Twenty-five
Ciro
Morning light cuts low through the blinds, catching along her shoulder where the sheet has slipped. I stay there with one hand braced on the mattress, watching the way she sleeps—deep, unguarded, and relaxed.
My phone buzzes on the nightstand, cutting through it, and I reach for it before I can keep going down that line.
Clear Security: Dante outside. Holding.
I sit up, drag a hand over my face, and swing my feet to the floor. Chiara moves slightly behind me but doesn’t wake. I text back.
Me: Let him in. Tell him I’ll be right down.
I pull on jeans, grab a T-shirt from the chair, and pull it on as I move into the hall.
By the time I reach the kitchen, the front door has already opened.
Dante steps inside without announcing himself, closing the door with a quiet click before crossing toward the kitchen.
He doesn’t sit. One hand rests flat against the stone, his posture steady, eyes on me as I move to the espresso machine.
“You’re early.” I reach for the grinder and measuring out the beans. “What brings you here so early on a Sunday morning?”
Dante looks at me. “Someone approached Gianna.”
I don’t look away from the machine as the espresso runs. “Where?”
“At Berkeley,” he says, shifting his weight slightly. “Outside one of her classes.”
I slide the first cup toward him and start the second. “How close.”
Dante folds his arms loosely. “Spoke to her. Made sure she knew who he was.”
I reach for the milk, keeping my voice level. “Did he touch her?”
“No.” He watches me a beat and then adds, “He didn’t need to.”
I steam the milk, cut the wand, and pour. “Then it’s a message.”
Dante doesn’t reach for his cup. “Who’s Palo?”
I meet his eyes. “He works enforcement for the Gamblé.”
Dante nods once, slow.
“And he went to Gianna and asked about Chiara.” I say, leaning back against the counter, cup in hand. “He knew exactly who he was talking to.”
Dante exhales through his nose, his gaze dropping briefly to the counter before lifting again. “Gianna covered for her. Does Jim have people on Chiara?”
I nod. “Do we need to increase Gianna’s detail?”
“Already done.” Dante looks at me over his cup. “What kind of mess did you walk us into?”
“You know everything, and Jim’s team is all over it.”
Dante takes a sip and then sets the cup back down with care. “You think they’re testing.”
“Yes.”
“And if we move,” he says, shifting his stance a fraction closer, “we tell them it worked.”
“I believe so.”
Dante lets that sit, his hand flattening briefly against the counter before he pushes off it. “Then we don’t move.”
I nod once, lifting my cup.
The machines hum fades out behind us, leaving the room quiet again, but not the same kind.
Footsteps sound in the hall.
Chiara enters with her hair wet, a towel looped loosely in her hands. She slows when she sees us, her gaze moving between the two of us before she steps farther in.
Chiara rests the towel against the counter but doesn’t let go of it. “What’s happened?”
Dante glances at me and then back to her, leaving the answer open.
I set my cup down. “Palo approached Gianna yesterday.”
“Is she okay?” Chiara steps toward me.
“She’s fine,” I say. “Jim’s people are on her.”
Chiara exhales, but the tension stays in her shoulders. She sets the towel down and braces her hands against the counter.
“This is because of me,” she says, looking at the surface instead of at us.
“No,” I push off the counter and close some of the distance. “It’s because of me.”
“You got in their crosshairs because of me. They don’t reach for her if I’m not here.”
Dante stays where he is, his attention now on her.
Chiara straightens, folding her arms. “Then I leave.”
“No,” I say before she finishes the thought.
Dante shakes his head.
She turns toward me fully. “If I’m not here, they lose the reason.”
“They already have one,” I say. “You leaving doesn’t remove it.”
“It removes me,” she says.
“And creates a blind spot.” I step closer, lowering my voice without softening it. “Running doesn’t help any of us.”
Dante steps in a little closer. “They’re not going to get you. Gianna’s covered,” he says. “Jim’s team will stay on her.”
Chiara looks at him. “And if they come back.”
“Then we adjust,” Dante answers. “Jim is the best in the business. You’re better off here.”
Chiara’s gaze moves between us. “You’re both comfortable with that.”
“We’re aligned,” I say.
She turns away briefly, her hand sliding along the edge of the counter before she faces us again. “I don’t like it.”
Chiara holds my gaze for a moment longer and then gives a small nod that carries more restraint than acceptance.
Dante lifts his cup and takes another sip.
“I’ll have Jim loop us in,” he says. “Anything they see, we see.”
I nod.
Chiara doesn’t move from the counter, but she doesn’t argue again.