The rain had stopped by morning, but the air still felt heavy, as if the city itself was holding its breath. I moved through Marco's kitchen in silence, pouring coffee into a mug, letting the bitter scent wrap around me like armor.
I could hear him on the phone in the other room, speaking in low, measured Italian. I didn't understand every word, but I recognized the tone—business. Dangerous business.
My eyes drifted toward the study door, now locked again. The memory of the photographs and my father's letter tightened my chest. It would be easy to march in, confront him, and demand the truth. But I wasn't ready—not yet.
No, if I played this right, Marco would give me what I wanted without realizing it. And when I finally had enough, I'd make them both wish they'd never underestimated me.
My first move was simple: observation.
I started noticing the way Marco's phone lit up with certain names. I remembered which calls he took in my presence and which ones he stepped away for. I memorized fragments of overheard conversations, storing them like puzzle pieces.
When we went out, I watched how his men reacted around him—who deferred instantly, who hesitated, and who spoke too freely. I filed away every face, every flicker of loyalty or doubt.
He thought I was just adapting to his world. And in a way, I was. But I wasn't adapting to survive—I was adapting to strike.
One afternoon, Marco had to meet a contact in a high-rise downtown. I tagged along, playing the part of the silent companion, eyes lowered, lips pressed in polite disinterest.
The meeting room was sleek and glass-walled, the view spilling out over the city. While the men spoke, I drifted toward the window, appearing bored. But my gaze was fixed on the reflection in the glass—on Marco's phone left on the table, its screen lighting up with a text.
The sender's name made my pulse quicken.
D.
Just an initial, but I didn't need more. I already knew.
That night, back at the penthouse, I sat in the guest room with my notebook open. To anyone else, it would've looked like idle doodling. But in the loops and curves of my pen were coded notes—names, locations, and dates.
I wasn't reckless enough to write "Dad" or "D." outright. I used symbols and abbreviations that only I would understand. It felt strange, almost like I was back in school, passing secret notes—only now, the stakes were life and death.
Marco noticed my less guarded demeanor and seemed to take it as a sign I was settling into his world. Some nights he would linger near me on the couch, his hand brushing my arm as he reached for his drink. I didn't shy away. I let him think he was winning me over.
Because the closer he believed I was, the easier it would be to take what I needed.
One evening, he returned late, smelling faintly of smoke and rain. I was in the kitchen, pouring myself a glass of wine.
"Long night?" I asked lightly, as though I hadn't been straining to hear the elevator for the past hour.
He gave a short nod, loosening his tie. "Handled it."
I tilted my head, studying him. "You always do, don't you?"
His eyes met mine for a fraction of a second too long. "Yes."
I smiled faintly, sipping my wine, and let the moment pass.
When I finally lay in bed that night, I could still taste the wine and still feel the ghost of his gaze on my skin. I thought of the photographs again, of my father's smile beside Marco's, of the letter that had treated me like a possession.
They didn't know I knew.
And that was my greatest weapon.
Some traps are sprung in silence, I thought, closing my eyes. And the deadliest knives are the ones you never see coming.
The city slept outside my window, but I didn't. I lay in the dark, counting every breath, every second. Waiting.
Because patience was no longer a virtue. It was my blade.