Gianni’s jaw tightened.
“If anyone in Tuscany knows that dead man, it’s him.”
The phone went quiet.
Minutes dragged into hours.Every second felt like a knife pressed against my throat—slow, aching, painful.There was so much we could have been doing, so many doors I could have been kicking down, but Gianni stood in front of me like a gatekeeper.
“You don’t want to stir up the wrong kind of attention,” he said carefully.“Not when we’re dealing with the Russians.”
I turned on him, slow and lethal.
“You want me to be afraid of the Russians… on my own turf?”
His jaw tightened.“That’s not what I said.”
“It’s what you meant.”
“It’s not that, Atlas,” he insisted.“We don’t know who—or what—we’re dealing with here.If we move too fast, too loud, we risk spooking whoever has her.And if that happens…” He didn’t finish the sentence, but he didn’t have to.The word ‘disposal’ hung in the air like a death sentence.
I stepped closer.He didn’t back up, but he stiffened.
“You’re not thinking clearly right now.You’re emotional?—”
I cut him off with a look.
“I am not fucking emotional, Gianni.”Each word was flat and dangerous.“And it would do you well to remember that I am the Don.”
Silence pounded between us.
“I do not panic.I do not spiral.And I do not lose control.”
His eyes flicked over my face like he was measuring the truth of that.He knew better.That’s what made him brave enough to stand there and call me out.
He sighed, long and slow, then gave me that infuriating, soft-eyed look he used when he was about to push me anyway.
“Just let me do the thinking for you tonight.Okay?”
I stared at him.
For a moment, he was the only thing in the room between me and the fire in my chest.
Then I looked away.
Just as his phone rang.
He answered on the first ring.
“Volkov.”
I turned.
Gianni’s face shifted as he listened—neutral, then hard, then tight.
“Send it again.Zoomed.”
A pause.His eyes dropped to the screen.
“Yeah.That’s him.”