Page 94 of Double Trouble for the Mafia Prince

Aniggling restlessness wakes me moments past five a.m., and by the force of the unease awaken in my chest, I make my way downstairs barefoot.

But the kitchen light is already on.

Marco stands at the counter in yesterday’s shirt, tie loosened, a travel thermos in one hand and a folder under his arm. His expression tightens when he sees me.

"You’re up early," he says.

"You’re dressed for war."

He doesn’t answer that right away, just sips his coffee.

Then, "One of the satellite storehouses tripped an alert. Surveillance wiped. Rear entry rekeyed sometime before sunrise. Tavo’s on-site, but I was going to swing by."

I study him for a second.

"You think it’s internal."

"I think it’s surgical. And that doesn’t come from outside." Marco grabs his keys. "It’s probably nothing."

"Let me handle it."

He raises an eyebrow. "You volunteering now?"

I step forward, take the folder from under his arm and flip through the first page.

"You’ve been running triage for weeks. Let me take this one."

"You sure you want to jeopardize the luxury life to start in a dead zone south of the river?"

The impulse to show him my middle finger is strong, but I restrain myself and give him a blank stare, no smile.

"I’m sure I need you and Luca to start taking me seriously. Besides, didn’t you say I know the streets better?"

He watches me for a beat too long, then exhales through his nose.

"Don’t fuck it up."

I head back upstairs and push open the bedroom door.

Gianna is already awake and sitting near the window, the silk robe loose around her frame, one leg tucked beneath her, the other stretched out like she owns the morning.

Pale light filters through the curtain and slides across the hollow of her collarbone, the skin still marked faintly from my mouth the night before.

Her coffee cup rests between both hands.

She hasn’t looked at me yet, but I can feel her thoughts pressing into the quiet.

I sit up slowly, watching her for a beat too long before I reach for my shirt.

The motions are careful, automatic, like muscle memory.

I say nothing as I start to dress.

This isn’t the kind of morning that invites small talk.

She speaks before I do.

"You’re leaving."