Chapter 4
LORENZO
She’s pressed against the window like she’s trying to disappear through the glass.
I’ve been watching her since we pulled away from her building.
Twenty minutes of silence, and she hasn’t looked at me once.
Her forehead rests against the window, breath fogging the glass in small circles that swell and then fade.
Her hands are folded in her lap, fingers interlaced, knuckles white.
She’s smaller than I expected. The digital footprint Ghost left behind suggested someone bigger. Louder. More male. This woman looks like she’s been shrinking herself for years, folding inward until there’s barely a trace of her left.
“You can stop staring. I’m not going to jump out of a moving vehicle.”
Her voice cuts through the silence. Low. A little rough. She doesn’t turn to look at me.
Silence is safer. She noticed I was watching. That lands harder than it should.
“The strong silent thing works better when you’re not burning a hole in the side of my face.” Now she turns. Those dark eyes find mine in the dimness of the car. “If you’re trying to intimidate me, you already did that. We can skip the encore.”
Her jaw sets when she talks. Spine straight. Refusing to look defeated even when she’s running on fumes.
Noted.
“Where exactly are we going?” she asks when I don’t answer. “You said somewhere safe. That could mean a lot of things.”
“The compound.”
“Informative.” She turns back to the window. “Do all Santoros have one-word vocabularies, or is that just you?”
A pull at the corner of my mouth.
“You never stop, do you.”
“So you said.” She watches me through the glass. “And yet here you are, answering. Progress.”
The SUV turns onto the main highway heading toward the Garden District. Twenty more minutes to the house. Twenty more minutes in this enclosed space with a woman who won’t stop pushing.
I should tell the driver to speed up.
Instead I’m tracking how her expression shifts in the passing streetlights. Sharp cheekbones. Faded purple at the ends of her dark hair. A silver stud in her nose, catching the light. The most compelling thing I’ve seen in longer than I can remember.
The way she holds herself. Not guarded. Refusal. Like she’s carved out of defiance. I’ve seen men break under less pressure than she’s under right now. She’s making small talk.
“Your sister.”
She goes rigid. Just for a second before she catches herself. “What about her?”
“The Benedettis have her.”
“That’s what I said.”
“How long?”
The silence stretches. I watch her throat swallow.
“Three years.” Her voice is different now. Stripped. “They’ve had her for three years.”
I understand obsession. I understand the hunt that consumes everything.
“We’ll find her.”
The words escape me. I don’t make promises.
She turns to look at me. Fully looks at me, for the first time since the apartment. “Why do you care?”
I don’t. She’s an asset.
“The Benedettis are a problem. You have information I need. It’s transactional.”
“Transactional.” She repeats the word like she’s probing it for lies. “Okay.”
She doesn’t believe me. It’s written across her face.
The problem is, I’m not sure I believe me either. Cazzo.
Silence settles between us again. The city gives way to darker roads, older money, invisible wealth wrapped in iron and stone.
“Isabella.”
I glance at her. She’s still facing the window, but I catch her profile in the glass, her eyes on mine.
“My name. If we’re going to be working together, you should probably know it.” A pause. “Isabella Vitale.”
Isabella. The name settles into my mind, finding a place to root itself where it shouldn’t.
“Lorenzo.”
The name leaves my mouth before I think. She already knows.
“I know.” Her expression shifts. Not a smile. Close. “I told you. I read your file.”
The property rises out of the darkness like a fortress from another era.
Iron gates, twelve feet high, the Santoro crest worked into the metalwork.
Stone walls topped with security features that don’t show from the road.
Cameras tracking our approach, guards I can’t see from here but know are there, positioned at every vulnerable seam.
This is home. The only place my shoulders drop since Mama died.
The gates swing open as we approach, smooth and silent. The driver pulls through without slowing, gravel crunching under the tires as we wind up the drive.
Isabella straightens in her seat. I watch her take it in. The grounds lit by subtle landscaping, the main house rising three stories, light glowing in the upper windows. The garden to the left. Mama’s garden. Still maintained even though she’s been gone for years.
Her breathing has changed. Faster now. She’s trying to hide it.
“This is your compound.”
“Yes.”
“It’s.” She swallows. “I knew the Santoros were powerful. I’ve seen your financials. But this is different.”
