Chapter Thirteen #3
Zephyr didn’t miss a beat.
“I’ll send you the link.” He was already tapping his phone, thumb moving across the screen with the focused attention of someone treating nail polish recommendations as a legitimate diplomatic exchange.
“It’s a small independent brand out of Naples.
The staying power is exceptional. I’ve tested it against hardwood, tile, and one regrettable incident involving a swimming pool that I’m not at liberty to discuss without legal representation present. ”
Sabatino’s mouth almost moved. Almost. The fact that Luca Sabatino, a man whose stillness was legendary, had almost smiled at a nail polish recommendation was an alarming development.
They agreed to run investigations. Each family would verify the intelligence against their own networks, cross-reference the names, and reconvene at the conclave with whatever they found. Clean. Efficient.
I appreciated that.
I told them I’d send updates if anything changed. They didn’t ask for details. Didn’t need to. The arithmetic was clear—Alexios was moving, we had the numbers, and the only question was whether we could coordinate a response before he pulled the trigger.
The calls disconnected. One by one. D’Angelo first, then Sabatino, then Borelli, each screen going dark with the soft electronic sigh of a connection severing, and then it was just the three of us in the study with the whiteboard and the caramels and the quiet that happened when something significant had just concluded and no one was quite ready to name it.
Zephyr was already tapping out a link on his phone. His fingers moved fast, the rhythm bursts and pauses of a man composing a message with the focused attention of someone who considered nail polish recommendations a legitimate use of post-intelligence-briefing bandwidth.
Leon looked at me. His expression hadn’t changed. His arms were still crossed, his boots were still planted, and the set of his shoulders carried the stillness of a man who had just watched his boss introduce his boyfriend to three crime families and emerge with all his limbs attached.
“Call went well,” he said.
I picked up the lighter. Clicked it open. Held the flame, orange against the dim study, and watched it dance for a count of three before snapping it shut.
“They didn’t order a hit on you,” Leon added. His tone was flat, even, the cadence of a man stating a fact he found mildly surprising.
“Yet.”
I closed the laptop. The screen went dark, and the study settled back into its normal quiet—old wood, warm air, and the weight of what had just happened sitting on the desk like a ticking time bomb.
One week to the conclave and Alexios had no idea what was coming—the intelligence, the coordination, the fact that three families were now running his financial architecture through their own networks with the focused attention of men who had just discovered a threat they hadn’t known existed.
I preferred it that way. Surprise was a weapon, and I had never been sentimental about using the tools available to me.
Zephyr’s phone chimed. A soft electronic note, and he looked down at the screen, his mouth curving in that way that meant someone had just responded to his nail polish link with more enthusiasm than he had expected.
I didn’t ask. Didn’t need to. The fact that Vincenzo Borelli, one of the most calculated political operators in Italian organized crime, was now discussing turquoise nail polish with my financial architect was an alarming development.
I reached for a caramel. Unwrapped it slowly. The gold foil caught the lamplight, warm against my fingers, and the sweetness hit my tongue with the intensity of something I hadn’t known I wanted until it was already there.
Zephyr looked up. Those blue eyes found mine across the desk, held for a beat that felt longer than it was, and the expression on his face was the blend of sharp and warm that made my chest do something complicated every time I saw it.
“One week,” he said.
I nodded once. Decisive. The nod of a man who had already done the arithmetic and was now waiting for the problem to catch up to his solution.
“We’ll handle it,” I said.
Not a question. A statement of operational fact.
Zephyr believed me. I could see it in his eyes—the warmth that happened when trust arrived without negotiation, without calculation, without any of the filters that usually stood between Zephyr Kontos and the world.
He believed me, and the fact that he believed me was either the most concerning development of the past month or the only one that had ever made complete sense.
Probably both.
I reached for the lighter. Clicked it open. Held the flame, orange against the dim study, and watched it dance for a count of three before snapping it shut.
The sound was final.
One week. Alexios had no idea. The alliance was moving. And somewhere in the dark corners of Florence, a rebellion was brewing that was about to discover that the man they thought they understood had stopped being predictable.
I could work with that.
I’d have to.