Except the lie wasn’t the statement about burying a body, it was the story that came after about the dog. Even if that was true, that wasn’t the point.
The point of all this was for me tosee him.
Therealhim.
A shooter.
A grave digger.
A pawn in a game he’s been playing from birth.
But the conversation is over now. Clearly and literally. Because the Aventador slows as Giovanni pulls up to the gates of what I can only assume is the Bavga Family Estate.
We’re here.
15
The gates of the estate rise before us—twelve feet of decorative wrought iron, the Bavga family crest at the center, all of it anchored by limestone pillars that have stood since 1911. Security cameras pivot to track the Aventador’s approach. Unnecessary. They knew we were coming before we left Riverview.
I glance at Emmaleen as the gates swing open with mechanical precision. Her eyes widen slightly—a quarter-second of genuine reaction before she remembers to compose herself. Interesting. She’s recalibrating her facial expressions for what she believes is appropriate. Trying to appear unimpressed when she clearly is.
The driveway unfurls ahead, a winding ribbon of crushed limestone bordered by mature oaks. Each tree strategically placed by the landscape architect to create a sense of journey, of gradual revelation. Psychological manipulation through horticulture. A specialty of the rich.
“The trees are over a hundred years old,” I say, watching her reaction. “The original owner had them transplanted as mature specimens. Cost more than the house itself.”
Miss Take nods, her fingers laced together in her lap. White on white. The outfit suits her better than expected. The rightbalance of modest and elegant, though her posture betrays her discomfort with the formality.
As we round the final curve, the mansion reveals itself. Pottsville sandstone glowing amber in the late afternoon sun, three stories of Tudor Revival architecture with steep gabled roofs and ornate chimneys. My father’s monument to legitimacy. A fortress disguised as a home.
Emmaleen’s breathing changes. Almost imperceptible, but there it is—the slight catch when the scale of wealth registers. It’s not the reaction I usually get. Not awe or envy. Something closer to... assessment. She’s cataloging details.
“Built in 1911 by a steel magnate,” I tell her, slowing the Lamborghini to allow her a better view. “It’s been in our family since I was three.”
The Aventador’s engine purrs as we circle behind the main house, past the stone lions that guard the entrance. The fountain comes into view—three tiers of carved marble, water cascading down to a pool where my mother once sat reading poetry while my father conducted business inside. An image in my mind I can’t seem to delete.
I pull up alongside the pool house, cutting the engine.
“I stay here when I’m in town,” I explain, watching her eyes track the movement of light on water. “Both my brothers live in the main house with their families. Eight children between them, plus their wives. And my father, of course.”
I don’t elaborate on why I prefer this arrangement. The distance isn’t physical—it’s tactical.
“I prefer privacy,” I add simply.
We exit the car. Her heels click against the limestone path as we approach the pool house door. I enter the six-digit code (my mother’s birthday, backward) and the lock disengages with a soft click.
I hold the door, watching Miss Take’s face as she steps inside. The pool house is minimalist compared to the main residence—open-concept with concrete floors, exposed beams, and floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the far end of the heated Olympic-sized pool. The living area features a sectional in charcoal leather, a dining table that doubles as a desk, and a kitchen along one wall. A fireplace faced in blackened steel dominates the opposite wall.
And at the far end, clearly visible, a king-sized platform bed.
Her eyes find it immediately. The implications register in the slight stiffening of her shoulders, the recalculation happening behind those pale green eyes.
“I’ll take the couch,” I say before she can speak, cutting off whatever objection or question was forming. Not out of consideration for her comfort, but to maintain the professional veneer this arrangement requires. At least for now.
I change the subject with deliberate abruptness.
“What do you call it?”
She turns, confusion momentarily replacing caution. “What?”