Chapter Five #2
I don't have to say it. I can see the recognition flickering in Caterina's face. Understanding.
Because he's not just Caterina's brother, but the man who kidnapped my cousin.
“So yes,” I say. “I took the job. But I also came because Teresa asked me to. Because after what happened to her last year, I wasn’t going to turn down an invitation into her world and her home.”
Again, the unsaid words are obvious. To make sure she hasn't been manipulated or brainwashed or threatened.
Her eyes narrow slightly, but not in anger this time. More like she is reassessing me.
“And?” Caterina asks.
I think about Teresa on the front steps, smiling like she couldn’t help it. About the way she leaned into Vito without thinking. About the way his attention tracked her even when he was pretending it didn’t.
I choose not to answer that question.
“I know you were told about it after the arrangement with me had already been made. I didn't find out about that until last night. And I let your brother know exactly how much of a mistake that was.”
That stills her for a second.
Not because she believes me entirely. Not yet. But because that, at least, she wasn’t expecting.
Her eyes stay on mine. “Did you? And how did he take it?”
“Not well,” I say, and leave it at that.
That seems to please her.
But it's brief.
“And what does that mean for me?” she asks, her tone cool again, but less cutting than before.
“It means I’m not here to win some contest of control with your brother or your father.” I lean back slightly in the chair. “It means you’re my client. The only one. My job is to protect you, and to do that, I need your cooperation.”
She studies me for a long second, weighing the words, looking for the hook underneath them.
“And if I don’t cooperate?”
“Then I still do my job,” I say. “It just gets harder. For both of us.”
Her mouth tightens. “That sounds suspiciously like a threat.”
“It’s not.” I hold her gaze. “It’s reality.”
Silence stretches between us for a beat.
Then she says, “You talk like you expect me to be difficult.”
“From what I've seen and heard, it’s others who expect you to be difficult.”
She narrows her eyes, but before she can snap out a response, I continue.
“I expect you to be intelligent,” I say. “There’s a difference.”
That checks her.
Not much. Just enough to matter.
I keep my tone even. “I’m not here to order you around for the sake of it. I’m here because someone with access wants to harm you, and like it or not, you're the most vulnerable.”
Her expression changes instantly.
Cold and offended in a way that goes deeper than the annoyance she has been holding onto since I got here.
“The most vulnerable,” she repeats.
“Yes.”
Her laugh is short and humorless. “That’s a hell of a way to win my trust.”
“I’m not trying to flatter you,” I say. “I’m trying to keep you alive.”
Her chin lifts. “And you think telling me I’m the weakest target in my own family is the way to do that?”
“I think lying to you would be worse.”
That lands hard enough to make her go still again.
She holds my gaze, dark eyes flashing. “You don’t know anything about me.”
“Not yet,” I say. “But I know enough.”
Her arms fold tighter across her chest. “Do you?”
“Yes.” I keep my voice level. “I know you live alone. I know your work puts you in front of more people than the rest of the family. I know your schedule is easier to track and anticipate. I know your house is closer to the city and, despite all the security, harder to lock down. I know you carry, but you’ve never had to use that weapon in a real-world situation.
And I know that if somebody inside the family’s structure is feeding out information, then your routine is one of the easiest things to exploit. ”
She doesn’t say anything right away.
Good. Because none of that is an insult, no matter how badly it rubs her.
It’s a risk profile.
When she finally speaks, her voice is quieter. More dangerous for it.
“So this is what my brother told you about me.”
“No,” I say. “This is what the situation told me about you.”
I lean back slightly in the chair and hold her eyes.
“You’re confusing vulnerability with weakness,” I say. “They’re not the same thing.”
Her jaw tightens. “And what's the difference?”
“Vulnerability is exposure,” I continue. “It’s access. Opportunity. Pattern. It’s where someone looking for an opening is most likely to find one. Weakness is something else.”
She stares at me for a beat, then says, “How convenient for you.”
“It’s not convenient,” I say. “It’s the truth.”
Her arms stay folded, but I can see the thought working behind her eyes now, the quick, sharp intelligence shifting through the offense and trying to decide whether I’m talking down to her or simply saying what no one else has said plainly enough.
I keep my tone even.
“The men in your family live the violent side of this life more directly than you do,” I say. “That gives them a different instinct for threat. Different experiences under pressure. That doesn’t make you incapable. It means your life has shaped you for something different.”
She doesn’t answer immediately.
Then, clipped and cool, “You could have phrased that better.”
“I don't do politics,” I say. “If you're looking for a more diplomatic response, I have a PR specialist you can speak to.”
That almost gets a response out of her before she catches it.
Instead, she narrows her eyes. “Do all bodyguards come with this much attitude, or did my family pay extra for the premium version?”
“Your family is definitely paying me premium,” I say. “But the attitude is free.”
She stares at me for a second, and I realize something I hadn't before.
She is looking for a reason to make me the enemy.
Because that would be easier. It would be simpler to make me the problem than it would be to accept that her father and brother did this to her out of a kind of fear, not simply to control her.
