"Chi sa aspettare, vince." (Those who can wait, win.)

Isabella Visconti

Enzo

I wake up disoriented, my body aching. I could sleep for a whole week. Sunlight filters through the window. Shit. I slept longer than I should have.

A strange uneasiness creeps over me. There’s a wrongness in the silence. Subtle. Like a breath held too long.

I grab my gun from the nightstand and step out of the room. The floor is cool under my feet. I check each room as I pass.

Jace is still asleep, looking a little better, relieving me a bit, so I head downstairs cautiously.

Halfway down, a scent of coffee and toasted bread hits me, familiar and comforting. Like reassurance I didn’t know I needed. My fingers loosen on the grip barely but enough to feel the cold metal, not just the weight of instinct. 

Rem sits at the counter, sipping coffee. Must have woken up recently because he’s oddly quiet, while Mark is lying on the couch with his eyes closed, his forearm over his eyes, clearly awake. I let my body relax and tuck the gun behind my back, hidden beneath the grey flannel shirt I slept in. The real anomaly is the small woman standing by the stove, humming softly as she cooks.

Her long black hair falls wildly down her back like a veil, cascading past her hips. Rem steals a piece of bread from the counter without asking, and she lets him, as if they’ve done it before.

She’s wearing a long-sleeve band t-shirt and black pajama pants… so different from the woman I saw in my house, wrapped in a turtleneck, hair tied up, or the woman last night, ready to kill us. Her dark green eyes find me.

“Morning.” I nod in response, not knowing what to say. I just need coffee.

Without a word, she gestures toward the full pot, as if she just read my mind.

This isn’t how I imagined the day starting. It’s... strangely cozy.

She finishes scrambling the eggs with quiet efficiency and plates five servings.Then slides one toward Rem and hands me another plate.

I pause before taking it.

“Why are you… here?” My tone is rougher than I intended, but I can't understand how calm she is with all this. She doesn’t hesitate in her answer.

“It’s my house, and that you’re here doesn’t mean I’ll change my routine.”

I contemplate her for a second. Not sure if the calm she carries is real or something she stitched together.

“Thank you, darling,” Rem interjects smoothly with a smile.

“I’m not your darling,” she replies, cold and sharp.

“You just cooked for me, it’s hard not to feel flattered.”

“It’s called basic manners.” She grabs her plate and heads to her room.

“There’s a plate for you, Mark,” Rem announces, and I hear the leather rustle, then he sits next to Mark and the three of us eat in silence. Once we finish—

“We need to talk,” I inform, and the three of us head to Jace’s room.

“Jace,” I say, trying to wake him up. He lazily opens his eyes, dark circles under them. I help him sit up and place the plate beside him so he can eat while we figure out our next move.

“How do you feel?” I ask quietly.

He nods slowly in affirmation, but when he moves his shoulder, he winces in pain. Rage and worry churn inside me. I take a deep breath and calm down.

“So what are we going to do?” Rem says, sitting on the chair next to the desk. Sipping his coffee, Mark closes the door and leans against it.

“Do you trust your sources?” I stare at Rem. He just lifts his eyebrows, with that stupid look that says I just asked a stupid question. I pass my hand through my hair.

“I get it, stop looking at me like that. You know it pisses me off.” He shrugs and lets out a bored sigh.

“Mark, how did last night go? Something off?”

“I don’t know… her rifle is barely used, same as the Glock, and I didn’t find any other weapon… but—”

“An AK-47 is a weird option for self-defense,” Rem says.

“Yes… and the model isn’t something that a civilian or a shitty gun trafficker can get easily.”

“So she must have some shady contact?”

“Maybe.” Rem turns his gaze to me, delighted.

“We could ask her to get us some equipment. We’ll need it.” I shake my head.

“No, I have a plan already.”

“Which is?”

“Collect the debt from Sal Russo.”

Rem stands and pats me on the shoulder with a pitying look, then just leaves the room. Mark follows in silence. I lean back in the chair, looking at the ceiling, letting the silence press down on me, gathering the will to make the call.

I’ve evaded this city and the Russos for too long… and now I need their sources.

“Why are we staying here?” Jace’s raspy and low voice pulls me back from my thoughts. I turn my head to face him.

