Chapter 33: Morning Watch
The scream was silent, trapped in the cage of her ribs. Alex jolted awake, her body snapping from sleep to fight-or-flight in a single, choked gasp. Her hand shot under the pillow—empty—before her brain caught up. Soft sheets. Moonlight. The faint, drifting notes of a saxophone from somewhere below.
And Toni.
Silhouetted in the doorway, backlit by the warm glow of the hallway sconces. She held two small espresso cups, steam curling lazily in the cool air between them. Her expression was unreadable, a study in shadows and sharp angles.
“You sleep like the dead,” Toni said, her voice a low murmur that blended with the jazz. “A virtue, I suppose. Given your previous profession.”
Alex pushed herself up on her elbows, the cotton sheets pooling at her waist. Her heart was still a frantic bird against her sternum. She willed it to calm. “I wasn’t always sleeping.”
“I know.” Toni took a slow step into the room. Her bare feet were silent on the polished wood floor. She’d changed into loose, dark linen trousers and a simple black tank top. Her hair was down, a raven fall over her shoulders. “I came in twice. You didn’t stir. You slept through three full security rotations.”
There was something in her tone, a quality Alex couldn’t immediately name. It wasn’t accusation. It was closer to awe. A dangerous tenderness.
“I must feel safe,” Alex said, the words leaving her mouth before she could filter them. They hung in the air, a confession she hadn’t intended to make.
Toni’s lips curved, just at the corners. “Do you?” She set one of the espresso cups on the nightstand beside Alex. The scent of strong coffee filled the space between them. “Or are you just that exhausted?”
Alex didn’t answer. She took the cup, the porcelain scorching her fingertips. She welcomed the pain, a tiny anchor to the present. To this room, this woman, this impossible fork in the road she’d taken. She sipped. It was bitter, perfect.
Toni sat on the edge of the bed, facing her. She didn’t touch her, just studied her face with an unnerving focus. “You look different when you sleep. Softer. All that fierce machinery you carry switches off.” She took a sip from her own cup. “It’s a privilege to see it.”
“You watched me.” It wasn’t a question.
“I did.” No shame. A simple statement of fact. “I wanted to see if the dreams would be violent. If you’d cry out. You didn’t. You were… peaceful. It surprised me.”
Alex set her cup down. The memory of the scalding shower, of Toni’s hands washing the death from her skin, flashed through her mind. Another layer of intimacy, another claim staked. “I don’t dream about the work,” she said, which was mostly true. She dreamed of Derry, sometimes. Of grey streets and a different kind of tension. Never about the men and women she’d been sent to deal with. They were filed away in a cold, dark drawer.
“Lucky you.” Toni’s smile was faint, tinged with something weary. “I dream in ledgers and security feeds.” She leaned forward, just a little. The scent of bergamot and whiskey from the previous night still clung to her, subtle and warm. “I came to tell you we’re having guests for dinner.”
Alex’s pulse, which had finally settled, gave a little skip. “Guests?”
“Business.” Toni waved a hand dismissively. “The Volkovs. Russian importers. It’s a social call to smooth over some… territorial misunderstandings after the Greco situation. Mostly posturing. Fine food, finer wine, veiled threats. The usual dance.”
“And you want me there.”
“I want you by my side.” Toni’s gaze held hers. “Not as a guard. As my guest. My… companion. Your presence, after what happened at the docks, sends a message. A unified front.”
Ciara’s presence. The phantom assassin, now visibly aligned with the Romano throne. It was a logical, strategic move. It also felt like being walked to the edge of a cliff and asked to admire the view.
“What’s the message?” Alex asked, her voice flat.
“That I have someone equally ruthless, equally capable, who is personally loyal to me. That my inner circle is no longer just made of hired guns and cousins. It’s more… intimate.” Toni’s hazel eyes gleamed in the low light. “It makes me look stronger. It makes you irreversibly mine in their eyes. There’s no walking that back, Ciara. Not once you’ve broken bread with the wolves.”
Alex held her stare. “I’ve already broken more than bread.”
A slow, genuine smile spread across Toni’s face. It transformed her, carving away the mafia boss veneer to reveal a fierce, beautiful pride. “Yes. You have.” She finished her espresso and stood. “Rest today. The tailor will be here at four for a fitting. Wear something that intimidates. Black usually works.”
She turned to leave, then paused in the doorway, one hand resting on the frame. She looked back over her shoulder, her profile outlined by the hall light. “About last night… the shower.” She seemed to choose her words with unusual care. “That wasn’t part of the message. That was just me.”
Then she was gone, the soft click of the door echoing in the quiet room.
Alex sat in the bed for a long time, the espresso going cold in her hand. The silence felt different now. Charged. She thought of the destroyed phone in the wastebasket, of Sterling’s lifeless eyes, of Toni’s hands on her skin. Maintain cover at all costs.
She threw back the covers and padded to the bathroom. The broken phone was gone, the wastebasket emptied. Of course. She splashed cold water on her face, studying the woman in the mirror. The softness of sleep was gone, replaced by the familiar, calculating sharpness. Ciara McKenna looked back.
The day passed in a strange, suspended silence. She explored the wing of the villa she’d been given, a gilded cage with ocean views. Every doorway had a discreet, suited man standing just beyond it. Not guards, she understood. Anchors. Her presence required new security. She was both an asset and a potential liability.
At four, the tailor arrived—a fluttering, anxious man with tape measures like silver serpents around his neck. He draped bolts of dark fabric over her, clucking his tongue. “Signora Romano has requested a statement,” he murmured, pins held between his lips. “Power, but not overt. Elegance with… teeth.”
