Chapter 3
Rome had been inside the Russo orbit for eleven days.
He wore the role like a second skin, tailored charcoal suits, quiet confidence, the kind of educated polish that made old-school Italian money men relax.
He was “Marcus Hale,” private attorney specializing in asset protection and shell structures.
Clean record. Ivy League résumé. No street smell on him. Exactly what Demario had ordered.
The first real meeting happened in a private dining room above a restaurant the Russos owned on the Upper East Side. White tablecloths. Soft jazz. Two bodyguards posted outside the door.
Sofia Russo sat across from him.
Twenty-five. Sharp cheekbones. Dark eyes that missed nothing.
She wore a deep-red dress that hugged every dangerous curve and a diamond tennis bracelet that probably cost more than most people’s cars.
Johnny Russo’s youngest daughter. The one the family kept close because she was too smart to leave unsupervised.
She looked bored with every man who had ever tried to impress her.
Until Rome opened his mouth.
“You’re not what I expected,” she said, swirling the last of her red wine. Her voice was low, almost lazy, but the curiosity in it was sharp. “Most of the lawyers my father brings around either kiss ass or try to fuck me before the check clears.”
Rome’s mouth curved, just enough. “I’m not most lawyers.”
“Clearly.” She leaned forward, elbows on the table, giving him a deliberate view of the soft swell of her tits. “So what are you, Marcus Hale? Because you sit too still. You watch too much. And you haven’t once looked at my chest like you’re starving.”
Rome held her gaze. “I’m the man who can move your family’s money without leaving a trail the feds can follow. Everything else is noise.”
Sofia’s lips parted on a slow, interested smile. The spark hit the air between them like static.
“I like noise,” she said. “Especially the kind that gets wet.”
The waiter cleared the plates. The bodyguards stayed outside. For the first time all night they were alone.
Sofia didn’t waste the opportunity.
She kept her eyes locked on Rome while her right hand disappeared under the tablecloth. Rome heard the soft rustle of fabric, the quiet hitch of her breath. Her thighs shifted. A soft, wet sound followed, two fingers sliding through her pussy with zero shame.
She never looked away.
“You’re hard,” she murmured, voice husky. “I can see it from here.”
Rome’s jaw flexed. He didn’t deny it.
Sofia’s wrist moved faster. Her breathing turned shallow. A soft moan slipped past her lips as she curled her fingers inside herself, thumb brushing her clit in tight circles. The wet sound grew louder, filthy in the quiet room.
“Fuck,” she whispered, eyes still on him. “You’re sitting there like a fucking gentleman while I’m two seconds from cumming under this table.”
She came with a quiet, broken gasp, thighs clamping around her own hand. Then she pulled her fingers free, brought them up, and slowly licked them clean, tongue curling around the glistening digits, eyes never leaving his.
“Taste like trouble,” she said, voice pure sin. “You should try it sometime.”
Rome’s voice came out rougher than he intended. “Maybe I will.”
Three nights later Rome found the first real crack.
He was in the Russo compound’s private study after hours, reviewing wire structures Sofia had given him access to. One encrypted folder had been poorly wiped. Inside it sat a series of text screenshots between a low-level Russo soldier and someone labeled only as “K.”
The messages were old, dated two months before Demario’s early release, but the content was clear.
K had been fucking one of Demario’s outer-circle guards.
The same guard who later turned up dead after the warehouse hit.
The messages showed pillow talk: locations of safe houses, patterns of Demario’s movements while still locked up, even the name of the shell company that owned the original city house.
The guard had been feeding the Russos. And K had been feeding the guard.
Rome stared at the screen for a long time.
The only “K” close enough to Demario to know those details was Keisha.
He drove straight to the safe house.
Demario was in the study when Rome walked in and dropped the printed screenshots on the desk.
“Your girl was pillow-talking a double agent,” Rome said quietly. “The same one who got the warehouse hit green-lit. She gave up locations. Patterns. Enough for the Russos to know exactly when you were free and where you’d be.”
Demario’s face went still. The kind of still that used to make men in the old neighborhood cross the street.
He didn’t speak. He simply stood, walked past Rome, and headed for the master bedroom.
Keisha was sitting on the edge of the bed in one of his shirts, scrolling her phone. She looked up when the door opened, smile already forming,
It died the second she saw his eyes.
Demario tossed the pages onto the mattress beside her.
“Explain.”
She picked them up. Her hands started shaking halfway through the first page. Color drained from her face.
“This isn’t, Demario, I didn’t,”
“You were fucking one of my guards. The same guard who was on Russo’s payroll. You told him shit you had no business knowing.” His voice was ice. “The same way you let Rico into my bed the night I came home.”
Keisha’s eyes flashed with something desperate. “It was Rico. He’s the one who, he must’ve set this up. He’s been playing both sides this whole time. You know how he moves, D. He’s the one who,”
Demario stepped closer, towering over her.
“You already betrayed me once. You let another man stretch my pussy in my own bed after I left you living like a queen for five years. Now you want me to believe Rico is the only problem?” He shook his head once. “I don’t buy it. Not this time.”
Tears welled in her eyes. “Demario, please. I love you. I would never,”
“You already did.”
He turned and walked out, leaving the pages scattered across the bed like evidence at a crime scene.
In the hallway Rome was waiting, expression unreadable.
Demario’s voice was low, final.
“Watch her. Every move. And you better get your dick out and start fucking Sofia. I want everything she knows.”
Rome nodded and turned to leave. Behind the closed bedroom door, Keisha sat frozen, the printed messages still in her lap, the taste of her own past betrayal thick in her mouth.
The house that was supposed to be safe suddenly felt like a cage.