“I don’t really know…” And I’m not lying. I’m not sure why I decided to stay, it’s just… “You know the feeling… when you don’t want to release something you just got, even if you don’t know what awaits.” He gives me one faint, knowing smile.

“I get it.” We share a look. I know he understands… how fast time passes. He’s a grown man now. I sigh and stand.

“Eat and rest. If you need anything, just ask… I have a call to make.” I head to my room and make the call.

FUCK.

The bastard isn’t answering. I know the old man hasn’t changed his number. He’s blatantly ignoring me. He owes me a favor. A big one. And now he’s acting like I don’t exist.

I keep trying. He’s the only one I can trust right now.

We can’t move freely… anyone would recognize Rem and me.

I need his help. After the tenth attempt, frustrated, I go out of my room and head back downstairs.

“No luck?” Rem asks, already knowing the answer.

“No,” I snap, my tone more bitter than intended.

“Who are you trying to reach?”

Jennifer appears beside me like a shadow, eyes flicking to my phone.

“Salvatore Russo?” she murmurs, reading the name on the screen.

“Mind your own business,” I bite back. I don’t want her involved in this.

“I can help,” she offers casually, and Rem raises an eyebrow.

“What do you mean, darling?” She shoots him a hard glare.

“Don’t call me that again.” He just smirks, unfazed.

“Your food was delicious.” Rem reaches out, placing a hand on her shoulder. She slaps it away without hesitation

“Don’t touch me,” she warns, turning back to me.

“You need to talk to Sal?”

“He needs a meeting,” Rem answers for me.

“Rem,” I warn. He usually doesn’t overshare.

He wants to piss me off.

Asshole.

“What if she can help?” he says with a shrug. Then, to Jennifer, “Think you can get us a meeting, darling?”

She doesn’t spare him a glance.

“I can help,” she repeats.

“How?” I finally ask, intrigued despite myself.

She answers with the flick of her thumb, already dialing on her phone.

“None of your business,” she mutters with a wink before pressing the phone to her ear.

The line barely rings before someone picks up.

“Ciao, Sal. It’s Jennifer.”

From the other end, a voice I’d recognize anywhere.

“Jennifer! Good to hear from you. To what do I owe the pleasure?”

“Sal, I owe you dinner. We have a pending conversation. I’m free tonight.”

“That’s wonderful news! I’d love to, but only if you bring your lasagna. I tried some the other day, and I’m obsessed.”

What the hell? Why does she speak so casually to him?

“Of course! But I have a guest at my house. Can I bring him? I can’t leave him alone.”

“Your guest is my guest. See you at eight.”

He hangs up and she turns to me.

“Looks like you owe me another one,” she says plainly.

Rem leans forward, intrigued.

“Jenny, darling, how exactly do you know a mafia boss?”

She tilts her head, amused, looking like a queen indulging a fool.

“Is that relevant to you?”

“Only if you’re a threat,” he says lightly, smiling.

“You don’t have to worry about me,” she replies smoothly, making it clear she won’t explain further. And, to my surprise, Rem doesn’t push.

I watch her as she moves unhurried toward the kitchen, and pouring herself a glass of orange juice.

The warm light of the room contrasts with her cool demeanor, pale skin, black hair flowing like shadows around her, dark circles under her eyes betraying years of sleep deprivation. But instead of dulling her beauty, it only makes her more compelling. Mysterious like a soul carved from night.

Her rose and bow-shaped lips part slightly like a silent temptation. Last night, I caught glimpses of tattoos on her arms, but her clothes now hide every inch of ink. I step forward to pour myself some too. She doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t seem the least bit intimidated by my 6’4” frame.

She looks up at me, analyzing. Whatever expression I’m wearing makes her raise a perfectly sculpted left brow. Just beneath it, I catch the tiny dark beauty mark, nestled in the curve like an afterthought.

She levels me with a pissed glare.

“I know I might seem insignificant to you, but don’t look at me like that.”

I stare, astonished. I don’t think she looks insignificant—far from it. But I decide not to answer.

Just turn away. I can still feel her gaze following me.

I need to get ready. I don’t have any clothes, and Salvatore Russo is a fucking extravagant bastard. I need to look proper.

But first, I stop on the first step of the stairs and turn to her.

“Get ready. We’re going to the workshop.”