“We’ve seen worse,” Damian cuts in.
Lara nods. “Right, and part of our job is keeping our mouths shut and looking the other way.”
“But a lot of these guys can’t resist getting on Telegram and blabbing about private business,” Damian says. “So we listen in.”
“I think these auctions are pretty weird,” Lara says. “But they’re part of it all. Gabriel’s never really been into them, but…” She narrows her eyes, studies me for a second. “You seem different. You’re quite the acquisition.”
“I’m not an acquisition,” I say, the word coming out a little sharper than I intend. “I’m working here. That’s all.”
Damian smirks. “Sure, working in the same house as the guy who dropped a cool mil on you.”
“Mr. Damian,” Oscar says, his tone sharp with warning.
“Fine, fine.” Damian raises his hands in mock surrender. “I’ll behave, but can you blame me?” He looks at me again, that easygrin still in place. “Seriously, Thea, if you ever get tired of my brooding cousin, come find me. I’m way more fun.”
“Damian, stop.”
“What? I’m being friendly?”
“No, you’re being a creep,” Lara tells him.
Oscar steps between us, his expression tight. “Perhaps we should continue the tour, Miss Thea.”
“Yes, the tour. I like that idea.” I nod quickly, eager to escape.
As we walk away, I hear Lara ask Damian, “Think he’s going to keep her?”
“Gabe’s a fucking enigma. Always has been. But if he paid a million dollars for her, then, yeah, he’s keeping her.”
Oscar takes me to the library next. It’s impressive—a two-story room with floor-to-ceiling bookshelves, rolling ladders, and the sort of leather and wood furniture that screams old money.
“This is whereSignoreMoretti spends most of his evenings,” Oscar says, “when he’s not working, though he is nearly always working.”
I run my fingers along the spines of the books. Dostoyevsky. Machiavelli. Sun Tzu. A whole shelf of Italian philosophy I can’t pronounce. I see history, art, and a small section containing everything written by Jane Austen in various editions.
“He’s read all of these?” I ask.
“Most of them. He’s a voracious reader.”
I slip the copy ofThe Princefrom the shelf, the pages worn from use. There’s a note scribbled in the margin in tight, precise handwriting:Power requires the perception of power. But power can also exist with mere perception.
“He never married?” I hear myself ask.
Oscar pauses in the doorway. “No.”
“No kids?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
Oscar’s expression softens. “I couldn’t say, Miss Thea. Mr. Moretti is a private man. He doesn’t share his reasons for much of anything. As you saw in the hallway, not even his kin are clued in to his motives and doings.”
I slip the book back into its place. “What exactly is the business?”
He sighs. “Mr. Moretti is the head of the Camorra.”
“Camorra?”