Chapter 3
THREE
We stop at the security station before a massive iron gate, and I give my name to the guard. He checks something on his tablet and presses a button. The gate swings open, and we roll forward, following a driveway that curves through manicured grounds toward a huge modern Italian mansion.
I knew Valerio was rich, but this is just obscene. The estate sprawls across land three times the size of a football field. I spot a guest house off to the left, a pool glittering at the other side of the main building, and what might be a fucking tennis court in the distance.
I press my hand against my side, feeling the gun’s weight in its custom holster in my leather jacket.
It has to be tonight. I haven’t found Sokolov’s location yet, but I have enough from the files I’ve compiled to tie him to the missing shipments and clear Marco’s name.
Besides, Enzo’s death might be exactly what forces the bastard out of hiding to claim a piece of the Valerio empire.
A slip is all I need, and then I’ll finish what I started.
The car slows as we approach the main house, gravel crunching under the tires. When we stop at the front entrance, the driver comes around to open my door.
I step out into the cool evening air and every sense sharpens the way it always does when I'm about to be in close proximity with Enzo. Every single time. Like my body knows before my brain does that he’s dangerous to me.
I’m halfway up the stone steps when the front door opens.
Maria Esperanza. Of course. She’s in a dress tonight instead of her usual pantsuit, but she’s no less intimidating.
“Mr. DaCosta. Glad you could make it.”
“Well, it wasn’t like I had a choice in the matter,” I reply as I follow her inside.
“I understand. Mr. Valerio can be insistent at times.”
“That’s one word for it,” I mutter. "Controlling bastard is more like it.”
A ghost of a smile crosses her face as we step over the threshold.
The foyer alone is enough to make me want to burn the whole place to the ground. Marble floors polished to a mirror shine. A staircase that curves up to a second level. Art on the walls that’s probably worth more than Marco’s life was to these people.
“The other guests are in the dining room,” Esperanza says. “Mr. Valerio is running a few minutes late—a call he had to take. He asked that you make yourself comfortable.”
She gestures toward an open doorway where I can hear voices and laughter. The family and key associates, just like Valerio said. I’m about to walk in there and play nice, all while plotting how to kill their beloved patriarch.
“Can I get you a drink first?” Esperanza asks.
“Whiskey. Neat. Thank you.”
She nods and disappears down a hallway. I stand there for a moment, forcing myself to breathe. The suppressants I took earlier are already wearing thin. I can feel the low-grade fever building beneath my skin, and the hypersensitivity that makes every brush of fabric feel like sandpaper.
If I had to guess, I have maybe three hours before things start going bad for me.
Three hours to find my moment, take the shot, and either escape or die trying.
I walk into the dining room.
Eight people are already seated around a table that could fit twelve.
I recognize three of them from my research: Carlo Messina, one of Valerio’s captains, and his wife whose name I don’t remember.
At the head of the table, an older woman with silver hair and Enzo’s dark, penetrating eyes—the same eyes that have been haunting my dreams lately, though hers are warmer, softer somehow. His mother, Isabella Valerio.
The others I don’t know. More family, probably. They all look up when I enter, and the conversation pauses just long enough for me to feel like an intruder.
“You must be David.” Isabella rises, extending a hand with the kind of grace that comes from a lifetime of commanding rooms full of powerful men. “Enzo has told me about you. Please, sit.”
He did, huh? I wonder what exactly.
I shake her hand and I’m surprised by the strength in her grip. Her eyes flick over my navy shirt, leather jacket, khaki pants, and brown leather oxfords, assessing. Whatever she sees must pass muster, because her smile stays in place.
I take the empty seat she indicates. It’s halfway down the table, with a clear view of the other head where Valerio will presumably sit.
Perfect.
“My son speaks very highly of your work,” Isabella continues, reclaiming her seat with the same practiced elegance. “He says you found vulnerabilities even our regular security team missed.”
“Just doing my job, ma’am.”
“So modest.” She smiles, and it’s brighter than Enzo’s has ever been, full of pure maternal warmth that makes my chest ache. I haven’t felt anything like it since my own mother died.
“Are you from the city originally?”
And here we go. The polite interrogation disguised as small talk.
I give her the David DaCosta backstory—grew up in California, military service, private sector work. All lies, smoothly delivered. She nods along, interested and genuinely engaged, and something twists uncomfortably in my gut.
