"Non mi manca Milano, Enzo. My home is wherever you are."

Isabella Visconti

Enzo

Her warning gave us just enough of a chance to make it out alive. But there was nothing we could do to stop it. It was a well-planned attack and they blew up our fucking house.

"I don't know what we're doing here," Mark mutters.

"She could've seen something else, something that might help us."

I ring the bell again.

"What if she's not home?" he asks, glancing at the red wooden door, any light coming from any window.

I sigh, the weight of the day already pressing down. "We wait."

Right then, the door clicks and opens slightly, but no one steps out. I slide a hand to my lower back, grip the gun, and draw it slow. The metallic whisper of the others doing the same follows behind me. Carefully, I step inside. And that's when I see a rifle barrel aimed straight at my face.

On the other end, holding it steady, stands a woman with a stare cold enough to kill. She's barefoot, in silky pajama pants and a matching top, half-covered by a robe so oversized it could pass for a blanket. Her long black hair frames her face in loose waves, unbothered, like she just stepped out of a dream. Or a nightmare. For a moment, she looks like the Grim Reaper: calm, focused, ready to claim a soul.

"Why are you here?" Her eyes hold no fear, just warning. She doesn't even flinch at our guns aimed back at her.

"Jennifer, dear, I don't think you understand what kind of situation you're in." Rem tries to lighten the mood with his charm, as usual, but she doesn't buy it.

"You. Shut up." She cuts him off without even looking at him, her eyes locked on mine, nowhere to be seen is her earlier polite and professional tone.

"Why are all of you here?" Her voice is dry and demanding, sharp enough to slice through the air.

"We just want to talk. Now lower your gun," I say calmly, trying to appease her.

She smirks and clicks the safety off. The metallic snap slices the air.

"And be left defenseless with four armed men? I don't think so." the sound of three safeties clicking off behind me follows hers.

"We just want answers, and you're at a disadvantage, so cut the crap and lower the gun," I demand.

"Am I?" She tilts her head. "I think I could take at least one of you with me before you kill me."

I don't know if it's the confidence in her voice, the determination in her stare, or the way her cheek rests flush against the stock, eye perfectly lined with the sight. The rifle stays steady, the aim unshaken. This isn't some clumsy grip; it's practiced, trained. She knows exactly what she's doing, and I believe every word of her threat.

I could try to counter her, but I won't take the risk, so I lower my gun, slide it back into its place, and gesture for the others to do the same. She doesn't move. Just watches. Waiting. That unwavering, penetrating gaze of hers demands more answers.

"The note. It's the only clue we have about what happened. We need to know if you saw something else," I lift my hands in a silent truce. Her gaze flicks toward the others, unreadable. Then, to my surprise, it shifts. Something else replaces her suspicion.

"All right." She clicks the safety back on, leans the rifle against the wall like she's hanging a coat in a foyer, and turns. "Come in," she says quietly. I follow without hesitation. If she wanted me dead, she'd have taken the shot already. The others trail behind, their steps careful, alert. I study her as she walks. She's short—maybe five-two—but somehow manages to be intimidating.

The house doesn't match her demeanor. It's warm. Lived-in. Wooden floors, soft lighting, a few scattered plants. Paintings hang on nearly every wall. The living room is wide and open, with the kitchen integrated into the space, separated only by a long island. Two large brown leather couches face a massive TV, with a wooden coffee table between them. A small bar sits beside one of the two armchairs flanking the bigger couch.

It's a welcoming space, and she just let four armed men into it without so much as a blink. Jennifer heads behind the kitchen island and pulls out a medical kit and hands it to me and nodding behind me.

"Your friend looks like he's about to pass out," I frown, turn confused, and see Jace. Paler than he already is. Breathing shallow. Gripping his left shoulder.

Fuck.

I move to him fast, fingers already pulling down the zipper of his hoodie. The inside is soaked. Blood has seeped through the fabric, concentrated around his shoulder. The irony smell fills the air. No exit wound in sight.

"Why didn't you say anything?" I mutter, already scanning the rest of him for more damage.

He doesn't answer. Just clenches his jaw, holding back a wince.

Mark steps up with the kit in his hands as I help Jace sink into the couch. He slumps back, breathing shallow, and Mark crouches beside him to start treating the wound.

Meanwhile, I glance at Rem. His eyes are fixed on Jennifer, analyzing her. Every move. Every breath.

She moves to a small bar beside a single leather couch, pours herself a glass of whiskey, and takes a slow, unbothered sip.

"You can ask whenever you're ready," she says, tone even. Is she really this calm? So unaffected?

