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“And why the hell is she here?” His head tilts, narrowing in on me. “What happened to your face?”

I ignore him. “Where are Alfio and Omero?” I ask.

Enzo shrugs. “Milan. Some clean-up work for that insurance broker who owed us. They’ll be back tomorrow.”

I nod. Then look at Riccardo. “Put the gun away. And don’t say or do anything stupid. Let him in.”

Riccardo clicks his tongue but slides the gun back into his waistband. “Whatever,” he mutters.

I turn to Enzo. “Get me handcuffs.”

Enzo blinks like I just said something insane. “Handcuffs?”

“Just get them.”

He raises both brows, gives a low whistle, but leaves the room.

The girl looks up when I approach. Her eyes go wide again. She leans slightly away like she thinks distance might save her. It won’t.

I take her wrist—her skin’s warm, soft, and trembling. She doesn’t fight, but she looks like she’s holding back a scream. I cuff her, metal clinking around her bones, then fasten the other end to my own wrist and I slid the key into my pocket.

She lets out the tiniest, broken sound.

Enzo steps back in, whistling louder now. “Shit. Should I order a cake too, or is this not that kind of ceremony?”

I shoot him a look that shuts him up, and my focus returns to her.

She’s staring at the cuff between us like it’s a death sentence. She bit Bugatti’s arm. Slammed a maid into the floor. Damn near escaped the entire estate. She’s not harmless. She’s not some sweet, trembling thing. I will figure out what the hell to do with her after I handle Bellandi.

Riccardo returns, swinging the door open like he owns the place. Behind him walks Bellandi.

He’s aged, but not much. Fifty-five, still tall, still sharp-eyed. His gold signet ring flashes when he lifts his hand.

“There’s my favorite nephew,” Bellandi says, all teeth and charm.

*****

Riccardo makes a show of tossing his gun on the table with a clatter that draws everyone’s attention. He leans back in his seat beside Enzo, arms crossed, sneer carved across his face as he fixes his eyes on Bellandi.

I sit at the head of the table, straight-backed, one arm resting on the surface, the other cuffed to the girl beside me. She shifts every now and then, barely breathing. I don’t need to look to know how tense she is—I can feel it through the chain. Every twitch of her wrist, every tremble in her fingers, it all moves through the link and brushes against me.

Bellandi’s seated in the center with a glass of water in his hand. His smile never fades. He’s been wearing it since he walked in.

“I came the moment I heard you were out of jail,” he says, tone warm, but sharp underneath. “The families have missed you. It was a tough time after your father died.”

Riccardo mutters something dark under his breath. I don’t catch it, but I shoot him a look that says shut up. He shrugs and looks away.

I turn back to Bellandi, voice flat. “Thank you for coming. I’ll take over from my father. They don’t need to worry.”

Bellandi’s lips spread wider. “Of course. Your father did a beautiful job heading the three families of Melbourne. For over six decades, we’ve stood out in Italy as a powerhouse. I trust you to carry on his legacy…”

He pauses—too long. I already see it coming.

“…but.”

And there it is.

Bellandi is a snake, always has been. Knows how to hide the venom behind a compliment.