“Adaptation, is it?” I ask, closing the distance between us. I search her hands for a tremor, her eyes for a tell.
She pauses with the coffee beans half-measured and holds my stare. “What do you truly want from me, Nico? Should I fight? Throw myself at the walls? Would that satisfy you—watching me fall apart?”
The question is a direct challenge. She's flipping the script.
“I want the truth,” I murmur, advancing until her back presses against the counter.
A smirk curves her lips, sly and perceptive. “No, you don’t. Your empire runs on lies and manipulation. Truth would destabilize everything.”
There she is. The authentic Lea, her intellect sharp as a blade. A primal satisfaction courses through me, tempered by caution. She’s revealing this deliberately. A temptation. And it only heightens my urge to claim her here, to reaffirm my dominion.
Before I can respond, my earpiece crackles—a sharp burst of static. Blake’s voice, clipped and urgent.
“Sir, we have an unauthorized vehicle approaching the main drive. White, low-speed. No plates. Should we intercept?”
I straighten instantly. No deliveries are scheduled. Alessandro would have called if he needed something.
“Hold position,” I command, moving swiftly to the security panel by the back door. “Give me a visual.”
“Sir, we can neutralize the threat before it reaches the residence,” Blake insists, his military training overriding any sense of nuance. “Standard protocol for an unidentified approach.”
The screen flickers to life. A white golf cart is making its way up the curved driveway, driven by a woman with silver hair styled in an impeccable bob. Even through the grainy security feed, I can make out the flash of diamonds at her throat and wrists.
Eleanor Davenport. Goddammit.
I close my eyes for a fraction of a second, a wave of profound irritation washing over me. Marco would have known. He would have recognized the vehicle, understood this particular “threat,” and handled it with a quiet sigh and a dry comment about the local wildlife. Blake sees a target.
“Blake,” I say, my voice dangerously calm as I activate the exterior camera feed. “If you or any of your men so much aspoint a weapon at that golf cart, I will ensure your next post is guarding a weather station in Antarctica. Do you understand me?”
There’s a beat of stunned silence on the other end. “...Sir?”
“The threat,” I say into my earpiece, pinching the bridge of my nose, “is a seventy-two-year-old woman armed with what I can only assume are muffins. Stand down. All teams. Now.”
“...Yes, sir,” Blake replies, the confusion clear in his two-word response.
“Stay here,” I instruct Lea, who has been watching this exchange with undisguised curiosity. I don’t bother explaining. “Don’t speak unless spoken to. If asked, you’re a business associate staying here temporarily while consulting on a project.”
I step onto the front porch just as the golf cart comes to a stop. Eleanor Davenport emerges with the vigor of a woman half her age. She’s dressed in a pale blue linen pantsuit that likely costs more than most people’s monthly salary, her silver hair not moving a millimeter despite the light breeze.
“Nico, darling!” she calls, lifting a wicker basket adorned with an elaborate bow. “I’ve brought welcome-back muffins!”
Eleanor Davenport has never baked a muffin in her life. The basket is a prop, an excuse for reconnaissance. This is what she does. Monitors the comings and goings of everyone in the lakefront community, collecting information like others collect art or wine. In her youth, she would have made an excellent intelligence operative.
“Mrs. Davenport,” I say, moving down the steps to greet her. “This is unexpected.”
“Well, when one sees lights at all hours and increased security patrols, one gets concerned about one’s neighbors,” she replies, eyes sharp despite her jovial tone.
She’s fishing, and not subtly. The increased security is a legitimate concern, but not one I’m about to discuss with her.
“Just a precaution,” I say smoothly, taking the basket from her hands. “It was a business matter that required some additional attention. Nothing for the neighborhood to worry about.”
Her eyes flick past me to the house, and I know the exact moment she spots Lea. Her plucked eyebrows rise a fraction of an inch, and a predatory gleam enters her eyes.
“And who is this lovely young lady?” she asks, voice dripping with curiosity.
I turn to see Lea has disobeyed my instruction to stay in the kitchen. She stands framed in the doorway, a vision in simple jeans and a cream sweater, her dark hair loose around her shoulders. She looks like she belongs here, and the realization unsettles me.
“This is Lea Song,” I say, keeping my tone neutral. “Lea, this is Mrs. Eleanor Davenport, our neighbor from three properties down.”