I glance at Jace; he's still upright, Mark focused on his shoulder, cutting the fabric around the wound. He'll be fine, he has to. I turn back to her.

"What do you know about the ambush?" I ask.

"Nothing really... I just noticed some odd things," she says, glancing in Rem's direction. He remains silent, roaming around the space.

"Like?" Her eyes drift back to me.

"The cars at the beginning of the road that leads to your house. A road that ends there. No other properties. It looked like someone trying to block the only route of escape."

"It could've been our security," Rem replies.

"But it wasn't. And you told me you don't have security. Or staff," Jennifer points out.

"Weren't you afraid?" The question slips out before I can stop it. She looks at me again, her dark green eyes unblinking.

"Of course I was. That's why I'm so careful." She walks over to the couch and sits with effortless grace, crossing her legs. No fear. No hesitation.

"You don't seem like it," Rem says.

She tilts her head. "Would you prefer I cry, shiver, and beg for mercy? Would that turn you on? As if it would be of help."

"Why did you help us?" The question leaves me before I can stop it.

"I have nothing against any of you. If I could help, why not?" She takes another sip, unfazed. And just like that, a sense of déjà vu settles deep in my chest.

"Why a note?" Rem eyes drifting to a painting on the wall.

"You might not have let me leave. It bought me seconds to escape." Smart.

"Did you notice anything else?" Rem's tone is friendly, but his eyes are sharp, hunting for anything useful.

"I'm too tired to think. Maybe I'll remember something tomorrow."

"Think now," I demand, patience slipping.

"I think the whiskey was too strong," she muses, then claps her hands once.

"You all look like shit. Maybe come back tomorrow." She offers a wide, dismissive smile.

"We'll stay," I declare. She blinks twice. If I hadn't been watching, I would've missed it. But she processes the statement with perfect control, no signs of surprise or distress.

"What?" Mark huffs. I can feel his piercing stare in the side of my face. she looks at the couch where Jace is, then back at me.

"Your friend's unconscious on my couch. I don't think I have a choice." How the hell is she so composed? Jace is wounded. We're exhausted. And her indifference is starting to piss me off.

I take a step toward her. Slow. Measured. My hand finds the grip of my gun almost without thought.

Her gaze never wavers. If anything, there's a spark there, like she's daring me.

Another step. Close enough to catch the faint scent of whiskey on her breath.

"You'll talk now," I say, pressing the muzzle under her chin trying to steal some reaction from her.

I expect fear. A wince. Something. Instead, her pupils dilate. Then she smirks.
"You like this, don't you?" she purrs, something wild flickering in her eyes like excitement.
I scowl. "No. As much as I find you incredibly suspicious, I don't get off on hurting helpless women."

And that detonates something in her. Her face twists in pure rage.
A whiskey glass smashes against my temple. The crack of glass and the sudden burn of alcohol mix with the sharp sting in my skin, vision snapping sideways. Before I can curse, cold steel kisses my neck, solid and unyielding. The smell of gun oil cuts through the faint sweetness of whiskey still clinging to my lips.

"I'm not helpless." Her voice is low, dangerous, back in control.

A laugh escapes me then I grab her wrist, twist it until she winces. the gun hits the floor with a dull thud. A soft groan escapes her lips.

"If you want to kill someone, don't hesitate," I whisper in her ear. She exhales sharply. The anger bleeds out.

"Kurwa mać," Jennifer mutters.

"What?" I ask confused.

"Kurwa mać. I think I heard them say that just when I hit one with my car."

"Polish?" Rem asks.

"Yes," she confirms. Good. We're finally getting somewhere.

"Is that enough?" she's glaring at me, then at my hand still holding her wrist. "Let go."

I hadn't even realized I was still holding her. Reluctantly, I let go.

"Sorry," I whisper. She gives a quick nod.

"Don't try anything funny again, dear," Rem warns lightly.

"My SUV has a camera. It might've caught something. But it's in the workshop. We can't check until tomorrow."

"You took a car full of bullet holes to a mechanic?" Rem raises a brow.

"Yes, I trust him... It's bulletproof, but it's not like I can go around with the car in those conditions anyway," she says simply.

"A bulletproof car. That's not something most people have," Rem says.

"Well, I deliver valuable pieces, so it's better to be prepared." He narrows his eyes and she stretches and yawns.

"Anyway, I'm going to bed. You can stay if you want. Just keep the place clean." Her phone rings, breaking the silence. My jaw tightens. She might decide we're a threat. Might ask for help from whoever's calling her. She answers.

