Page 45 of Violent Delights

“No.”

“Ever come to Italy, perhaps Palermo?”

I shake my head once. “You always this chatty?”

He smiles, slow and thin. “Only when someone’s acting like they’ve got something to hide.”

I settle into the armchair that overlooks the desk, giving me an easy view of Marco as he leans against the window. I allow my arms to drape over the sides like I own the place. “You think I’m hiding something, Marco?”

“I think you’re the kind of guy who shows up with clean papers and no history and somehow gets handed the most valuable piece in the house.” And there it is. It’s not about me, it’s about Lia. He’s jealous.

“Lia’s not a piece.”

He looks at me, long and level. “Then what is she to you?”

That’s the wrong question.

That’salwaysthe wrong question.

I lift my shoulders in a shrug. “She’s my job.”

He tips his head to the side, this time narrowing his gaze as he asks, “You sure about that?”

“Are you?” I throw back quickly, easily. There’s no tension in my tone because I’m more in this role than I have been in a long while.

We hold the silence between us like a blade, sharp and waiting to drop. I don’t flinch. He doesn’t press. He’s still watching, but he doesn’t see it—that in my jacket lining is a folded envelope of names, dates, codes. The list my father wants. The one that could burn Mosca to the ground.

After a beat, Marco walks to the desk, runs his hand over the polished wood, then looks down at me.

“Ignacio doesn’t like people touching his things.”

I smile. “Then he shouldn’t leave his door unlocked.”

He studies me one more time. I meet his eyes, steady, unblinking.

Finally, he steps back. “Just keep your hands where they belong, Nico. And your eyes offthingsthat aren’t yours.”

He walks out and shuts the door behind him with a quiet click.

I wait three full seconds, then pull the folded paper from inside my jacket and slide it deeper into my boot.

Ghosts don’t leave fingerprints.

And neither will I.

Chapter 21

Lelia

The silk feels heavy against my skin.

Not the weight of the fabric—no, that was light, delicate, like something stolen from a dream. The real weight came from what it meant. What itrepresented.

A dress stitched from centuries of power, blood, and silence. A legacy built by men like my father, cemented by marriages like mine. And now, in just two days, I am meant to walk down marble steps into a courtyard full of ghosts dressed like guests and say yes to a man I will never love.

A man who will own me.

I stand in front of the mirror, staring at the stranger in white.

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