— LUCIUS —
She answered.
That, in itself, is fascinating.
When I gave her the phone, I expected her to crush it under her heel — or better yet, hand it straight to their tech team for dissection. That would have been the reasonable thing to do...
Ophelia Marchesi is cautious. Everything about her says measured precision: from the way she smiles just enough to disarm a man, to the way she can utter underhanded threats without batting an eye.
Despite her cleverness, she kept it.
And not only that, she answered my messages.
More than just Ophelia, the city hasn't stopped whispering of the Marchesi Family..
It's been a week since I put a bullet through the throat of Don Enrico Marchesi. Naturally, there's been no evidence revealed on who killed him, and from what I can tell, their family isn't making much of an attempt to investigate. More proof that they're going to fall apart if they don't solidify their new leadership plans soon.
Everyone called Enrico the last "real" Marchesi — the cousin who rose from the ashes after their patriarch died over a decade ago, taking with him most of the bloodline and their grip on Ventolia's docks. The brother of the late Don, Alessandro, was said to have survived an old car bombing with half a leg and no appetite for violence. He handed the reins to that cousin and kept his title out of pity or shame, depending on who you ask.
Alessandro has come out of his retirement to act as a temporary steward while they decide how to proceed. He's been in the shadows for so long, though, that his actions are all coming out of left field.
He must be pretty competent, though, because the Marchesi network should've folded by now without their boss. Their alliances should've collapsed, maybe even had some of their debts recalled.
Instead, the docks are moving again. Quietly. Precisely. As if nothing's changed at all.
My people say it's the girl… Ophelia.
That the niece — the consigliere — has been stepping in, smoothing over deals, reassuring the loyalists that her uncle still has his hand on the wheel.
I take a deep breath and lean back in my chair, scrolling through our messages.
Her replies are short and humorless, obviously meant to betray nothing…
And yet I can feel her temper thrumming between every line.
She doesn't flirt back or yield to my incessance, but she answers—and that's all the invitation I need.
I remember the rooftop — the rain sliding off her hair, the cold steel of her blade against my jaw, the way she didn't flinch when I raised my gun to her ribs. She may be the consigliere, the brains behind the Marchesis, but she was so much more than that…
A killer.
That unmistakable listlessness and simmering anger behind her beautiful brown eyes give it away. I recognize it because I see it in the mirror every day. She's a lovely, lethal murderer, and she wants to kill me.
…And I want her to.
Because if she still wants me dead, she's still thinking about me, and a woman like Ophelia Marchesi doesn't waste hate on a man she doesn't respect.
I open the drawer of my desk. Inside, a small collection gleams under the dim light:
A pearl earring.
A ribbon the color of old wine.
A slender hairpin shaped like a dagger.
Each one hers.
Only three things so far, but that's going to change. Since she's going to be spending time trying to seduce me, I'll have plenty of opportunities to acquire more of her possessions.
The ribbon came first — I found it at a charity gala last year. She was wearing red that night, laughing for the cameras, a glass of champagne in hand. She didn't notice when it slipped from her hair. I pocketed it before the waiter swept it away.
I wasn't as intrigued by her back then, but the ribbon still called to me. I didn't know why, but I knew I needed to keep it. Now, she's my noose—fate is fascinating that way.
The earring came later, after our dance a few days ago.
And the hairpin? That one's fresh.
It sits between my fingers now, cool and sharp. She'll notice it missing eventually. When she does, she'll know exactly who took it.
The city hums below. Rain again.
It hasn't stopped since that night.
My phone buzzes with reports from my lieutenants: docks are clean, shipments are confirmed, and all is quiet. Too quiet.
If the Marchesis were leaderless, they'd be scrambling. Instead, they're moving with purpose, at the command of a talented consigliere.
Ophelia is more brilliant than anyone gives her credit for. If Alessandro were wise, he would let her take the position as boss… but the Marchesis are very traditional. They've never had a woman at the head before, and I'm sure they won't want to start now.
I open our message thread again.
[Still thinking about me.]
I type it and add a sticker — a little cartoon bear blowing kisses. The kind that'll make her grind her teeth.
Then I wait.
I don't have to wait long before it shows that she has read my message, but she isn't answering. The corner of my lip twitches upward as I type again:
[I'm thinking of you, too.]
This time, she answers.
[You're insufferable.]
No wasted words. No emoji. Cold, perfect Ophelia.
I grin, victorious once again in getting her to reply. I reply:
[Better insufferable than dead.]
She types quickly:
[We'll see.]
She thinks she's playing me, but she doesn't understand — I don't play games if I feel I'm going to lose. I've never been a gambler, only a winner.
If the Marchesi empire is truly finished, then she's all that's left.
Either way, I'm going to keep her close.
I sigh deeply. It's a pleasant night, and I can hear the soft hum of rain against my window. I close the drawer, leaving the trinkets where they belong; pieces of her, tucked neatly beside my sidearm.
And when she finally learns that the man she wants to destroy is the only one who sees her clearly—maybe then she'll stop allowing herself to be the perfect Marchesi heir, and start being mine.
As I get into bed, I send her one final message for the night.
[Let's go on a date soon. Maybe don't bring a knife this time.]
(Sticker: cartoon rabbit hiding behind its paws.)
Her reply takes three minutes:
[I prefer to improvise.]
I laugh softly, resting my phone on the empty pillow beside me.
Of course, she enjoys improvising.