"I'll call you tomorrow." And hangs up before the other voice can reply. So she really doesn't see us as a threat? I can't conceive it.

"In the morning, you'll take me to the workshop," I say.

"Sure. Help yourselves to the fridge. There are some clothes upstairs. Don't be shy."

"What's your deal?" Rem asks.

"Maybe one day I'll need a favor. And I'll come asking."

"So you're not helping out of the kindness of your heart?" he says, sardonic.

"If I benefit from helping you, why not? Wouldn't you?" She turns and walks away, disappearing behind a pair of double doors. A soft click follows, then the sound of a lock, smooth and deliberate. I stand still for a moment, letting it all settle.

She let us in.

She let me stay.

"Rem... she look like a menace to you?" He's better at reading people than any of us.
"Why are we really here? Why did you put a tracker in her purse?" he asks instead. I don't answer. Of course he suspects there's more.

The scent of blood and alcohol reaches me. I glance at Jace, his blood staining the leather couch.
"Mark, do we need a doctor?" and there's a trace of concern in my voice..
"I don't think so. The bleeding stopped. He just needs rest."

My shoulders loosen a fraction. If Mark says he'll be fine, I believe him. He's the only one I'd trust to patch any of us up. Still, seeing Jace like this... it puts a weight on my chest I can't shake.

"See? We stay." I turn to Rem.
"Bullshit. You know her," He insists, narrowing his eyes.
"I don't trust her," Mark mutters.
"I don't know what you're talking about. But we can handle one little woman, can't we? And if she's right and the Polish are behind this, they've got the resources to find us if we're not careful. "We're out of their territory here. Staying buys us time. I doubt they'll look here tonight. We need to rest."

"She could be a problem, if she's with them," Rem warns.
"If she tries anything, I'll kill her," Mark's tone is cold as steel.
"You won't," I snap. "I'll take care of Jace. Rem, get some sleep tonight."
"On the other hand, she looked like a little hissing cat with a rifle. Weirdly adorable," Rem mumbles.

I ignore him. "Mark, get changed and stay down here watching. Rem, wait here until he's back. She can't leave this house."
They both nod.

I crouch down and lift Jace gently. My muscles protest with every inch, but I can't leave him here. He's unconscious but still breathing. I carry him upstairs with slow, careful steps, each one heavier than the last. Mark trails behind us in silence.

When we reach the end of the stairs the hallway feels like a hotel. Pale and plain walls, white basic furniture, two white doors on each side and one at the end. The opposite of the floor below. She probably doesn't come up here often.

Mark opens the first door on my right without a word. A bedroom. The bed is perfectly made. A faint layer of dust lingers on the surface of a little desk and the nightstand. Air freshener clings to the air like it was waiting for a guest.

I lay Jace on the bed. Mark hands me a few clean clothes for him, but I don't like the idea of changing him while he's unconscious. I make sure the area surrounding the wound is clean, cover him with a blanket, and check his pulse. Still steady.

Then I step out to find a room for myself. I pick the one next to Jace's. To my surprise it has an en suite bathroom. Mark heads directly to the bathroom at the end of the hall.

As she said, there are men's clothes in the closets and basic toiletries in the bathroom. I toss my bloodied clothes in the trash, set a clean set on the counter, and step into the shower.

Almost boiling water hits my skin. It doesn't wash away the tension. We've lost our house... but I'm not sad. Rem barely stayed there. Mark adapts anywhere. Jace is the one I worry about. Anger flares hot in my veins. Someone put them in danger and didn't even show their face. If they think they'll get away with it, they're dead wrong.

I rest my forehead against the cold tile, forcing my breath steady.

Why does she have so many men's clothes? Does someone live here with her? Doesn't seem like it... but the question lingers. I step out, frustrated, dry off, and get dressed. Then I sit on the bed, staring out the window. I need a cigarette, but I'm too tired to go out and buy any.

I glance at the nightstand and open the small drawer. Inside, a small box of cigarettes. Finally, something good. I grab it, step onto the balcony almost desperate, and light one.

We're close to the old harbor, so this neighborhood is quiet compared with the rest of the city. The view stretches with a few stars, treetops, and in the horizon the city skyline. I take a deep drag and feel the nostalgic warm and salty summer breeze. The nicotine hits just right.

From here, I see more of the property: a vast garden, a pool, and a building in the back maybe a barbecue. I turn, and right behind me is a private patio with a jacuzzi. A wall-mounted TV takes up half the space, and a fully stocked bar waits in the corner

What is she doing now? Sleeping without a care?