Chapter 10: The Gift
The days that followed were a study in cold silence.
Enzo was gone before dawn, returning long after midnight. The vast house echoed with his absence. Izzy ate meals prepared by a stern, silent woman named Sofia, who appeared like a ghost and vanished just as quickly. The guest room was luxurious, a gilded cage with a view of the wooded hills and the concrete bunker below.
She didn’t wait for an invitation.
Each afternoon, when the sunlight was sharp and the estate quiet, she made her way down to the range. She used the code she’d memorized from his fingers—7-2-9-0. The door sighed open. The scent of gun oil was now familiar, almost comforting.
She started with the Beretta, her hands remembering the ache, her muscles recalling the fight against the recoil. She loaded magazines slowly, methodically, finding a grim satisfaction in the snick of each round. The deafening cracks became punctuation marks in the empty hours. Her groups tightened. She learned to control her breath, to settle into the stillness between heartbeats. She didn’t think of him. She thought of the front sight, the smooth pull, the shock of impact on paper.
One afternoon, she found a smaller, lighter pistol—a Sig Sauer P365—lying on the stand with a single box of 9mm beside it. No note. She picked it up. It fit her hand differently, a more intimate kind of violence. She practiced until her trigger finger was numb.
The isolation was a different kind of training. She learned the rhythms of the house, the times the guards changed, the blind spots in the camera coverage along the garden trellis. She was gathering intel on her own prison.
On the eighth day, Marco found her there. She was reloading, her back to the door, and didn’t hear him enter. His reflection appeared in the glass of the gun cabinet, tall and unmoving. She jumped, her heart lurching into her throat.
“Jesus,” she breathed, lowering the magazine.
“He wants you upstairs,” Marco said. His dark eyes took in the spent shells littering the floor, the fresh target with its clustered holes. A flicker of something—approval, maybe—passed over his face before it settled back into neutral stone.
“Now?”
“Now.”
He didn’t wait for her. She cleared the gun, locked the cabinet, and followed him up the slate path. He held the terrace door open for her, a gesture so devoid of courtesy it felt like another kind of command.
“The study,” he said, nodding down a paneled hallway she hadn’t yet entered.
The door was ajar. She pushed it open.
Enzo’s study was a cave of dark wood and leather. The air was thick with the smell of aged whiskey, cigar smoke, and lemon polish. A massive mahogany desk dominated the room, its surface a controlled chaos of ledgers, a sleek laptop, and a crystal ashtray. A heavy-looking revolver sat, cleaned and obvious, beside a half-empty cup of espresso. Behind the desk, an oil portrait of a severe, older man with Enzo’s blue eyes glared down, judging all who entered.
Enzo stood at the window, his back to her, a phone pressed to his ear. He wore a simple black sweater and dark trousers, the casual clothes doing nothing to soften the breadth of his shoulders or the tension in his posture.
“No, the number is final,” he said, his voice a low rumble. “Tell him his grief ends when my money clears. Not before.” He listened for a beat, his free hand tapping a slow rhythm on the windowsill. “Good.” He ended the call without a goodbye and turned.
A week of distance stared back at her. His eyes were guarded, the bruising around his nose faded to a sickly yellow-green. He looked exhausted.
“Sit,” he said, gesturing to one of the leather armchairs facing the desk.
She remained standing. “Am I a prisoner or a guest? The protocol keeps changing.”
A ghost of a smirk touched his mouth. “You’re a complication that requires a customized approach. Sit.”
She sat, perching on the edge of the chair. He didn’t return to his desk. Instead, he walked to a large, flat package leaning against the bookcase, wrapped in plain brown paper and tied with twine. It was about three feet square. He lifted it effortlessly and placed it on the desk in front of her.
“Open it,” he said.
She stared at the package, then at him. “What is this?”
“Consider it a lesson.”
“I’m done with lessons.”
“You’re never done.” He leaned against the desk, crossing his arms. The revolver was just inches from his elbow. “Open it.”
Warily, she stood and picked at the knot. The twine gave way. She peeled back the stiff paper.
Beneath it was a painting. The canvas was old, the colors darkened with centuries of varnish, but the image was unmistakable. A young woman in a Renaissance gown sat in a sun-dappled loggia, a book open but forgotten in her lap, her gaze distant, melancholic. The brushwork in the fabric was exquisite, the play of light on her face achingly tender. In the lower corner, barely visible, was a tiny, faded crest: the Rossi lion.
The air left her lungs in a rush.
