"Anything."
Sofia leans in slightly, her dark eyes piercing into mine. "Promise me that if I find something truly wrong—something that needs to be exposed—you’ll listen. You won’t just sweep it under the rug because it’s convenient. I need to know that you’re not just another man protecting his own interests, that you care about what’s right."
She doesn’t blink.
She’s asking for more than just words—she’s asking for something real, something binding. A promise that will cost me, one way or another.
I hesitate. Just for a second.
Then I nod. "I promise, Sofia." My voice is low, steady. "If it’s something that can’t be ignored, we’ll deal with it together."
Her shoulders loosen slightly. The tension between us shifts—not gone, but settled into something else. An agreement. A quiet truce.
But I know better than to think this is the end of it.
Later in the day,I step out into the open air, inhaling deep, trying to clear my head. The estate is alive with movement—men stationed at the gates, patrolling the grounds, some gathered in small clusters, their voices low. Security has been doubled since Sofia was taken. Luca’s orders.
As I move through the courtyard, I feel the glances.
Not the usual deference I’m used to. There’s something else now—something wary. Suspicious.
I shake it off. It’s been a long few days. The men are tense. Everyone’s on edge. That’s all it is.
But the feeling lingers.
I make my way toward the main hall, but before I step inside, I catch something. A voice—low, careful. Not meant for me.
"—can’t just pretend nothing’s changed."
I stop.
The voices are coming from the side passage near the garages, where a few of the younger soldiers are gathered, speaking in clipped, quiet tones.
"She’s a fucking journalist." The words are edged with bitterness. "We follow Luca, but we see what Marco’s doing. Protecting her. Prioritizing her work. You really think that’s what’s best for the family?"
Silence.
Then, another voice, rougher. "Some of us are starting to wonder where his loyalties really lie."
An insidious heat curls in my gut.
I step forward, my shoes scuffing against the stone path purposefully this time. The voices cut off instantly.
The men freeze as I approach.
One of them—Diego, a mid-rank soldier who’s been trying too hard to climb—clears his throat, straightens his stance. His eyes flick to the others, then back to me.
He’s the one who opens his mouth, the first to say what the others have been circling around like cowards too afraid to speak plain. “We’re all wondering, Marco,” he says, voice measured, trying to sound respectful when every word drips with challenge, “how long you’re going to let that woman dictate your decisions.”
Silence follows, thick and sharp, the kind that makes men shift in their seats without meaning to. No one speaks. No one breathes too loud. But no one stops him either. That’s the part that matters. They let him speak for them. They let him carry the insult, thinking maybe I’d let it slide if it came from Diego’s mouth and not theirs.
I step forward slowly, letting the implication of who I am press into the room like a hand closing around a throat. There is no need for me to raise my voice. Power doesn’t shout, it settles, waits, and compels the room to adjust around it.
Diego meets my eyes, straight on, and to his credit, he doesn’t step back. But I see it. The pause. The glint. That split second where he remembers who he’s talking to and wishes he’d worded it differently.
He’s right to hesitate.
Because what just came out of his mouth?
