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“I called him myself.” He leans forward, fists planted on the desk. “Do you know what that son of a bitch said?”

I nod, bracing myself.

“He laughed,” Marco’s voice is cold, gritting through his teeth. “Laughed and said, ‘That’s what you get for being on my bad side.’He slams a fist down on the desk, making me jump. “He didn’t even deny it. He did this just for the fun of it. All my men are dead, and that bastard thought it was funny.”

I blink, trying to process what he just said. “What?”

Marco looks at me, his expression shifting. He hadn’t meant to say it, and he confirms it by muttering, “Nothing.”

“Do you know why he would do that? I mean, stop your shipment from coming?” I ask, trying to make sense of it.

Marco straightens, his teeth gritting. “Because that’s who he is, Aria. He is a cruel, arrogant bastard who thinks he can take whatever he wants. And because he hates me. Maybe he got pissed off at the party on Saturday? Who knows?”

I think about the party, and a shiver runs down my spine. Maybe if I’d known what Nicolas was capable of, I wouldn’t have pushed him. I feel guilty, like somehow I’m responsible for this.

“Fuck,” Marco curses again, his voice raw.

The anger I’d tried to placate earlier is rising again, but beneath it, there’s something else—fear. It’s not just in his voice; I can see it in his eyes.

Marco and I may have lost touch for a few years, but I grew up with him. I know his tells. The way he scratches the side of his thumb when he’s afraid or nervous. It’s something he’s doing right now.

Marco might not admit it, but Nicolas has the upper hand—and he knows it. My mind drifts back to the party, to the way Nicolas spoke to me on the balcony. There was a coldness in his voice when I mentioned falsity. And then it hits me.

He knew.

He knew exactly who I was. That’s why he was so cruel. He didn’t see me as a person—just a Rossi.

The realization stings, and my fists clench involuntarily.

“Marco?” I say softly, despite the tension building in my chest. “He’s not going to stop?”

Marco’s lips curl into a bitter smile. “Not unless I stop him first.”

My mind flashes to the face of the handsome man from Saturday—Nicolas Paolo. A cruel man with a strong vendetta against my brother and me.

My hatred for him hardens, and my chest rises and falls with anger. Whatever Marco feels for him, I’m beginning to feel it too.

As Marco stares at the papers scattered across his desk, an idea sparks in my mind.

Though Marco doesn’t know it, I’ve been keeping myself informed about the legal side of the family business. It might come in handy now.

“What if you used the docks on the south side instead? For the next shipment,” I suggest, leaning forward. “The ones closer to the industrial district. The roads there are quieter, less traffic, a bit more open. If Nicolas is watching the main port, he won’t expect you to move operations somewhere smaller. Somewhere, he doesn’t think you’d risk.”

Marco’s head snaps up, his frown deepens, his brows knitting together. “What?”

I can tell he’s wondering how I know this, but I press on.

“I know the south side is risky, but that’s the point. He won’t see it coming. And you could use smaller, independent trucks instead of your usual ones. It’s less obvious, less predictable.”

For a moment, he’s silent. His face goes slightly pale, and he stares at me like I’ve just sprouted horns.

Then, out of nowhere, he laughs. It’s short and sharp, a bark of amusement tinged with disbelief.

“You shouldn’t concern your pretty head with business,” he says dismissively. That’s a man’s job-”

But then he stops. His expression shifts abruptly—shock, followed by contemplation. I can almost see the gears turning in his head.

“Wait-” Marco’s voice softens, thoughtful now. “You might be onto something,” he admits, leaning back in his chair, studying me. “Maybe you’re more than a pretty thing. You could have your uses.”