35. Lorenzo
LORENZO
“—no, Mateo. Not later. Now.”
I stand by the window with the phone pressed to my ear, watching the first grey of morning spread over the estate grounds.
My shirt hangs open. The bandage at my neck pulls when I turn my head, but the sting keeps me awake. Keeps me honest.
“Every container coming through the port gets checked twice,” I say. “Not by the same men. I want fresh eyes on the tobacco crates, the medical shipments, and the pharmaceutical cargo. Especially the pharmaceutical cargo.”
Mateo says something in a low voice on the other end.
I listen.
My jaw tightens.
“Then replace him,” I say. “If he complains, put him in a chair until I decide whether he is stupid or paid.”
Behind me, the sofa shifts.
I do not turn at once.
The room still carries the heat of last night. Smoke. Whiskey. Her skin on mine. The fire has burned low, only red lines glowing beneath black wood.
Victoria wakes under the wool throw.
Her hair is loose across one shoulder. The wool throw sits crooked around her as though she pulled it close sometime before dawn.
There is a softness to her face that wasn’t there yesterday, a lingering warmth that has nothing to do with the fire.
She blinks at the room first, then at me, and the sleep leaves her face slowly.
She remembers.
So do I.
Mateo keeps talking.
I lower my voice. “Camron?” I ask. “Camron does not leave the estate. If he breathes near an exit, I want to know before he reaches the handle.”
Victoria’s eyes sharpen.
She sits up, holding the throw to her chest.
I keep my gaze on the window.
“We bring them to their knees before sunset,” I say. “And whoever sent that sniper to cross the borders will learn what it costs.”
The line goes quiet for a second.
Then Mateo says, “Understood.”
“Good.”
I end the call.
The silence that follows is not empty.
Victoria watches me from the sofa, bare feet tucked beneath the throw, her face softer than it should be after everything she heard. A woman with sense would fear the tone I used. She would gather her clothes, keep her eyes down, and remember what kind of man stands in this room.
Victoria does not do that.
“Good morning,” she says.
Her voice is rough from sleep.
From me.
I set the phone on the table and walk toward her.
She follows every step, not with fear, but with a quiet wariness that has become familiar. She has seen the blood on my hands. She has seen the bodies left behind by my name. Yet this morning, her eyes hold on to something else.
I crouch in front of her.
For a moment, neither of us speaks.
The throw slips slightly from her shoulder. I lift it back into place with two fingers.
Her breath catches.
Not from fear.
“Good morning,” I say.
She looks at my hand resting near her knee, then back at my face. There is still a line between her brows, but it is not the one she wears when she wants to leave my presence.
“I have gone and seen Elsie,” I say.
Her whole body stills.
Her name changes the room faster than any terror could.
“You did?”
I nod. “She was with Mrs. Abena.”
Victoria swallows. “How was she?”
“Quiet. Watching everything.”
“That sounds like her.”
“She asked if my house has a dungeon.”
A small laugh breaks out of her before she can stop it. It is tired and soft, but it reaches her eyes.
“What did you tell her?”
“I told her not for children.”
Victoria presses her lips together, fighting another smile.
Then her face changes, the humour thinning into something more fragile.
“You saw Mrs. Abena too?”
“Yes.”
“How is her arm?”
“Luciano says it’s nothing to worry about. It’s healing.”
The relief moves through Victoria slowly. Her fingers tighten around the throw.
“Thank you,” she says.
“For what?”
“For not giving up on her.” Her voice dips. “On Elsie. On Mrs. Abena. You didn’t have to go there yourself.”
I look away for a second.
Through the open curtains, the estate is waking. Men move beyond the stone path. A car rolls past the fountain. Somewhere below, a door shuts.
“I did have to,” I say.
Victoria studies me.
I know what she is seeing. The man who gives orders to the port. The man who speaks of punishment without raising his voice. The man who can decide whether any betrayer lives long enough to speak.
And the other one.
The man who stood beside a little girl’s bed while she held a stuffed rabbit by one ear and asked if he liked soup.
The man who sat for ten minutes on a chair too small for him because she wanted Mrs. Abena to finish her tea.
The man who did not know what to do with his hands when Elsie looked at him without knowing whether he was allowed to belong near her.
Maybe Francesco would have used a child as a lock.
I will make myself the door no one gets through.
Victoria’s eyes lower to my neck. “You should be resting.”
“I was.”
“Standing by the window, threatening men at the port is resting?”
“It is for me.”
She shakes her head, but there is no anger in it.
My phone rings before she can answer.
I stand and take it from the table.
Hugo DeLuca.
The lawyer rarely calls this early unless the ground has shifted beneath us.
I answer. “Talk to me.”
His voice comes tight. “It’s confirmed.”
Victoria’s face turns toward me at once.
I look at her.
Hugo continues, “They know Victoria is here.”
The room goes cold.
Victoria’s fingers loosen on the throw.
“How?” I ask.
“From inside,” Hugo says. “We also got confirmation that the road trip was leaked before you arrived at the girl’s property. Timing matches. This was not a guess.”
I turn from Victoria and walk toward the fireplace.
“Name.”
“Not yet.”
“Hugo.”
“I know,” he says. “Give me less than five hours. I have one more channel checking the relay. I will call you today.”
“You have three.”
A pause.
“Understood.”
The call drops.
I keep the phone in my hand for a second too long.
When I turn, Victoria is already standing, the throw wrapped around her body. Her face has closed.
“I’m going to my suite.”
Her eyes lift.
“I need to check on them,” she says. “Elsie. Olivia. Mrs. Abena.”
I step in front of her before she reaches the door.
She stops close enough for me to feel the warmth leaving her skin.
“Lorenzo.”
I take her wrist and draw her back.
Not hard.
Enough.
Her body comes into mine with one unsteady breath. I lower my mouth to hers.
She lets me.
The kiss starts soft, but her hand rises to my chest. Her fingers curl there, holding on for one stolen second. The room narrows again. Her lips part under mine, and I feel the exact moment she forgets why she was leaving.
Then she pulls back, barely.
“Please,” she whispers against my mouth. “I need to go check on them.”
Her voice carries the fight she is losing.
I let her go.
She takes one step back, then another. At the door, her hand reaches for the panel.
Then she stops.
Her shoulders tense.
She turns to me.
“The man you are looking for,” she says, “might be the one I replaced in the laboratory.”
I go still.
“What do you mean?”
Her eyes move to my phone, then to my face.
“Camron has a device there now. In my station.” Her voice drops. “Get to the laboratory.”
I do not speak.
I do not need to.
Because the shape of it has been there since yesterday.
Victoria sees the answer land in my face.
She nods once, as if that is all the confirmation she needed.
Then she opens the door and walks out.