Page 113 of Made for Vengeance

"Traffic," Rafe replied simply, his hand coming to rest at the small of my back—a gesture that could have been possessive or protective, perhaps both. "Has anything been discussed yet?"

"Preliminaries only. The real conversation starts when you join us." Dante's eyes flicked to me again, his expression unreadable. "Is this wise, brother? Bringing her here today?"

"It's necessary," Rafe countered, his tone leaving no room for argument. "Where should she wait?"

Dante's lips thinned slightly, but he didn't press the issue. "The blue room. Marco will escort her."

Marco materialized at my side as if summoned, his expression professionally blank. I recognized him from my trip to town, from occasional interactions at the estate. He nodded respectfully to Rafe, then to me.

"This way, Ms. O'Sullivan," he said, gesturing toward a corridor branching off from the main foyer.

I looked at Rafe, suddenly reluctant to be separated from him in this unfamiliar place, among people who viewed me as a commodity rather than a person.

"I'll find you when it's over," he promised, his voice softening slightly. "It shouldn't be more than a couple of hours."

I nodded, following Marco down the corridor, aware of Dante's eyes on my back, of the weight of unspoken expectations and calculations that seemed to fill the air of this house.

The blue room was aptly named—a sitting room decorated in various shades of blue and silver, with comfortable furniture, bookshelves, and large windows overlooking a formal garden. It was beautiful, elegant, and clearly designed as a waiting area for guests who were not quite important enough to be included in whatever happened elsewhere in the house.

"Can I get you anything, Ms. O'Sullivan?" Marco asked, his tone polite but distant. "Coffee? Tea? Something stronger, perhaps?"

"No, thank you," I replied, moving to the window to look out at the garden. "How long do these meetings usually last?"

He shrugged slightly. "Depends on what's being discussed. Could be an hour. Could be all day."

"And what is being discussed today?" I asked, turning to face him, watching his expression carefully.

His face remained professionally blank. "Business matters between the families. That's all I'm at liberty to say."

Of course. I was meant to stay in the dark—moved piece by piece across a board I’d never been allowed to see.

"I understand," I said, turning back to the window. "Thank you, Marco."

He hesitated, then added, "I'll be just outside if you need anything." The door closed behind him with a soft click, leaving me alone with my thoughts and the growing sense that something significant was happening—something that involved me directly yet was being kept from me deliberately.

I waited perhaps fifteen minutes, giving Marco time to settle into his position outside the door, to perhaps grow complacent with my apparent compliance. Then I moved silently to the door, opening it just enough to peer into the hallway.

Marco stood a few feet away, his back to the door, speaking quietly into a phone. His posture was relaxed, his attention focused on his conversation rather than his charge.

Perfect.

I slipped out of the room, moving in the opposite direction from where Marco stood, my footsteps silent on the thick carpet. The corridor branched in several directions, and I paused, trying to determine which way would lead to the meeting. Voices would be my guide—I just needed to find where the conversation was happening.

I moved carefully through the house, avoiding the few staff members I glimpsed, staying close to walls and ducking into alcoves when necessary. It was easier than I'd expected—the house was large enough, with enough corridors and rooms, that one woman moving quietly attracted little notice.

After several minutes of cautious exploration, I heard it—the low murmur of male voices coming from behind a set of double doors at the end of a wide hallway. I approachedslowly, checking for guards or staff, but the hallway was empty. Everyone who mattered was already inside that room.

I pressed my ear to the door, straining to hear the conversation beyond. The wood was thick, the voices muffled, but I could make out Dante's distinctive tone—authoritative, slightly impatient. Another voice responded—unfamiliar, with a hint of an accent I couldn't place.

Not enough. I needed to hear clearly.

I glanced around, noting a small alcove a few feet from the door—probably designed for a guard to stand unobtrusively during sensitive meetings. It was empty now, but more importantly, there was a vent near the floor, the kind used for heating old houses.

I knelt beside it, pressing my ear close, and suddenly the voices became clear, as if I were in the room with them.

"—understand your position, Mr. Conti, but my employer has been quite clear." This was a voice I didn't recognize—cultured, professional, with the careful diction of someone who chooses their words precisely. "The arrangement regarding Graven Hill was contingent on certain understandings that have not been honored."

"The understanding was that Patrick would stay out of our shipping business," Dante replied, his tone cold. "A warehouse in Charlestown was hit three weeks ago. Three of my men hospitalized. That's not honoring agreements, counselor."

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