Chapter Eight – Severo
Giardino Inferiore, Dantès Estate
The morning sun spills over the garden walls like honey, clinging to the stone and soaking into the folds of my open shirt.
The soil is already warm beneath my knees, its scent thick with minerals and damp roots.
I dig in deeper with gloved hands, adjusting the twine I’ve used to coax the rose stems along the trellis.
These new cuttings—Crimson Glory, temperamental little things—don’t respond well to brute force. They require suggestion.
Behind me, the gravel path shifts under a pair of approaching boots.
I don’t turn.
Matteo stops at the border of the lower bed, just shy of the rosemary hedge. He waits in silence for a breath or two, then says, “Is it wise to let the ex–navy into the house?”
His tone is steady, but there’s tension at the edges—like he’s already run through every scenario in which this ends with blood on the tiles.
I pull the wire taut and lean back on my heels. The brim of my hat casts a shadow across my face, shielding my eyes from the glare slicing in from the east.
“He would have found us either way,” I say, brushing a clump of dark soil from my glove.
Matteo shifts his weight. He’s dressed in black again, despite the heat, sleeves rolled to his forearms, the tattoo over his wrist half-faded from a knife wound years ago. There’s a pistol under his jacket. I can see the slight rise of the holster when he breathes.
“I can intercept him before he reaches the gate,” he says.
I glance up from my roses, smile slow and easy. “At ease, Matteo.”
He narrows his eyes but doesn’t respond.
I rise to my full height, slow enough to draw it out, and tug the gloves from my fingers.
They’re damp inside. I fold them over, neatly, then slip them into the basket beside the bed.
The trellis behind me is nearly full now.
The roses are just beginning to open—deep red, almost black at the center, like bruises with pride.
“If you force a man to his demise,” I say, brushing the dirt from my palms, “he’ll spend the rest of his life hating you. But if you give him room, a long enough rope, and just the occasional push—” I pause, letting the weight of it settle, “he’ll do the work himself. All you have to do is watch.”
Matteo’s mouth twitches, but it’s not quite a smile.
“And what makes you so sure this one will take the bait?” he asks.
I return my attention to the nearest bloom, adjusting a low-hanging stem with two fingers. “Don’t they always?”
“Signore!” One of the younger guards rounds the corner of the hedge, breathing hard. He stops when he sees Matteo, then snaps his gaze to me.
“There’s a car approaching. Fast. No clearance. It just blew past the first checkpoint.”
Matteo straightens, his entire frame ready to move. The second guard arrives a few seconds later, speaking into his earpiece, confirming the make. Black Jaguar. Tinted windows. Civilian plates.
I wipe my hands slowly on a cloth and nod toward the garden gate.
“Let him in.”
The guard hesitates. “But—”
“He’s a friend,” I say, and smile again. This time there’s no warmth in it.
Matteo doesn’t hide his frustration. “You want me to take him to the west wing?”
“No.” I walk past him and reach for the watering can, lifting it in one hand. “Bring him here.”
“To the garden?”
“I’m not finished with my roses.”
The guard vanished the way trained men do—efficient, nearly soundless, steps absorbed into gravel and stone. Matteo remained still for a moment longer, eyes flicking toward the drive, listening. I returned to the roses.
And then I heard it.
The low growl of the Jaguar's engine tore up the slope like a thing possessed. It didn’t idle or announce itself politely.
The tires screamed at the turn just before the north terrace, gravel flung into the manicured beds.
Somewhere near the hedge wall, someone shouted.
Several someones, actually. Voices overlapped—alarm, confusion, clipped orders tumbling out like coins on marble.
I didn’t turn.
Instead, I ran a gloved thumb along the stem of my newest bloom and whispered to it, “Papa is going to have so much fun today.”
The footsteps came next.
Not the disciplined, weight-distributed stride of a man trained for stealth. No, this was fury wearing boots. Matteo shifted beside me, one foot angling back into defensive stance just as the garden arch split open.
And there he was.
Domenico Salviati.
Broad-shouldered, sun-browned, muscle cut through his plain black shirt as if the fabric barely held together.
His hair was damp from the road, face shadowed by stubble, jaw clenched so tight it carved deep brackets into his cheeks.
His eyes locked on me instantly, and I saw what Marco must have seen all those years ago—the softness behind the soldier. Except now, it wasn’t soft. It burned.
He didn’t hesitate.
The distance between us vanished in four strides. Before Matteo could react, Mico’s hand closed around my collar, rough fingers twisting into the fabric at my chest and dragging me forward. My hat tilted. My shirt shifted under the pull.