I’m about to make her childless.
What kind of monster does that make me?
Esperanza returns with my whiskey. I take a sip and feel it burn down my throat, settling the nausea that’s been building since I walked through the door. The alcohol won’t help my suppressants hold, but right now I need the liquid courage more than I need the caution.
The other guests resume their conversations. Something about a shipment delay, a competitor moving into territory they shouldn’t. I listen with half an ear, filing away details that might be useful, when a scent hits me like a sledgehammer to the chest.
Cedar and smoke.
I turn, and Enzo is walking into the room.
He’s changed from this afternoon’s three-piece suit into dark slacks and a white linen shirt, sleeves rolled to his elbows.
The top three buttons are undone, baring the strong column of his throat and the tantalizing V of his chest. His hair is slightly damp, curling at the temples like he just stepped out of the shower.
He moves past my chair to greet his mother, and I get hit with the full, unfiltered force of his scent.
My insides clench so hard I nearly double over. Heat floods my belly like someone poured molten lead into my gut, and I grip my whiskey glass until my knuckles go white, fighting to keep my body from doing something catastrophic like producing slick at my target’s dinner table.
“Sorry I’m late,” Enzo says, kissing his mother’s cheek before taking his seat at the opposite end of the table.
His eyes find mine across the distance, and something electric passes between us, making my skin tingle in a way I haven’t felt in a long while.
“I hope my family hasn’t been interrogating you too harshly. ”
“Nothing I can’t handle,” I manage.
“Good.” He signals to someone I can’t see, and servants begin bringing out food, wine and bread still warm from the oven. “Then let’s eat.”
But before anyone touches their food, Isabella bows her head. The table follows suit immediately—even Enzo, who was reaching for his wine glass.
“Bless us, O Lord, and these thy gifts which we are about to receive from thy bounty. Through Christ our Lord. Amen.”
A murmured chorus of “Amen” ripples around the table.
I nearly choke on my own breath before catching myself and bowing my head a beat too late.
They’re praying.
A family that runs guns and drugs and God knows what else is asking for God’s blessing over dinner.
The irony makes my head spin.
Isabella looks up and catches my eye, and I manage a tight smile before dropping my gaze to my plate.
The food is incredible, fresh pasta in a rich tomato sauce, served with veal so tender it melts in your mouth.
But I can’t taste any of it because I’m too focused on keeping my eyes off Enzo.
Every time I look up, our eyes meet across the table, and I feel that electric buzz all over again.
Sometimes I’ll catch him laughing at something someone said, head thrown back and throat on display.
Or see him lifting his wine glass to his lips, and I’ll watch his mouth close around the rim, watch him swallow, and all I can think about is what those lips would feel like on my skin. On my throat.
Lower.
Stop it. Stop it. Stop it, Luca.
But then his gaze finds mine again, dark and knowing, as if he can read every filthy thought running through my head.
And the worst part? I think he can. His nostrils flare when he catches me staring, like he can smell my omega scent bleeding through the failing suppressants.
The conversation flows around me. Isabella tells a story about Enzo as a child, something about him trying to negotiate with a teacher over a bad grade.
Carlo discusses business in vague terms that probably mean something illegal.
Enzo is relaxed in a way I haven’t seen before, engaging with his people like he’s actually human and not a fucking monster.
It’s disarming in a way that makes me angry. I don’t want to see him like this. Don’t want to see the man behind the murderer, or the son who loves his mother.
I want him to be a villain. Simple. Uncomplicated. Easy to kill.
I watch him over the rim of my glass and force myself to remember Marco. His rotting body in the cold, hard ground. The three weeks he spent in jail, scared and alone, insisting to anyone who’d listen that he’d been framed.
No one listened.
And now he’s dead, and Enzo Valerio is laughing at a joke his captain just made, completely unaware that there’s a loaded gun three feet away, pointed at his future.
The meal winds down. Dessert is served next, something chocolate that I push around my plate without eating. My skin is starting to burn despite the air conditioning, and sweat starts to trickle down my back.
“Mr. DaCosta.”
I look up and find Enzo on his feet. Somehow I'd missed the other guests drifting toward what looks like a sitting lounge off the main dining area.