He settled on a narrow, floor-length dress in a matte black that seemed to swallow the light. The shoulders were sharp, the neckline a deep V, the back open to the waist. It was a weapon disguised as clothing.
“You will wear your hair down,” the tailor instructed, standing back to admire his vision. “No jewelry. Just you and the dress. It is… perfetto.”
When he was gone, Alex stood before the full-length mirror. The woman reflected was a stranger. A consort to a queen of shadows. She looked like she belonged in this villa, in this life. The realization was a cold trickle down her spine.
Evening fell, staining the sky indigo. She heard the arrival of cars, the low murmur of voices downstairs. A different energy vibrated through the marble halls—a predatory, polite hum.
There was a soft knock. Marco, Toni’s quiet, perpetually wary head of security, stood there. “She’s ready for you,” he said, his eyes giving nothing away.
He led her downstairs, not to the formal dining room she’d seen, but to a smaller, intimate salon. The walls were lined with books, the furniture low and comfortable. A table was set for five, glittering with crystal and silver. Three people stood near the fireplace: a man built like a retired wrestler with a brutal, smiling face, a slender, ice-blonde woman who seemed carved from marble, and Toni.
Toni turned as she entered. For a heartbeat, her mask of cool hospitality slipped. Her eyes swept Alex from head to toe, a flare of pure, unshielded heat in their hazel depths. It was there and gone, replaced by a warm, welcoming smile, but Alex had seen it. The possession. The pride.
“Ah, Ciara,” Toni said, extending a hand. Her fingers were cool, her grip firm. She drew her to the group. “May I present Yuri and Sasha Volkov. This,” she said, her thumb stroking the back of Alex’s hand once, possessively, “is Ciara McKenna.”
Yuri Volkov took her hand, his grip a deliberate test of strength. His small eyes held a gleam of appraisal. “The infamous shadow. We have heard much. To see you in the light is… a revelation.”
Sasha merely offered a glacial nod, her eyes like scalpels dissecting the dress, the woman inside it, her place at Toni’s side.
Dinner was a subtle war. The threats were baked into pleasantries, the dominance plays hidden in the offer of more wine, the choice of topic. Alex said little. She ate the exquisite food, sipped the rich wine, and watched. She was a visible, silent part of Toni’s arsenal.
“Your handling of the Greco nuisance was efficient,” Yuri said over dessert, his smile not reaching his eyes. “A messy family affair, but sometimes a tree needs pruning for the forest to thrive.”
Toni inclined her head. “Some branches become diseased. It’s a mercy to cut them away.”
“And you trust your new gardener implicitly?” Sasha asked, her voice like chipped ice. Her gaze slid to Alex. “Pruning shears can slip. Can turn on the one who holds them.”
Toni leaned back in her chair, swirling her brandy. She looked relaxed, utterly in control. She didn’t look at Alex. “Some tools aren’t tools. They are extensions of the will. You don’t trust your own hand, Sasha. You simply know it will obey.”
The room grew still. The fire crackled in the hearth.
Yuri laughed, a booming, practiced sound. “A poet and a queen! A dangerous combination.” He raised his glass. “To new alliances. And to knowing one’s own hand.”
Later, after the Volkovs had left with slick smiles and promises to talk numbers next week, Alex stood with Toni on the terrace. The night air was cool, carrying the sound of the waves crashing far below.
“You were perfect,” Toni said, her shoulder brushing Alex’s arm. “You didn’t have to say a word. Your silence was louder than any boast.”
“She doesn’t like me. Sasha.”
Toni laughed, a genuine, throaty sound. “Sasha doesn’t like anyone who isn’t her husband or a bank transfer. She’s threatened. A woman like her understands power dynamics. Seeing you at my side… it complicates her calculations.” She turned, leaning her back against the balustrade, facing Alex. “You made me stronger tonight.”
Alex looked out at the dark sea. “Is that all this is? A power dynamic?”
Toni was quiet for a long moment. When she spoke, her voice had lost its strategic edge. “No.” She reached out, her fingers lightly tracing the line of sharp black shoulder seam on Alex’s dress. “You know it’s not.”
She stepped closer. The space between them crackled with the unspoken words of the day, of the shower, of the shared, terrible secret in the damp room under the docks. Toni’s hand came up to cradle Alex’s jaw, her thumb stroking the high curve of her cheekbone. Her eyes searched Alex’s face, looking for permission, for a sign of the woman behind the mask.
Alex didn’t give her one. She took it.
She closed the final inch, her mouth meeting Toni’s. It wasn’t gentle. It was a collision of sealed fates, a sharing of the same poisoned air. Toni’s lips were soft but demanding, her taste a mixture of brandy and dark coffee and something uniquely, devastatingly her. Alex’s hands came up, threading into Toni’s thick, dark hair, pulling her closer as if she could fuse them together, as if she could dissolve the line between Alex and Ciara forever in the heat of this kiss.
Toni responded with a low, hungry sound, her arms wrapping around Alex’s waist, pressing their bodies together through the thin layers of fabric. The world narrowed to the scent of bergamot, the feel of Toni’s tongue against hers, the solid reality of the stone terrace at her back.
When they finally broke apart, both were breathless. Toni rested her forehead against Alex’s, her eyes closed. “Stay with me tonight,” she whispered, the words a vow against Alex’s lips. “Not in the guest room. With me.”
Alex could feel the ghost of the garrote wire in her palm, the weight of the broken phone in the wastebasket, the hollow echo of Sterling’s final gurgle. She could feel Toni’s heart hammering against her own, a frantic, living counter-rhythm.
Maintain cover at all costs.
She slid her hand down to cup Toni’s neck, her thumb resting on the frantic pulse there. “Yes,” she breathed.
And for the first time, she wasn’t sure which identity had answered.