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I sit back, watching as he transfers the pictures from my phone to his. The original files are still tucked inside my coat, but I see no need to give them to him.This should be more than enough-

“I need more,” he says before I can even finish the thought.

“What?”

He gives me a blank, unreadable stare. “Find out more, Aria. I need to knoweverything—not just his shipments. If possible, I want details on his exact operations. Where he grows his weed, what substances he uses in the final product, his distribution network, his marketing strategy. Every.Fucking. Thing.”

“There’s no way I can-”

“It’s called amaster plan, you blockhead,” Marco scoffs, rolling his eyes. “Every mafia has one.Even me.” He lets out a dry laugh, shaking his head. “And here I thought you kneweverythingabout this world after that little speech you gave at the meeting.”

My fingers into fists, nails biting into my palms. I press my tongue against the inside of my cheek so hard I almost draw blood.

He’s your brother, Aria.

I open my mouth to refuse, to tell him this is impossible. Then he says it.

“If you find his master plan and bring it to me, the marriage is done.”

A sharp breath leaves me.

Marco barely spares me a glance, still focused on the pictures, his lips curving into a small, excited smile. “Not only will I annul your marriage, but Iwon’tuse you as a pawn ever again. You’ll befree. Do whatever you want. Go back to your life, stay here—whatever makes you happy.”

I stare at him, my heart pounding.

Freedom.

It sounds like a dream.

And as I watch the anticipation flicker in his eyes, Ichooseto believe him. I even let myself imagine a different life.

A life where I wake up to the scent of fresh bread baking in the oven. Where my hands are dusted with flour, kneading dough on a cool marble countertop. A small bakery—warm and inviting—filled with golden pastries and delicate cakes arranged in perfect rows. My name written in looping letters above the door.

Or maybe something else.

Charity work.Realcharity work. Not just signing checks like Marco used to do whenever he wanted good press. I picture organizing food drives, visiting shelters, and standing beside people who actually need something—not power, not control, just simple human kindness.

For the first time since this nightmare began, hope flickers in my chest.

Icanhave this. I just need to be smart. I need to play the game, get what I came for, andwin.

“I’ll get you the plan,” I say.

Marco smiles. “I knew you would.”

When the driver picks me up, I give him my new destination: the boutique where I do my shopping.

I don’t linger. I walk straight to the lingerie section, my eyes scanning the displays until they land on somethingperfect.

A deep blue set.

The sheer fabric is soft beneath my fingers, light as air—practically useless as clothing. Delicate straps, lace so fine it’s almost nonexistent.

Exactly what I need.

I pay in cash and leave without a bag.

When I arrive at the house, Nicolas’ bodyguards are stationed outside. Which meanshe’shome.