Matteo’s pistol cleared its holster with the speed of second nature. His stance widened, barrel rising, ready to paint the inside of Mico’s skull across my roses.
I reached up and adjusted the brim of my hat with two fingers, then turned slightly so I could look into the rage-flushed face hovering inches from mine.
“Matteo,” I said, my tone casual, the way one might comment on the weather. “Stay down.”
Matteo’s arm frozen, his eyes locked on me—then the faintest dip of his shoulder as he lowered the weapon. He didn’t holster it. He was obedient, not stupid.
I looked back at Domenico. His grip hadn’t loosened. I could feel the heat of him now, that tightly coiled storm beneath the surface.
“Nice to finally meet you, Salviati.”
He didn’t answer.
Not at first.
The words came a second later, low and controlled but brimming with fury, as if dragged across gravel.
“Where is she?”
Ah, not even a greeting. How disappointing.
I smiled, slow and wide, letting the moment breathe before I spoke again. “Damn. Not even a response? That’s rather rude, considering I’ve been waiting for you.”
I lifted one hand and plucked a petal from a nearby rose, rolling it gently between my fingers before flicking it into the wind.
“I even told my roses we were going to have fun.”
His hands trembled. Not with fear—no, there was none of that in him—but with the kind of restraint that cracked bone from the inside.
His fingers were still fisted in my collar, pulling the fabric tight against my sternum, knuckles whitening as if his body were the only thing holding back the flood.
“I swear to God,” he said, voice raw, trembling at the edges, “I’ll kill you.”
He stepped in closer, breath hot against my cheek, and he didn’t just speak.
He roared.
“Where is she?!”
The shout broke from him like a shot. A spasm of grief and fury, and before I could answer, spit struck my cheek, hot and wet. It slid down the corner of my mouth, catching on the stubble I hadn’t yet shaved that morning.
I stood still for a moment, eyes half-lidded.
Then I raised my gloved hand, slow and deliberate, and wiped the spittle away with two fingers. I looked at the smear like it might tell me something new about him.
“You’re quite passionate,” I murmured.
He didn’t loosen his grip. His jaw clenched again. I could see the muscle jump under his cheek. He was trying to rein it in. Admirable. Pointless.
I lifted my hands—not in surrender, but in invitation—and brought them gently to his. My thumbs traced the curve of his knuckles, a slow caress rather than an act of defiance. The leather of my gloves brushed warm against his skin.
“I kept her well for you,” I said with a smile that didn’t need teeth.
His reaction came swift and ugly.
“You fucking sicko,” he muttered. Then he shoved me—hard.
I stumbled backward and let it happen. The impact wasn’t enough to bruise, but I let my feet go out from under me anyway, landing in the dirt beside the roses. The brim of my hat toppled sideways. A breeze caught it, sent it rolling toward the hedge.
Matteo’s boots scraped forward fast, hand already reaching toward his pistol again, but I lifted a hand from the soil and snapped my fingers .
“Matteo,” I said, voice calm, almost airy. “Not yet.”
He stopped immediately, though the tension in his shoulders betrayed him.
I rose slowly, brushing the dust from my palms. The soil clung to the creases in my gloves. I flexed my fingers and looked up at Domenico with new interest.
The rage hadn’t faded from his face, but there was something else in his eyes now. Confusion. Revulsion. A flicker of disbelief, like he hadn’t expected me to be this calm, this composed.
I smiled again and stepped toward him.
“Well,” I said softly, “shall we go see her then?”
His lips parted, but no sound came out.
I turned to Matteo, who still stood at the ready. “Arrange a feast for our guest. I think I like him a lot.”
Matteo’s brow twitched, but he didn’t argue. He tapped a finger to his earpiece and stepped away to issue the orders.
I gestured to Domenico and began walking back toward the stone path that led deeper into the estate.
He hesitated for half a second, then followed. His boots hit the gravel like punctuation— angry, unwilling.
I kept the pace slow.
“You were in the navy, yes?” I asked without looking back. “How was that? I always considered enlisting in the marines myself, but they don’t seem to like men like me. Something about psychological vetting.”
He didn’t answer.
Undeterred, I glanced over my shoulder, letting my eyes trail down the lines of his arms and chest.
“You’re very... toned. You must have taken it seriously.” I tilted my head, genuinely curious. “Do you enjoy gyms? They exhaust me. All that sweating and grunting. I prefer quiet labor. Roses, mostly. But I do envy your build.”