𝐈𝐗. “Control, order, obedience.”

Cesare doesn’t answer right away. His eyes slowly scan my face, inch by inch, and I can almost feel it like a touch, warm and hovering. He takes the folder from my hands, and the way he grips the edge of the desk with his other hand doesn’t go unnoticed. My eyes drop, seeking shelter from the sudden, disarming intensity.

He closes the folder and drops it on the desk with a soft thud that still makes me flinch. I bite my lip, trapping it between my teeth.

“What makes you think something’s happening?” he finally says, but it’s just another question, laced with that carefully measured distance that always surrounds Cesare. “Maybe I’m just curious.”

And yet, his hand reaches out, touching my face with a tenderness that borders on pain. He slips his fingers beneath my chin, guiding my gaze back to his, thumb brushing over my mouth, gently pulling my lower lip from between my teeth.

“Stop biting your lips like that. You’re not a kid anymore.”

“You wouldn’t go this far just out of curiosity.” I ignore the provocation, trying to move my face away from his hand slowly to test how firm his touch is. But Cesare’s fingers tighten around my chin, just enough to keep me in place.

“You have no idea how far I’ll go to get what I want, Marina. To protect what’s mine.” Cesare’s voice sounds low and hoarse, not quite threatening, but something about it stirs a buzz in my stomach.

“So that’s what this is? You’re trying to protect the famiglia?” I narrow my eyes slightly.

“You like how that sounds?” Cesare smiles, lazily, with a dangerous edge... eyes darken a few shades. “You like how noble that sounds?”

“I couldn’t care less, Cesare.” I look at him, voice steady, without any hesitation. “The only reason I agreed to this deal is because you gave me your word I could walk away from all of it afterward.”

His fingers tighten around my chin, digging in just enough to hurt.

“The truth is, I don’t give a damn about Enzo Bianchi.” Cesare abruptly releases me and steps away from the desk, crossing the room in two or three long strides to the bar cabinet. “You’re right—this isn’t about curiosity. He could be stacking bodies in his walk-in closet, for all I care. This is about preservation.”

I shift slightly in my chair, watching how the fabric of his shirt stretches over the tension in his back, pulling over well-defined muscles as he pours himself another glass of aged whiskey.

“Three months ago, there was an unusual inspection at the docks. The warrant was supposedly routine—environmental and tax-related. Normally, we’re ahead of that kind of thing. But on that particular day, we were expecting a rather… valuable shipment.”

The sound of the bottle hitting the wooden cabinet echoes in my mind.

“They tried to play it off first, requesting emissions records, subcontracting paperwork... the kind of stuff that seems routine on the surface. But then, they began looking where they shouldn’t have.”

A chill climbs up my spine.

They didn’t find anything, of course… We’re not amateurs.” He flashes a predatory smile, the corner of his eyes lifting in something close to disdain, as if he can still see the scene playing out in his mind. “But the strange thing, Marina, is that they knew where to look. They seemed to know what to look for. Doesn’t that strike you as strange?”

“Sounds like someone leaked information,” I say carefully. It’s not exactly wise to suggest there are rats in the Società. Then again, I’m sure Cesare has already thought the same thing.

“Obviously.” Cesare’s voice tightens as he turns, locking eyes with me—so much so that even from across the room, I feel like he’s right in front of me again, close enough to touch. “We didn’t get far with our people. They didn’t know anything. Trust me, they’d have told us if they did…”

He raises the glass to his lips, the rim hovering just inches away.

“…Matteo knows how to be persuasive.”

I swallow hard, my throat reacting involuntarily to the way his Adam’s apple bobs as he downs the drink like water. He slams the glass back onto the cabinet and approaches me again, tugging at his rolled-up sleeves as he comes closer.

“Then we found out the lead auditor behind the inspection was Ventresca… A very upstanding environmental engineer, to be fair.”

Cesare stops behind my chair, and I instantly straighten up, sitting so stiff I feel like I might break, staring straight ahead.

“Too bad he was found dead in his apartment in Catania three days later.” He leans in slightly, savoring my discomfort, his voice dropping, colder, sharper, “Nice neighborhood. Discreet. No witnesses. Ventresca lived alone. The lights are always out early. A model neighbor. But the building manager noticed the lack of movement, even though his car was still in the garage. No one answered the intercom. The police found him on the sofa, a crystal glass on the side table with traces of French brandy, and a bottle of barbiturates with no fingerprints. And, of course, a suicide note.”