She knew this painting. She knew it from a grainy black-and-white photograph in her father’s oldest catalog, from the stories her grandmother told of loss and foolish debts. ‘La Donna Sognatrice,’ the Dreaming Woman. Painted by a minor Florentine master for her ancestor, Alonzo Rossi. Lost in a bankruptcy sale in 1923. The ghost of her family’s former glory.
Her hands trembled as she reached out, her fingertips hovering over the painted surface, afraid to touch. She looked at Enzo, her vision blurring. “How?”
“The auction in Zurich. It was listed as ‘attributed to.’ The provenance was muddy. Kept the price… manageable.” His voice was matter-of-fact, but his eyes were locked on her face, watching every flicker of emotion.
“You bought it.”
“I acquired it.”
The difference in the words was everything. This wasn’t a gift. It was a retrieval. A statement. Her chest felt too tight. A hot, confusing torrent of gratitude, humiliation, and sheer, overwhelming grief surged up her throat. She tried to swallow it, to be stone like him, to offer a cool thank you for a tactical asset.
Instead, a choked sob broke free. Then another. She pressed the heels of her hands against her eyes, but the tears came anyway, silent and scalding, streaking down her cheeks. She cried for the painting, for her father’s quiet shame, for the gallery now under threat, for the terrifying, brutal man who had somehow seen this specific, buried hurt inside her and had decided to dig it out.
She heard him move. A drawer opened and closed. Then his hands were on her, not gentle, but deliberate. One rough palm cupped the side of her face, his thumb smearing a tear track. The other hand held a crisp, white linen handkerchief. He didn’t give it to her. He dabged roughly at her cheeks himself, his brow furrowed in concentration, as if fixing a flaw.
“Stop that,” he murmured, his voice oddly thick. “It’s a painting. Canvas and oil.”
She shook her head, unable to form words.
He kept wiping, his touch gradually softening. He studied her face, the tears, the trembling lip. A peculiar tension tightened his jaw. “This isn’t the reaction I calculated.”
“What did you calculate?” she managed, her voice hitching.
“A strategic alliance. Reinforced loyalty.” His thumb brushed her lower lip. “Not this.”
“I hate you,” she whispered, the words having no heat.
“I know.” He leaned closer, his blue eyes consuming her. “Smile for me, Isabella.”
It was a command, whispered against her wet skin. A demand for a surrender she’d already given. Something in the rawness of his tone, in the shocking, fragile tenderness of his hands on her face, broke the last dam inside her.
A watery, broken smile touched her lips.
He made a sound, a low groan of surrender, and his mouth captured hers.
This kiss was different from all the others. It held the brutal possession of the first, the heated adrenaline of the second, but now it was layered with something else—a devastating, shocking reverence. He kissed her tears, the salt on her cheeks, before returning to her lips with a hunger that felt like confession. His hands slid into her hair, cradling her head as if she were the artifact, the priceless, fragile thing.
She kissed him back, pouring every ounce of that confused, tumultuous feeling into it—the gratitude, the hatred, the blinding, terrifying need. Her hands fisted in the soft wool of his sweater, pulling him closer. The edge of the desk dug into her hip, the cold metal of the revolver a stark reminder of the world outside this moment, and she didn’t care.
He walked her backward until her legs hit the armchair and she sank into it, pulling him down with her. He followed, bracing himself over her, never breaking the kiss. The weight of him, the heat, the scent of whiskey and him, was everywhere. One of his knees pushed between hers, and she arched against him, a soft cry lost in his mouth.
The shrill, uncompromising ring of the desk phone shattered the silence.
Enzo froze, his body tensing into granite above her. He tore his mouth from hers, his breath coming in ragged gusts, his forehead resting against hers. The phone rang again, insistently.
“Ignore it,” she breathed, surprising herself.
He let out a short, harsh laugh against her skin. “I can’t.” With obvious, physical effort, he pushed himself up and away from her. He straightened his sweater, ran a hand through his hair, and in three strides was behind the desk, the mask of the Don sliding back into place. He snatched the receiver.
“Moretti.”
He listened, his eyes drifting from her—disheveled, lips swollen, curled in his leather chair—to the portrait of the Dreaming Woman on his desk. His expression hardened, the brief vulnerability scrubbed away, replaced by cold focus.
“Where?” he asked. A pause. “How many?” His gaze flicked to the doorway, where Marco now stood, having appeared without a sound. “I’m on my way.”
He hung up. The silence he left behind was heavier than the gunshots in the range.
