Chapter Five
Adrian
The black SUV rolls to a stop at the base of the front steps, and I let it idle while I take in the house.
Different from Vito’s place. Smaller footprint. Less land. Closer to the city, just like he said. Enough money in the stonework and the landscaping to keep it elegant, enough thought in the layout to suggest somebody wanted privacy, but not enough perimeter depth to make me comfortable.
The front approach is too direct once you’re through the gate. The sight lines are cleaner than most houses this size, which I like, but the windows are still windows, the yard is still a yard, and proximity is always a problem when somebody wants to get close.
I clock the cameras first.
Updated hardware. Good placement. Some overlap in coverage. Gate feed likely routed inside. Antonio’s work, if I’m guessing right. Better than average. Still not a substitute for a person who knows what to look for in real time.
I shut off the engine, step out, and scan once more before I close the door behind me. Front door. Side windows. Roofline. Eaves. Driveway angle. Possible blind spots near the garage.
Shrubs low enough not to hide a man, which tells me somebody here understands that landscaping can get you killed if it’s done badly.
Good. I'm not starting from scratch.
The front door opens before I reach it.
That tells me something, too.
She’s either been watching the feed herself or she has someone inside doing it for her. Given what I was told last night, I’d put money on the first option.
Caterina Conti stands in the doorway.
And for one clear, unhelpful second, all I register is that she’s beautiful.
Dark hair, blown out smooth so it falls in glossy layers over her shoulders and down her back.
Her blouse and skirt skim over curves that are both athletic and soft, her waist cinched just enough to emphasize those curves.
Gold hoops at her ears. A simple, elegant watch on one wrist. Long legs in black heels.
Her face is structured perfectly—high cheekbones, a full mouth, dark, intelligent eyes that are already fixed on me with a displeased look.
She’s put together the way some people put on armor—precise, deliberate, chosen to say something before a word ever leaves her mouth.
Then I shut the rest of that down.
Hard.
She’s my client.
That line is absolute, and I’ve kept it absolute for a reason. No blurred edges. No private fantasies. No indulgence. You start seeing a client as anything other than the person you were hired to keep alive, and you invite mistakes. Mistakes get people hurt. Sometimes killed.
So I take in what actually matters.
Her posture is straight. Her expression cool. Her eyes dark and direct and already unimpressed.
There’s irritation in the set of her mouth and resentment in the way she’s holding herself, not fear. Good. Fear can make people slippery. Anger usually stays still long enough to be dealt with.
I stop a respectful distance from the threshold.
“Ms. Conti.”
Her gaze moves over me once, quick and assessing, like she’s taking inventory and doesn’t especially like what she sees.
“Caterina,” she says.
Not warm. Not welcoming. Just exact.
I incline my head once. “Adrian Donato.”
“I know.”
Of course she knows now. After a conversation with her father only yesterday. I don't necessarily blame her for her attitude at this point. Having other people make decisions for you and tell you after the fact breeds resentment.
I take off my sunglasses and tuck them away. Better for reading her face. Better for letting her read mine. She’ll trust me faster if she can see exactly what I’m saying when I say it.
Her eyes flick to mine, then past me toward the SUV, then back again.
No hand extended.
That suits me fine. I don’t offer one either.
She steps back from the doorway. “You may as well come in.”
I walk past her and into the house.
The entry gives me three things immediately: line of sight, access, and trouble.
Good sight line from the front door through the main corridor. Better than expected. Trouble in the form of too many beautiful surfaces and not enough depth between the principal and the outside world.
Alarm panel on the wall. New. Recently updated. Camera tucked up high where a casual eye would miss it.
Staircase off to the left. Hall to the right. Open room up ahead.
I take it in without making a show of it.
She notices anyway.
Of course she does.
“You can save yourself some time,” she says, shutting the door behind me. “Antonio already went over the house.”
“I’m sure he did.”
“He redid the entire system himself.”
“I know.”
A fraction of a pause.
“Then you know he doesn’t miss much.”
I look at her. “I still verify my own environment.”
Her mouth tightens slightly. She hears the challenge in that, even though I didn’t mean it as one.
“Well,” she says, “that’s reassuring.”