Different how, she doesn’t say. But I understand. Numbers on a screen are abstract. This is concrete. Stone and iron and money so old it’s become invisible. This is what she’s dealing with now. A family that could swallow her whole without breaking stride.
The SUV stops at the main entrance. I’m out before the driver can open my door, rounding to her side because she’s still staring at the house like it might eat her.
I open her door. She looks at my offered hand, then at my face.
“I can get out of a car by myself.”
“Then do it.”
She does, waving me off, stepping onto the gravel with her spine straight even though her legs aren’t quite steady.
“This way.”
I lead her up the front steps, through the heavy doors into the entrance hall.
Marble floors, dark wood paneling, the chandelier that’s been here since before my father’s time.
She’s quiet now, head turning, taking in everything the same way I studied her in the car.
Her eyes sweep the hall. Exits, guards, cameras.
She’s in the heart of Santoro territory and she’s still thinking like Ghost. Still looking for leverage.
“Dante is expecting us.”
“Your brother. The boss.”
“Yes.”
“I’ve read his file too.” She keeps pace beside me, her stride shorter than mine but refusing to fall behind.
“The ice king of the New Orleans underworld. Known for his control, his precision, his complete lack of mercy toward anyone who crosses him.” She glances at me. “Sounds like a family trait.”
“You read files. You don’t know him.”
“And you don’t know me.” Her voice sharpens. “But you dragged me out of my apartment at gunpoint anyway. Fair’s fair.”
I stop walking. She stops too, turning to face me in the dim hallway, light from a wall sconce catching the angles of her face.
“You’re not a prisoner.”
“No?”
“You’re a guest. With conditions.”
“That sounds like a prisoner with better furniture.”
“Believe what you want.” I start walking again. “Dante’s study is this way.”
She follows. Her footsteps behind me. Her breathing.
I’ve walked this hallway a thousand times. Tonight it takes longer.
Dante’s study smells like cigars and old books, a combination so familiar it’s close to comforting. He’s behind his desk when we enter, posture perfect, face giving nothing away. The ice king. My brother.
His gaze shifts to Isabella, and he does what I did. That same stare. Dissecting her.
“Ghost.” His voice is controlled, modulated. “You’ve been busy.”
She doesn’t blink at the name. No apology. No explanation. “I’ve been motivated.”
Dante’s eyebrow lifts a millimeter — he’s interested. He gestures to the chair across from his desk. “Sit. We have things to discuss.”
She sits. I move to my usual position by the window, half in the shadow.
“My brother tells me you have information on the Benedettis.” Dante steeples his fingers, his wedding ring catching the lamplight. “Locations. Routes. The infrastructure of their operation.”
“I have years of surveillance data on every Benedetti holding in the Gulf region.” Isabella’s voice is steady. Professional. “Financial records, shipping manifests, communications intercepts. I know where they move product, how they launder money, and which local officials are on their payroll.”
“Impressive. Why should I believe you haven’t sold this information to the highest bidder?”
“Because the highest bidder doesn’t want to destroy them. I do.”
Silence. Dante and Isabella locked onto each other. Two people who don’t blink first.
I’m clocking how she holds herself in that chair. Not cowering. Not pleading. Meeting Dante’s gaze like a colleague.
“The terms,” Dante says. “You give us everything on the Benedettis. In exchange, we help you retrieve your sister.”
“And if I refuse?”
“Then you leave here with nothing.” Dante’s voice doesn’t change, but something in it goes colder.
“And I hand over your identity to the Russos and the Valentinos. You’ve been inside their systems too.
They’ve been looking for Ghost as long as we have.
” He pauses. “They’re less inclined toward negotiation. ”
My knuckles ache where they’ve been broken too many times.
That’s too far.
She’s an asset. Why do I care if Dante threatens her.
Isabella stiffens. But she holds. Doesn’t beg.
“Understood.” Her voice is flat. Controlled. “Then I accept your terms.”
“You won’t refuse.”
The words just land. No filter. Both of them turn to look at me. Dante’s expression is unreadable. Isabella’s is different. A look that pins me in place.
“You seem certain.” Her voice is quiet.
Silence is easier. Because I am certain, and the reason sits too deep to reach.
“The deal.” Dante reclaims control of the conversation. “Your intel for our resources. You stay here until the Benedetti operation is dismantled. You work with Lorenzo to coordinate the intelligence.”
“Work with Lorenzo.”
“He’s the one who found you. He knows your methods better than anyone in this organization.”