“Get Marco to take you to the safehouse in the city. The one on Walnut. Now,” he said to her, his voice all business. He picked up the revolver, checked the cylinder, and slid it into a shoulder holster he took from the desk drawer.
“What’s happening?”
“Castello’s people just paid a visit to your gallery.” He shrugged into a tailored suit jacket, concealing the weapon. “They weren’t there for the art.”
He came around the desk, pausing only to carefully re-wrap the Rossi painting in its brown paper. He handled it with a care he reserved for nothing else in the room. He held it out to her. “Take this. Don’t let it out of your sight.”
She stood, clutching the package to her chest. The dream was over. The war was back. “Enzo.”
He paused at the door, looking back at her. For a second, just a second, the man who had kissed her tears was there in his eyes. Then he was gone.
“Move,” Marco said from the hallway, and the world snapped back into its violent, unforgiving shape.
“Move,” Marco said from the hallway, and the world snapped back into its violent, unforgiving shape.
Izzy clutched the wrapped painting to her chest, the brown paper crinkling under her grip. Marco was already halfway down the corridor, a shadow moving with predatory efficiency. She followed, her heels clicking a rapid tattoo on the polished floors. The grand foyer, usually silent, now hummed with subdued activity. Two men in dark jackets she didn’t recognize stood by the front door, their eyes scanning the drive.
“Walnut Street,” Marco said to one of them, not breaking stride. “You’re on point. We’re right behind.”
The man nodded and slipped out the door. Marco guided Izzy not to the front entrance, but back through the kitchen. Sofia was nowhere to be seen. “Garage,” he muttered, pushing open a heavy steel door.
The garage was a climate-controlled space smelling of concrete and luxury. Three vehicles sat under soft lights: the black sedan they’d arrived in, a matte-grey SUV, and a low-slung sports car the color of dried blood. Marco went to the SUV, tapping a code into a keypad on the wall. The vehicle’s lights flashed once.
“Get in,” he said, yanking the passenger door open for her. “Keep the package down.”
She climbed in, placing the painting on the floorboards by her feet. The interior smelled of leather and gun oil. Marco slid behind the wheel, the engine turning over with a muted growl. The garage door rolled open, revealing the fading afternoon light.
“Seatbelt,” he said, his eyes glued to the rearview mirror as they rolled down the long, winding driveway.
“What happened at the gallery?” she asked, fumbling with the clasp.
“A message.” His knuckles were white on the steering wheel. “They smashed the front window. Spray-painted the walls. Nothing valuable taken.”
“Just intimidation.”
“Just business,” Marco corrected, his tone flat. They passed through the iron gates, which slid shut silently behind them. The lead car was already a hundred yards ahead, turning onto the main road toward the city. “Castello’s saying he knows where your heart is. And he can reach it.”
The two-car convoy moved at a speed just over the limit, inconspicuous. Marco’s eyes constantly danced between the road and the mirrors. The painting at her feet felt like a lead weight. “Why this safehouse? Why not the other one?”
“Too predictable.” He adjusted his grip on the wheel. “Enzo has others. Walnut is a brownstone. Looks like every other house on the block.”
She watched the suburban landscape give way to denser urban streets. The sun was a orange smear behind the skyline. “He bought the painting.”
Marco glanced at her, a flicker of assessment in his dark eyes. “I know.”
“Why?”
“Don’t ask questions you already know the answer to.” He took a hard left, keeping tight to the lead car. They were in the older part of the city now, rows of narrow, three-story brownstones with steep front steps. The lead car’s brake lights glowed as it slowed, pulling into an open spot. Marco double-parked behind it. “Out. Quick.”
Izzy grabbed the painting, cradling it. Marco was already around the car, opening her door, his body a shield between her and the street. The driver from the lead car, a bulky man with a shaved head, stood on the sidewalk, hand inside his jacket, scanning the block.
“Clear,” the man said, his voice a low rumble.
Marco guided her up the five concrete steps to a deep blue door. He produced a key, unlocked it, and pushed her inside. “Upstairs. Second floor, front room. Don’t go near the windows.”
The foyer was dim, smelling of lemon cleaner and old wood. The bulky guard remained outside, a silhouette against the glass sidelight. Marco closed the door, plunging them into deeper shadow. “Stairs are there,” he said, pointing to a narrow staircase.
