The villa feels different at night.
Not quieter. The Bianchi estate never quiets—too many guards, too many secrets—but something in the air has shifted since this morning's discovery. Paranoia has weight, and it drags through every hallway like humidity.
I stand on the balcony outside my room, tie loose, jacket tossed somewhere in the corner, staring down at the courtyard glowing under lantern light. Salvatore's car sits parked unevenly—as always—because he refuses to respect painted lines. Demitri's beat-up Ducati is propped against a fountain it absolutely shouldn't be near. Gabriel's matte-black BMW hums just barely, warming up like it's eager to misbehave.
And above all of that, the room behind me feels too still. Too quiet. Diana is unconscious down the hall. And every time I inhale, part of me expects to hear her soft breathing in this space, like she'd been here once before.
She hasn't.
But my mind acts like she has.
I shut the balcony doors before I can start thinking too much.
Downstairs, footsteps shuffle. Raised voices. The boys.
Time to go.
—
The main salon is lit warm and golden, expensive rugs swallowing sound, but the three idiots making up my inner circle are louder than any décor can contain.
Salvatore is pacing, talking with his hands like he's auditioning for a telenovela. Gabriel lounges on the sofa with his boots up—on a marble table worth more than his entire apartment. And Demitri sits on the edge of the coffee table, sipping Pellegrino nervously like sparkling water will solve crime.
Salvatore turns the moment he sees me.
"There he is," he says, throwing his arms wide. "Mr. Calm. Mr. Stone Face. Mr. I'm too sexy to stress."
Gabriel doesn't look up. "He's stressed. Look at his eyebrows. They're doing the Italian Furrow."
"My eyebrows are fine," I say, walking in.
Salvatore steps closer, squinting exaggeratedly. "Lie again. I dare you. You look like you read the group chat and saw your girl flirting with someone."
I stare at him.
He takes a step back. "I—okay, I'm just saying. You look intense."
"I always look intense."
"Yeah," Gabriel mutters, "but you usually look like you're about to kill someone. Now you look like you're about to kill someone and start thinking about taxes."
I blink. "The fuck does that even mean?"
"Existential stress," Gabriel says. "It's a vibe."
Demitri clears his throat, pushing his glasses up. "We, um… have the timeline ready."
Salvatore throws an arm around him, shaking him dramatically. "Translation: he hacked something illegal again."
Demitri groans. "I did not hack anything. I just… checked some travel databases."
"Illegally," Salvatore adds.
"Technically," Demitri argues.
"You see why you confuse authorities?" Salvatore gestures broadly at him. "You speak like a man avoiding jail time."
Demitri blushes. "I—I just don't like making trouble."
Gabriel pats his head like he's a puppy. "That's okay. You're cute when you're anxious."
Demitri turns red. "I'm not cute."
"You are," Salvatore and Gabriel say at the same time.
I watch them for a moment—chaotic, bright, ridiculous energy—and something in my chest loosens. Just enough.
This is why they're here. Why it has to be them.
"Alright," I say. "We leave tonight."
Three heads snap toward me.
Salvatore grins. "Knew it. I told you he wasn't built for waiting. Man's allergic to patience."
Gabriel drops his boots off the table. "How soon?"
"An hour," I say.
Demitri sputters, water almost spraying. "One hour?!"
"You've been ready since noon," I remind him. "You packed before I even told you we were leaving."
Salvatore cackles. "My boy packed like he was running from the IRS."
"I just…" Demitri's voice goes small. "I like being prepared."
"You brought three different chargers," Gabriel teases. "For the same phone."
"They're backup chargers," Demitri mumbles.
"You're adorable," Salvatore says.
"I am not—"
"We don't have time," I interrupt, sharper than I meant. "We can't stay in Italy another night."
Their smiles fade. Reality settles.
"You think the mole's still in the house?" Gabriel asks.
"Yes," I answer.
"And you think Marta lied," he adds. "Or—sorry—Wendy."
Salvatore snorts. "Bro. Who picks Wendy as their fake name? At least pick something spicy. Like—like Roxana or Valentina."
"That's the point," I say. "No one suspects a name like Wendy."
Demitri fidgets. "She was shaking really hard this morning. And not like 'I'm scared' shaking. More like 'I hope no one notices I'm lying to avoid death.'"
Gabriel sits forward. "So we tell Gio or…?"
"No," I say immediately.
Salvatore whistles. "Rebellion arc unlocked."
"Gio already suspects everything," I continue. "If we tell him there's a mole, he'll lock the house down, interrogate everyone, maybe kill someone innocent. We need evidence before he reacts."
"And we get that in New York," Gabriel finishes.
"Yes," I say. "We start with Daniel."
Demitri nods. "He's the only thread between the Romanos, the break-in, and Diana."
Salvatore points at him. "Wow. Look at you connecting dots. I'm proud."
Demitri shies away. "Stop. You're embarrassing me."
I drag a hand through my hair. "Look. Giovanni can't know we're leaving. If he stops us, we stay stuck in Italy. And someone watching from inside this house will know that."
"So…" Gabriel raises an eyebrow. "How we getting past Marco?"
Marco Russo. Giovanni's most loyal lieutenant. The man who'd follow Gio into hell wearing a suit and tie.
"He's guarding the private jet schedule," Gabriel adds. "We can't sneak that."
"No," I say. "We're not sneaking. We're giving him a story he can believe and report."
Salvatore rubs his hands together. "Ooooh. Deception time. My specialty."
"You don't get to call it your specialty," I say. "You once told a cop your name was 'Tito Burrito.'"