It would be easier to make me an obstacle than to accept my protection.
I make a decision then.
I will not be her obstacle.
So I let the silence hang for a beat, then I say, “I know that you're angry, and you have every right to be.”
Her gaze sharpens.
“But don't let your anger make you stupid,” I continue.
“Are you calling me stupid?” she asks, her voice cold and hard.
“No,” I say. “I'm telling you not to let your pride make you stupid. They went about this the wrong way, yes. But getting yourself killed because you're too proud to work with me might be an effective punishment for your father and brother,” I say. “But you’d still be the dead one.”
Her eyes flash.
“That’s a vile thing to say,” she spits. “And I am not going to get myself killed to punish anyone.”
“Good,” I say. “Then let’s work together so you don't.”
Her mouth tightens. She’s caught, and she knows it. Anger is a valid response, but it’s not a strategy. And she’s too smart not to know that.
So instead of fighting me on the point, she changes tactics.
“What does that mean?” she asks, and her tone is sharper now, more precise. “Working together. What does that look like for you?”
“It means you tell me what you need to do,” I say. “We make a plan. I make it happen.”
“And if I need to do something you don’t approve of?” she presses. “Something that doesn’t fit into your neat little risk profile? What happens then?”
"We cross that bridge when we get to it," I say simply. "You're not the first reluctant client I've had, Caterina. I can make adjustments, as long as they don't compromise your safety."
She doesn't look convinced.
"And if they do?" she asks.
"Then we find another way to accomplish whatever it is you need to do," I say. "There is always a way."
"And if there isn't?" she asks, a challenge in her voice.
"Then you don't do it," I say, my own voice hardening slightly. "It may not be the response you want to hear, but it's the only one I can give you."
She looks away for a second, her gaze moving to the window, to the bright morning light that seems so at odds with the tension in the room.
For a second, I see something else in her face. Not anger, not irritation, but something else. Something I can't quite read.
"It's not forever," I say. "Just until the threat is found and eliminated."
She turns back to me, her expression unreadable. "And what if that never happens?"
"Do you think that's the case?" I ask. "Do you think your father would allow a rat to run loose in your family forever?"
She doesn't answer. But I can see in her eyes that she doesn't believe that either. For all of their faults, for all of the ways they've handled this wrong, the Conti family is not one to tolerate a betrayal. They will find whoever is responsible. And they will deal with it.
The question is, how much damage will be done before that happens?
She's silent, and I know she's thinking all this over in her mind. Weighing her options. Deciding whether to fight me or to work with me.
I don't push her.
I just wait.
Finally, she says, "So what now? What happens next?" Her question is a concession. A small one, but a concession nonetheless. It means she is willing to consider working with me. At least for now.
I lean forward slightly, my elbows on my knees.
"Now," I say, "I do a full inspection of your house and property."
Her eyes flesh, and I know I've already said the wrong thing.
"I have to be at the casino by 9:00," she says, her voice tight.
I check my watch. Nearly 8:00.
"You will be," I say. "I will do the initial sweep now and a more thorough one later."
That stops her, as if she expected me to argue and push. As if she expected me to try to control her schedule.
I can see the thought working behind her eyes. She's reassessing me again, trying to figure out where the line is. Where the catch is. And she's not finding it.
"Fine," she says, her clipped. "Do your sweep. I need to be out of here by 8:30, at the latest." She says it like a command, but I can hear the question underneath it. She wants to know if I will allow it.
"I can work with that," I say. "In the meantime, I need to see your car. And I need to know what your typical routes to the casino are."
Something in her face changes at that.
"You're not driving me," she says, and it's not a question. It's a statement.
"I am," I say, my voice leaving no room for argument. "And we will be taking a route that I choose."
She opens her mouth to argue, then closes it. Her jaw is tight, her eyes flashing.
"And if I refuse?" she asks, her voice dangerously quiet.
"Then you don't go to the casino," I say, as simply as before.
For a second, I think she's going to push back. I can see the fight in her, the anger, the resentment.
But she doesn't.
Instead, she lets out a slow breath, and her shoulders relax just a little. It's not much, but it's enough.
"Fine," she says again, and this time it's a little less clipped. "My cars are in the garage. I'll get you the keys."
She stands, and I stand with her.
As she leads me through the house, toward the back and the garage, I take in everything. The security cameras. The windows. The doors. The layout of the furniture. The way the light falls in the hall.
It's a nice house. Well-maintained. Clean.
But it's not a fortress. And right now, that's what it needs to be.
She opens the door to the garage, and I step inside.
It's a large space, clean and well-organized, with room for three cars.
One of the bays is empty, but the other two are occupied.
The car on the left is a sleek, black convertible with the top already down. It's a beautiful car, expensive and powerful, but it's also a nightmare for security.
The car on the right is a white SUV. More practical, less flashy. Probably her daily driver.
But however practical it is to drive daily, it's not practical for protection.
We were always going to be taking my car anyway.
She walks to a small key rack on the wall, takes down a set of keys, and hands them to me.
Without a word, I walk to the first car, the convertible, and start searching it by hand.