She started climbing, the wrapped canvas awkward in her arms. The house was utterly silent, sterile. The front room was as Marco described: a nondescript living space with a beige sofa, a blank television, and blinds drawn tight over the large window facing the street. She placed the painting on the sofa and turned as Marco entered, closing the door behind him.
He had his phone out. “I’m checking in,” he said, tapping the screen. He put it to his ear, listening. After a moment, he frowned. “No answer.”
“Is that normal?”
“No.” He lowered the phone, his posture stiffening. He walked to the window, carefully peeling back a sliver of blind with one finger. He looked out, then down at the street. His body went perfectly still.
“What?”
“The car’s gone. Vito’s gone.” His voice was a thin sheet of ice.
“Maybe he moved it—”
“He wouldn’t.” Marco let the blind fall back. He turned from the window, his hand moving inside his jacket. “We have to go. Now.”
“Go where? You said this was safe.”
“It was.” He drew his pistol, the sound of the slide being racked brutally loud in the quiet room. “It isn’t.”
A floorboard creaked downstairs.
It was a faint sound, but in the dead silence, it was as explosive as a gunshot. Marco’s arm shot out, pushing Izzy back toward the interior wall. He moved to the room’s door, flattening himself beside the frame, pistol raised. His eyes locked with hers, and he shook his head once, sharply: Be silent.
He listened, his head tilted. Another creak, closer. Not from the stairs. From the hall below. Then a soft, metallic snick.
The sound of a suppressed round being chambered.
Marco’s expression didn’t change. He pointed to the floor, his meaning clear: Get down.
Izzy dropped, crouching behind the arm of the sofa. Her heart hammered against her ribs. She looked frantically around the empty room for a weapon, anything. There was nothing but the painting.
Footsteps on the stairs now. Slow. Measured. More than one set.
Marco pivoted, aiming his pistol down the hallway through the open doorway. He fired twice. The reports were deafening in the confined space. Wood splintered somewhere below. An answering volley came instantly, a muted thwip-thwip-thwip of a suppressor, bullets chewing into the door frame above Marco’s head. He ducked back.
“Rossi!” a voice called from downstairs, calm, almost friendly. “Come down. We’re not here for you.”
“Like hell,” Marco muttered. He fired two more shots blind around the corner to keep them pinned.
“We are here for her,” the voice continued. “Send her down, you walk away. Moretti’s already lost today. No need for you to be part of the cost.”
Marco’s answer was another pair of shots. The exchange had taken seconds. Izzy’s mind raced, a cold clarity slicing through the panic. The window. It was their only exit. But Marco was covering the stairwell. If he moved, they’d rush up.
She caught his eye. Pointed desperately at the window behind the blinds. He shook his head again, harder. Suicide.
Then the world outside erupted with light and sound. Not gunfire. The shattering of glass and a deep, percussive whump. The blinds glowed orange. The lead car parked out front was engulfed in flames, a fireball lighting up the interior of the room in hellish chiaroscuro.
Marco flinched, distracted for a split second.
It was enough. A figure surged up the final stairs, a black silhouette against the firelight. Marco fired. The silhouette jerked but kept coming, crashing into him. They fell together in a tangle of limbs against the hallway wall.
Izzy screamed. Another man appeared in the doorway, dressed in dark tactical gear, a submachine gun raised. He swung the barrel toward the struggle.
Without thinking, Izzy grabbed the only thing she could—the wrapped Rossi painting. She flung it like a discus. It wasn’t heavy, but it was solid, and it caught the gunman in the side of the head with a dull thwack. He stumbled, his shot going wide, punching a line of holes in the ceiling.
Marco had his forearm under his attacker’s chin. There was a sickening crunch. The man went limp. Marco shoved the body aside, bringing his pistol up toward the dazed gunman in the doorway.
A third man came from behind, from the direction of the back stairs. He moved fast, a blackjack swinging in a short, brutal arc. It connected with the side of Marco’s head with a sound like a melon dropping. Marco’s eyes rolled back. He collapsed onto the carpet.
“No!” Izzy scrambled backward until she hit the wall.
The gunman she’d hit with the painting shook his head, recovered, and leveled his weapon at her. The one with the blackjack stepped over Marco’s still form. He was older, with a pockmarked face and dead eyes.
“You made a mess,” he said, his voice the same one that had called from downstairs. He kicked the wrapped painting aside. The canvas slid across the floor, the paper tearing, revealing the Dreaming Woman’s sorrowful face.
He looked at Izzy, at her empty hands, at her terror. He smiled, a thin, unpleasant stretch of lips.
“Let’s go.”