There’s a sitting room just off the entry. Bright morning light. Good furniture. Clean and neat. A half-finished cup of black coffee on the side table. She was waiting here for me. Watching the feed, probably. The thought tracks with what Vito and Teresa told me last night.
Smart. Proud. Unhappy.
She gestures toward the room. “Do you want to sit, or do you prefer to loom?”
“I can do either.”
That almost gets something from her. Not amusement. But maybe a flicker of surprise that I didn’t come back harder.
She sits first, crossing one leg over the other with a kind of tight grace that says she is making a point of looking composed. I take the chair opposite, angled so I can see the front door, the windows, and both openings deeper into the house.
Her eyes catch that immediately.
Neither of us speaks for a second.
Up close, the resentment is clearer. She’s holding it tight, but it’s there. Not childish. Not dramatic. Cleaner than that. More like she’s been handed a humiliation but wrapped in practical language, so she's the one who would seem impractical if she refused.
I don't know much about her, but based on what I heard last night, she's anything but impractical.
Good.
That means Teresa was right.
The truth is the only thing with a chance here.
“So,” she says at last, folding her hands in her lap, “you had your meeting with my brother. Everybody got to discuss my life. And now you’re here.”
Sharp. Cutting.
I don’t answer the accusation. I answer what matters.
“I’m here to keep you alive until the threat is found and eliminated.”
Her eyes stay on mine. “That sounds very official.”
“It is.”
A pause.
Then, because I meant what I said last night and I’m not wasting time pretending the setup wasn’t wrong, I say, “You weren’t given a choice in the matter. I know that.”
“And do you typically take jobs that way?” she asks, and there’s something coldly professional in her tone now. “Hired to work with people who didn’t ask for you?”
“No,” I say. “But this family is in a difficult position right now. And your father believes you’re at risk.”
“My father,” she repeats, and the name is brittle, “has a history of making decisions for me. Usually on the assumption that I’m not capable of making them myself.”
That I will not argue. I have no place for it, and frankly, it doesn’t matter to me if she’s right.
“He also believes there is a traitor somewhere inside the family’s structure,” I say. “And if he’s right, then this isn’t about your capability. It’s about the fact that no one is trustworthy enough to guarantee your safety. Including the men who have been guarding you for years.”
Her jaw tightens, but I think she’s listening now. Because even if she hates the setup, she is not a fool. She knows what that kind of betrayal would mean.
“Which is why he’s hired someone from the outside,” she says. “Someone with no ties. Someone he can control.”
“I can’t be controlled,” I say.
Her gaze sharpens at that, but her eyes narrow. She clearly doesn’t believe me.
“Everyone can be controlled.”
“Not me.”
I say it simply. A statement of fact. Not a boast. The people I’ve worked for in the past knew that within the first hour of working with me. They knew that when they hired me, they were hiring my judgment, my methods, and my authority.
"My job is to make sure you stay alive," I continue. "Your family may be paying me, but my loyalty is to your safety, not to them. Not to their wishes. Not to their politics. Not to their authority. Your safety is my only priority."
“Then why meet with my brother first? Why not come here and give me the respect of speaking to me?” she asks primly.
I know she doesn't believe me, and this is where the truth comes in.
Telling clients more than I think they need to know is not something I typically do, but the last time I was in a situation where I was protecting an unwilling client, he did his best to slip his protection, and it nearly cost him his life. I will not be repeating that.
“I didn't go meet your brother first,” I say.
She lifts her brows. “No? Now you're just lying right to my face.” Her voice has gone cold and hard.
“I went to meet my cousin first,” I clarify. “Your brother was there.”
“And if my father had hired you, what would your excuse be then?”
“It's not an excuse,” I say. “My first priority was seeing Teresa in person.”
That gets her attention in a different way. Her expression doesn’t soften, but something in her gaze shifts. Less immediate hostility. More focus.
I keep going.
“We talk on the phone, text, but I haven't seen her in person in a couple of years before last night,” I say.
That checks her for a second. Not much. Just enough for me to keep going.
“We were close when we were young, and we drifted apart. But that doesn't mean I'm not protective of her. Living on opposite sides of the country makes regular visits complicated even when nothing is wrong.”
Her stare stays fixed on me, cool and searching.
“Then last year, she disappeared for weeks,” I continue. “And when she showed up again, she was pregnant and in love. With your brother.”