“Fine.” She turns back to Dante. “But I want updates. On every operation, every move against the Benedettis. If you’re using my intel to find my sister, I want to know what’s happening.”
“You’ll know what you need to know.”
“That’s not good enough.”
Dante’s mouth curves, not quite a smile. “You’re not in a position to negotiate.”
“I’m the only one who knows where the Benedettis are running their trafficking operation. The actual location, not a guess. That puts me in exactly the best position to negotiate.”
Pressure builds behind my eyes until my skull aches.
“She gets updates.”
The words come out rough. Both of them look at me again. Dante’s expression tightens a fraction. A question he doesn’t ask. Not here. Not in front of her.
“Weekly briefings,” he says. “You’ll know what we know, within reason.”
Isabella nods. Her shoulders drop a fraction of an inch, tension releasing.
“Then we have a deal.”
Dante stands. Extends his hand. She takes it, her fingers disappearing into his grip for a moment before he releases her.
“Renzo.” Dante’s voice shifts, addressing me now. “Show her to her room.”
I nod. Isabella rises, rolling her left shoulder with a wince. Years of hunching over keyboards. Forgetting to take care of herself while she searched.
She catches me staring. Her spine straightens. I move first.
The hallway to the guest wing is quiet. Isabella walks beside me, matching my pace.
“Room,” she says. “I thought I was a prisoner.”
“You are.”
“Prisoners have rooms?”
“Prisoners have whatever I decide they have.”
She’s quiet for a moment. Then: “The deal. You spoke up for me. Why?”
“You needed updates. It was reasonable.”
“That’s not why.”
I stop walking. She pauses beside me, chin lifting. Light from a window catches the sharp lines of her profile.
“Don’t assume you know me,” I say. “You read files. That’s not the same thing.”
“I know enough.” She doesn’t look away. “I know what you do for your family. I know the other families call you the Santoro ghost. I know grown men cross the street when they see you coming.” Her gaze drops to my pocket, where I’m grinding the fabric thin.
“And I know you touched something in your pocket at least three times during that meeting. Every time the conversation got tense.” She looks back up. “What is it?”
I should lie. Should deflect. Should end this conversation, take her to her room, and walk away.
“None of your business.”
“You’re going to be working with me for the foreseeable future. We’re going to be in each other’s space. Maybe I should learn something real about you, beyond the body count.”
“You want to know something real.” My voice drops closer to a growl than I intended. “Here’s something real. I don’t trust you. I don’t like having you in this house. And if you betray us, I will kill you myself. Slowly.”
She should recoil. Should look away. Should show the same fear that everyone reveals when I make threats.
She doesn’t.
“You’re cute when you’re threatening someone.” She tilts her head, studying me. “Very serial-killer-chic. Do you practice in the mirror, or is it all natural talent?”
Cute. No one has ever called me cute. The word doesn’t belong in the same sentence as my name. Men twice her size flinch when I walk into a room, and this woman just called me cute while I’m promising to kill her.
“You expected a man,” she says, pivoting before I can respond. “When you kicked in my door. You were expecting someone different.”
The whiplash catches me off guard. “Yes.”
“Were you disappointed?”
Disappointed. That’s not the right word. Nothing about what I found in that apartment was what I expected.
“No.”
“No?” A spark in her expression. “Then what?”
“This is your room.”
I stop at a door halfway down the corridor. She studies it, then me.
“You didn’t answer my question.”
“Most questions go unanswered.”
“I’ve noticed.” She reaches for the door handle. Pauses. “Thank you. For the deal. For not killing me when you had the chance.”
“Don’t thank me yet.” I step back, putting distance between us. “You’re in Santoro territory now. That means you play by Santoro rules.”
“And if I don’t?”
“Then we have a problem.”
She holds my gaze for one more moment. The air between us pulls tight. My own pulse drums in my ears. Damn her.
Then she opens the door and disappears inside.
I stand there. Staring at the closed door.
The hallway is empty, silent except for my own breathing. She’s in the house now. In a room thirty feet from where I sleep.
I turn and walk away.
She didn’t flinch. She looked at me and didn’t flinch. The way people have looked at me for eleven years is full of fear. Respect. Hatred. Not that. Not like she was searching for something underneath.
Like there might be something worth finding.
There’s nothing.
The lie settles wrong in my gut.
This is going to be a problem.