Page 46 of Fire and Silk

I don’t turn.

Matteo stops at the border of the lower bed, just shy of the rosemary hedge. He waits in silence for a breath or two, then says, “Is it wise to let the ex–navy into the house?”

His tone is steady, but there’s tension at the edges—like he’s already run through every scenario in which this ends with blood on the tiles.

I pull the wire taut and lean back on my heels. The brim of my hat casts a shadow across my face, shielding my eyes from the glare slicing in from the east.

“He would have found us either way,” I say, brushing a clump of dark soil from my glove.

Matteo shifts his weight. He’s dressed in black again, despite the heat, sleeves rolled to his forearms, the tattoo over his wrist half-faded from a knife wound years ago. There’s apistol under his jacket. I can see the slight rise of the holster when he breathes.

“I can intercept him before he reaches the gate,” he says.

I glance up from my roses, smile slow and easy. “At ease, Matteo.”

He narrows his eyes but doesn’t respond.

I rise to my full height, slow enough to draw it out, and tug the gloves from my fingers. They’re damp inside. I fold them over, neatly, then slip them into the basket beside the bed. The trellis behind me is nearly full now. The roses are just beginning to open—deep red, almost black at the center, like bruises with pride.

“If you force a man to his demise,” I say, brushing the dirt from my palms, “he’ll spend the rest of his life hating you. But if you give him room, a long enough rope, and just the occasional push—” I pause, letting the weight of it settle, “he’ll do the work himself. All you have to do is watch.”

Matteo’s mouth twitches, but it’s not quite a smile.

“And what makes you so sure this one will take the bait?” he asks.

I return my attention to the nearest bloom, adjusting a low-hanging stem with two fingers. “Don’t they always?”

“Signore!” One of the younger guards rounds the corner of the hedge, breathing hard. He stops when he sees Matteo, then snaps his gaze to me.

“There’s a car approaching. Fast. No clearance. It just blew past the first checkpoint.”

Matteo straightens, his entire frame ready to move. The second guard arrives a few seconds later, speaking into his earpiece, confirming the make. Black Jaguar. Tinted windows. Civilian plates.

I wipe my hands slowly on a cloth and nod toward the garden gate.

“Let him in.”

The guard hesitates. “But—”

“He’s a friend,” I say, and smile again. This time there’s no warmth in it.

Matteo doesn’t hide his frustration. “You want me to take him to the west wing?”

“No.” I walk past him and reach for the watering can, lifting it in one hand. “Bring him here.”

“To the garden?”

“I’m not finished with my roses.”

The guard vanished the way trained men do—efficient, nearly soundless, steps absorbed into gravel and stone. Matteo remained still for a moment longer, eyes flicking toward the drive, listening. I returned to the roses.

And then I heard it.

The low growl of the Jaguar's engine tore up the slope like a thing possessed. It didn’t idle or announce itself politely. The tires screamed at the turn just before the north terrace, gravel flung into the manicured beds. Somewhere near the hedge wall, someone shouted. Several someones, actually. Voices overlapped—alarm, confusion, clipped orders tumbling out like coins on marble.

I didn’t turn.

Instead, I ran a gloved thumb along the stem of my newest bloom and whispered to it, “Papa is going to have so much fun today.”