"And he believed me," Salvatore argues.
"He didn't," Demitri mutters. "He literally wrote in the report that you were 'mentally unstable.'"
Salvatore shrugs. "Same difference."
I exhale slowly. "We tell Marco we're going on a boys' trip. A spontaneous one. Somewhere in Europe."
"Where in Europe?" Gabriel asks.
"No idea," I answer. "Because Marco doesn't get to know."
Salvatore grins. "Mystery boys trip. Love it."
"We use the jet," I continue. "Gio won't question it because he thinks we're all too stupid to plan anything without him."
Gabriel smirks. "He's not wrong about Salvatore."
"Fuck you," Salvatore says cheerfully.
"And once we land," I say, ignoring them, "I call Marco R. again. And tell him to investigate 'Marta.' Quietly."
Demitri's eyes widen. "He'll actually do that?"
"He's loyal to Giovanni," I say. "But he's loyal to me when I sound serious enough."
Gabriel laughs under his breath. "So basically you gotta put on the Scary Voice."
Salvatore attempts a deep voice. "Marco. It's Alessio. Do this or perish."
"That's not what I sound like."
"That is exactly what you sound like," Gabriel counters.
Demitri nods. "Your intimidating voice is very… smooth."
We all look at him.
He goes red. "I didn't mean— I just meant— It's soothing in a terrifying way."
Salvatore throws his head back. "Bro called you a sexy threat!"
"I didn't—!"
Gabriel holds his fist out to Demitri. "Respect."
I rub my temples. "Please. Just—pack your things and get ready."
Salvatore salutes with two fingers. "Yes, Capo."
"Don't call me that."
"Daddy, then?"
Gabriel spits his drink laughing. Demitri chokes on air.
I stare dead at Salvatore. "Say that again and I'll drown you in the pool."
He grins. "Worth it."
—
We leave the villa an hour later.
The night is warm, air buzzing with late-summer cicadas. The gates open with the usual metallic groan, guards watching us but not questioning anything. I spot Marco Russo near the fountain, clipboard tucked under his arm, posture straight as a rifle.
"Here we go," Gabriel murmurs. "The Final Boss."
"Please let me talk," I say before Salvatore can open his mouth.
"Bro," Salvatore whispers dramatically, "have some faith."
"No."
"Fair."
Marco steps toward us, eyebrows lowering. "You're leaving?"
"Yes," I say, calm. "Boys trip."
Marco looks like he just got handed a physics equation. "A what?"
Salvatore throws an arm around my shoulder. "You know. Vibes. Brotherly bonding. Healing our inner children."
Gabriel adds, "Drinks. Music. Terrible decisions."
Marco turns to me slowly, silently begging for sanity.
"Europe," I clarify.
He nods, relieved. "Where in Europe?"
I hold his gaze. "We'll decide when we get there."
He blinks. "But— I have to file flight logs and—"
"We'll give you the destination once we're in the air," I say firmly. "Private plans. Nothing dangerous."
A lie. A necessary one.
Marco hesitates. But I see the moment he folds—loyalty to me outweighs his suspicion.
"Alright," he says. "Text me when the pilot knows."
"Good."
He steps aside, letting us pass. But then—
"Alessio," he calls.
I glance back.
"You boys… watch yourselves."
For a second, the mask slips. He looks worried.
"Always," I say.
—
The jet takes off at 11:43 PM.
Italy shrinks beneath us—lights turning to freckles, cities to smudges, the coastline glimmering like a blade. Salvatore is already sprawled across two leather seats, scrolling through TikTok with the brightness at maximum.
A video blasts loudly.
"Bro," Gabriel groans. "Turn that shit down."
"It's the guy who cooks steak on a volcano," Salvatore says. "This is art."
Demitri sits near the window, typing something furiously. "I'm running background checks on Marta. If she's fake, we'll know before we land."
Gabriel kicks his chair lightly. "Don't work too hard. We still gotta bully you for entertainment later."
Demitri smiles shyly. "I know."
I sit across from all of them, watching, absorbing, letting their noise steady my thoughts. The jet hums around us, engines slicing through clouds. For a moment, I close my eyes.
New York is nine hours away.
Daniel is in that city.
Diana is asleep in a room I didn't dare enter.
And a mole is hiding in my house with someone else's name.
I pull out my phone.
Marco R. has already texted.
Marco R.: Your father thinks you're in Barcelona. Don't screw this up.
A scoff escapes me. Salvatore leans over.
"Oooooh. Daddy Gio got tricked."
"Salvatore."
"Okay, okay," he laughs. "I'll stop. For now."
I type a message.
Me: When we land, I'll need you to investigate the maid named Marta. Quietly. Don't alert anyone.
Three dots appear.
Then:
Marco R.: …You think she's involved?
Me: Yes.
A pause.
Marco R.: I'm on it.
I slip my phone into my pocket, leaning back as the jet continues crossing the night.
Demitri looks up suddenly. "Alessio?"
"Yeah?"
"Do you think Diana will be okay?"
The question steals a breath from me.
"Yes," I say. "She will."
"You… sound sure."
"I am."
Gabriel studies me quietly. Salvatore stops scrolling. Demitri's fingers still.
They all know.
They see it.
They just won't say it.
Not yet.
I turn my gaze to the window, watching the stars smear against the glass.
Nine hours until New York.
Nine hours until answers.
Nine hours until Daniel.
And somewhere below us, back in Italy—
A maid named Marta
with a fake name
and a trembling lie
is waiting for someone to catch her.
She will not wait long.
I make sure of that.