Cesare’s hands rest on my bare shoulders—heavy, rough, calloused from years of hard work I’d rather not think about. They gently push me further into the chair, making my back arch slightly.

“I read the note, and it stuck with me for a while.” He pauses, then recites it slowly, each word meant to sink in like a stone:

“…those who know, know. The rest doesn’t matter.”

I don’t turn my head. My eyes stay fixed on nothing, just as I was taught, but every nerve alive and alert to Cesare’s presence.

“Two interesting lines, don’t you think?” There’s nothing but disdain in his voice, warm against my neck. “Strange how such a technical man chose such poetic words for his final act.”

“He seemed scared,” I say, a hint of sympathy in my tone. How could he not be? He made the worst enemy imaginable.

“Scared.” Cesare echoes, thoughtful. “Maybe.”

His hands slowly slide from my shoulders to the middle of my back, as if feeling for something just beneath the skin. My muscles tighten—a reflex he notices, because his voice drops to a whisper right near my ear.

“But fear didn’t save him, did it?”

I stay still, too scared to answer. There’s something about the way he lingers behind me that ignites every instinct—flight, fight, survival. And yet, strangely… something else, too.

Cesare leans in closer, and for a moment, I feel his nose brush the top of my hair as his voice comes out rough and low, dangerously close:

“You’re not afraid of me, are you, Marina?”

I close my eyes, take a long breath, trying to dissolve the knot tightening in my throat.

“…Because if you are, you’ll never be able to face Enzo.”

My eyes open slowly, focusing on a vague spot ahead. Cesare knows exactly where to touch—not just the body, but the mind. He digs under the surface with a precision that wounds.

Sometimes I can’t decide what I prefer… the time when I was just the ignored girl in the secondary house, forgotten in a back room, or a disposable piece in his twisted game.

“Enzo’s not like me, Madonna.” Cesare strokes my hair, his hand heavy in a cruel imitation of affection, slowly sliding through the strands. “Our natures are completely different. I like control, order, obedience.”

His hand drops to the curve where my neck meets my shoulder, and lingers there a beat too long. There’s no comfort in the touch, only possession. It doesn’t ask permission or fake tenderness. Still, the way his thumb drags in circles at the top of my spine sends chills I shouldn't feel—and don’t want to.

“He likes chaos,” Cesare says, like he’s savoring every word. “Not like Matteo, no. He’s not unpredictable like my little brother. Enzo is methodical in his chaos. He cultivates anarchy like it’s art. He doesn’t act on impulse; he acts for amusement. He’s a master at reading and toying with people.”

He moves to the side of my chair, slowly, never once lifting his hand from my hair. Then he leans back on the edge of the desk again.

“You can’t let your guard down, Marina.”

I meet Cesare’s eyes, trying hard to keep my breath steady.

“You still haven’t told me what exactly links Enzo to the inspection at the docks. Are you saying he’s the one who sent Ventresca?”

Cesare gives me a slight smile—almost proud, I dare hope—and finally withdraws his hand from my hair.

“He’s one of the Fratellanza’s associates.”

“A associate,” I repeat, trying to mask the sigh of relief, though the word still comes out a little choked. “That doesn’t sound like much. Do you call all your associates ‘Onorato’?”

Cesare’s eyes lock onto mine, and the silence between us thickens, becoming oppressive. I immediately regret my sharp words. Maybe Matteo’s right. Maybe my mouth will be the death of me.

“I have reason to believe those were Bianchi’s suggestion. And when things didn’t go as planned… they cleaned it up. Dishonorably, yes. But clean.”

“That’s enough for you to take this kind of risk?” This time, my question is genuine. No bite. No attitude. Just curiosity.

Cesare’s gaze softens slightly—almost imperceptibly.

“It’s enough.”

My mouth goes dry, and my fingers instinctively reach for my throat, as if that could loosen the knot there.

Cesare watches me for a long moment… then steps away from the desk again, his body still dangerously close... And, out of nowhere, he starts unbuttoning his shirt.