I can dress it up however I want—work obligations, timing, priorities—but the truth is simpler and more irritating. I chose to stay. I chose paperwork over politics, solitude over leverage, this office over a room full of people I’ve spent years cultivating.
That’s not how I operate. That’s not how I’ve ever operated.
And yet here I am. Sitting in the dark like some brooding antihero in a bad novel, waiting for?—
Footsteps in the hallway.
I don’t move. I know the sound of her walk by now, the slight hesitation before she reaches my door.
“It’s almost ten.”
Bea. Standing in my doorway. Still in her work clothes.
“I’m aware.”
“The rest of the staff left hours ago.”
