6. Gianna #2
It’s no secret that the Salvatore family has become well aware of my position with the youngest brother.
However, to their credit, they understand I’ve never mixed business with pleasure.
I meet her eyes and lie without blinking. "No."
For a moment, the silence stretches between us.
Then she nods once.
"You’re aware that any placement abroad will be temporary. And if you’re trying to escape scandal, this won’t shield you forever."
"I’m not hiding," I reply calmly. "I’m repositioning."
Valentina considers me a moment longer, then moves to a drawer tucked beneath the potting shelf and draws out a folder.
It’s slim, but official; a transfer document, blank and waiting.
"There’s an opening in Singapore," she says. "Quiet. Profitable. Off the grid, mostly. We’ve had difficulty keeping agents there long-term, but it’s stable enough for someone with your level of discipline. You’ll work under our joint East Asia front. No backup. No headlines. Full discretion."
I don’t hesitate. "I’ll take it."
She hands the folder to me, but her fingers don’t release it at first.
"You understand this makes you invisible. If anything happens to you, no one will know until it’s far too late to care."
"That’s the idea."
She lets go.
I slip the folder into my coat.
"You leave in five days," she adds. "A contact will meet you at Changi. You must inform your brother."
I nod once and turn to go.
Her voice follows me, quieter now.
"If this is about Dante, you should know he’s not the man he pretends to be."
"I know exactly what kind of man he is."
"That’s not what I meant."
I don’t ask her to explain.
I don’t want to know what she’s already guessed.
In fact, I say absolutely nothing as the car returns to the Rossi estate.
Back at the Rossi estate, the tension is immediate.
Rafa is in the gallery, already pacing when I walk in.
He’s holding one of the older ledgers, open to the page that details our holdings in the Venetian corridor, but I know he hasn’t been reading it.
With a little sigh, I deliver information regarding my departure.
As expected, he takes it with all the ease of milk going sour.
"You want to tell me what the hell that’s about?"
I shrug, ensuring my appearance comes off as noncommittal.
"It’s a directive from the Salvatores."
He closes the ledger, not gently.
"You’re not a soldier. They don’t send you places without asking. What did you offer them?"
"Nothing they didn’t already want."
"Gianna—"
"I can’t tell you the details. It’s confidential. Luca and Valentina asked for discretion, and breaking that would mean violating the conditions of the assignment. You know how this works."
"You expect me to believe this isn’t some half-baked move to get you out of the way?"
I meet his glare with one of my own.
"You’re mistaking me for someone interested in fantasy. I’m going because they asked, and I agreed. End of story."
"You’re lying."
"I’m protecting the family."
He slams the ledger onto the table, and it lands with a slap against the cool marble.
"You walk out now, and you’re walking into something I can’t shield you from. You think the Salvatores will keep you safe because you signed your name in blood?"
"No," I say evenly. "I think they’ll keep me useful because I don’t make noise when they ask me to vanish."
He stares at me for a long time.
Finally, he lowers his voice, quieter but far more dangerous.
"If you come back in pieces, don’t expect me to scrape them up."
"I won’t." I leave before he can say anything else.
Although I don’t leave for days, I begin packing with the efficiency of someone who has done this before, though not under these circumstances.
Clothes first, then documents, then the smaller, harder-to-replace items: encrypted flash drives, burner phones, false passports.
A vial of vitamins goes into the lining of my cosmetics bag, prescribed discreetly by the same doctor who confirmed the pregnancy.
My travel papers include medical clearance, forged to reflect a clean bill of health with no annotations.
I don’t think of Dante.
I don’t let myself remember the way his mouth moved against mine or the way his voice had gone cold the moment the word permanence entered the room.
I think only of the child inside me, of the life I now carry like a secret buried beneath steel.
Four days pass without incident.
On the fifth morning, I am at the airstrip before sunrise, boarding a private flight with no insignia and only one other passenger, a woman who does not speak and who keeps her eyes on her phone for the duration of the trip.
We don’t acknowledge each other.
By the time we land in Singapore at the Changi airport, the sky has gone a hard, pale blue.
The heat is dense, not the kind that burns immediately, but the kind that clings, seeping into your collar and cuffs until it becomes part of you.
A man in a dark suit meets me on the tarmac.
He does not offer his name, but he hands me a set of keys and a manila envelope.
"Apartment is furnished. Six-month lease, auto-renewal. Instructions inside. You’ll be contacted when needed."
"Understood."
He disappears as quickly as he arrived.
I find the car parked where he said it would be—unmarked, black, low to the ground.
Inside the envelope are documents, codes, a burner phone, and a plastic card that grants me access to the building listed on the back.
The drive is without incident.
The city rises around me like glass architecture sculpted from wealth and ambition, its skyline a blend of symmetry and pure math.
Everything here is fast and clean, but the coldness feels different than home.
There’s no blood beneath the tiles, at least none that’s personal to me.
When I arrive, the apartment building is nestled between two towers, both of which seem to reflect its shape as though guarding it.
I park in the underground level and take the elevator up.
My floor is near the top.
The hallway is narrow, windowless, quiet in the way most expensive places are.
I unlock the door, step inside, and set the envelope down on the nearest table.
The place is sparse but tasteful.
One bedroom.
Polished floors.
Neutral furniture.
A view of the bay through glass that stretches from floor to ceiling. I walk through the rooms once, checking for cameras, listening for signs of surveillance.
There is nothing, only the hum of electronics and the faint trickle of water from the aquarium built into the wall behind the sofa.
I enter the bedroom and drop the suitcase beside the bed.
The mattress is firm.
The sheets are clean.
On the nightstand, there is already a note tucked under a simple hotel-style key card.
I pick it up and read the single line written in clean, slanted script.
Not so much as a goodbye?
The signature is a single letter.
D.