Page 89

The microphone at my chest catches my controlled breathing, transmitting it to Noah and Matteo waiting outside.
I finish another set and sit up, wiping sweat from my brow. Leonardo Lombardi. Antonio's golden boy and heir apparent. The man Melania believes still has a conscience despite years of his father's grooming.
I'm not convinced. Men like us—raised in this life—we learn to compartmentalize. To separate the blood on our hands from the love in our hearts. Leonardo might love his sister but that doesn't mean he'll betray his father.
The sound of the door opening pulls me from my thoughts. Leonardo is punctual—military school discipline that never quite left him.
I don't look up immediately, continuing my reps with measured movements.
I watch Leonardo freeze mid-step when he spots me. Recognition flashes across his face—first confusion, then white-hot rage. His jaw clenches, hands curling into fists at his sides.
"Good morning, Leonardo," I say, keeping my voice casual as I set the weights back on the rack.
He's across the room in four strides, moving with the panther grace of someone who knows how to fight. His designer workout clothes don't disguise his coiled strength. Not the soft, pampered heir some might expect—this is a man who's been trained to kill.
"You fucking piece of shit," he snarls, already dropping into a fighting stance.
I stay seated on the bench, making no move toward the gun holstered at my back. If I draw now this conversation ends before it begins.
"I'm here on behalf of Melania," I say, the name cutting through his rage like a blade.
Leonardo freezes, fist pulled back and ready to connect with my jaw. Something shifts in his eyes—the fury doesn't disappear but it's tempered by something else. Concern. Fear.
"What did you say?"
"Your sister. She's alive and safe." I maintain eye contact, letting him search my face for lies. "She asked me to speak with you."
The stiffness in his shoulders doesn't ease but his fist lowers slightly. "If you've hurt her?—"
"I haven't." I cut him off. "She's under my protection."
"What the fuck does that mean—your protection?" Leonardo spits, his voice sharp enough to cut glass.
I rise from the bench, tired of looking up at him. The movement puts us eye to eye, sizing each other up like wolves from rival packs.
"It means exactly what I said." I keep my voice low, aware of the wire against my skin. "And I don't have the entire day to spend explaining it to you."
Leonardo's eyes narrow, that calculating Lombardi intelligence firing up behind them. He's looking for traps, for angles—for the lie. "Where is she?"
"Safe. And away from your father and that piece of shit Raymond." I watch his reaction carefully. "Melania wants to talk to you. I'm here to make sure she can do that without anyone else hearing."
His jaw works back and forth, grinding teeth. The mention of Raymond triggers something—a flash of disgust he can't quite hide.
"Why should I trust you? You're Damiano Feretti's dog."
The insult slides off me. I've been called worse.
"You shouldn't trust me," I answer honestly. "But you should trust your sister."
I reach into my pocket slowly, telegraphing the movement to avoid startling him. His body tenses anyway, ready to strike. I pull out a burner phone.
"She's waiting for your call."
Leonardo stares at the phone like it might bite him. "How do I know this isn't a trap?"
"You don't. But ask yourself this—if I wanted you dead, would we be having this conversation?"
His eyes flick to the empty gym, the silence around us. He knows I'm right. If this were a hit, he'd already be bleeding out on the polished floor.