Serena POV
The associates' quarters held a permanent scent of expensive perfume and stale cigarette smoke, a cloying mixture that coated the back of my throat.
I sat on the edge of my narrow bed, my posture unnaturally rigid, and watched her.
Gianna sat at her vanity across the room. She was brushing her long blonde hair, each stroke a slow, methodical pull through the silken strands.
Her silk robe had fallen from one shoulder, exposing a line of smooth, unblemished skin.
She possessed a beauty that pulled all the light in the room toward itself, and she wielded this knowledge as a weapon.
I remained by the door, my hands clasped so tightly the knuckles ached.
"I need your encrypted frequency," I said, my voice a carefully constructed monotone.
Gianna stopped brushing.
She turned her head, her eyes making a slow, dismissive appraisal of my form. Then she looked at me, her gaze narrowing into a pair of calculating slits.
"How does a fringe associate like you have the direct contact of a Capo?" she asked.
The question was not a question, but a sharp, distinct warning.
I held my face as still as a mask, forcing the muscles around my mouth and eyes into a placid shape.
"It was a random addition on the network," I lied, the words leaving my tongue with practiced ease. "A misrouted message. He asked me to retrieve your frequency because he wants a formal introduction through proper channels. He's cautious about approaching a Falcone directly."
Gianna let out a low, arrogant laugh that was more air than sound. A smug curve reshaped her painted red lips.
"Do you think he genuinely wants an alliance with me?" she asked, turning to admire her own reflection.
I looked at her perfect face. I nodded.
"Yes."
With a flick of her wrist, she dismissed me, turning back to the mirror. She wrote a string of numbers on a small piece of paper, sliding it toward the edge of the vanity without looking at me.
I took the paper, gathered my accounting ledgers, and walked out of the room, desperate to escape the cloying air.
The hallway was bitterly cold and smelled of industrial bleach.
I drew my phone from my pocket, my fingers punching in the numbers Gianna had given me. I sent them to Fabiano's secure line. The deed was done.
I walked toward the Syndicate's private archives to finish my grueling shift.
A moment later, my phone vibrated in my pocket.
I pulled it out, the pulse in my wrist beginning to beat a heavy, frantic rhythm against the bone. The screen showed a message on the encrypted channel.
It was from Fabiano.
The text read: "I am taking her to dinner. What are her dietary restrictions? What does she like?"
I stopped walking, my body going rigid against the forward momentum.
I leaned against the rough-poured concrete wall.
The cold of it seeped through the thin fabric of my sweater, a damp chill that settled deep in my chest.
Unbidden, a memory from a feverish December night surfaced.
I had been shivering alone in my bed, and Fabiano had stayed on the line for six hours, his presence a disembodied murmur in the dark.
He had asked me what my favorite food was.
I had told him I loved sweet pastries and hated anything spicy.
He had promised to buy me a bakery one day, his voice a low, soothing balm against the rattling of my own teeth.
I stared at the blinking cursor on my screen, the warmth of the memory curdling into something acidic in my throat.
"She hates sweets," I typed, my thumbs moving with a slight, almost imperceptible tremor. "She loves spicy food."
It was the exact opposite of my own tastes.
I hit send before my resolve could falter.
The screen showed he was typing.
I waited. A tight band seemed to constrict around my ribs.
A new message appeared a second later.
"Understood."
I stared at that single word—Understood—and something small inside me cracked. He'd once sent paragraphs; now I got a clinical nod. I locked the phone, throat tight, and pushed into the archive darkness, swearing it was the last time his words would wound me. I was wrong.
