Page 17 of King Of Order

His aura unsettled me as he prowled like a predator in my gallery.

Sucking the air out of the room with the way he moved in silent prowl among the paintings, his eyes darting from piece to piece, never lingering.

I approached, and his dark eyes sliced and raked over me, leaving me cold to the bone.

‘Can I help you with anything?’ I asked, my voice steady, though my heart hammered in my chest.

He didn’t answer.

He didn’t even glance at me.

I took a step closer. ‘Excuse me, sir—’

Before I finished, he turned on his heel and walked out without a word.

I stood frozen, the primary door closing behind him with a soft whoosh.

‘Cos’è? Who is that?’ Lucia asked, her brows furrowed as she came up beside me.

‘I don’t know,’ I muttered, still staring at the entrance.

My stomach churned, and I experienced genuine fear for the first time in months.

Damn, Claudio.

Life had become murkier since my loserfratellohad begun making decisions on behalf of our ailing father.

Without fail, some shady operator or capo wandered into the gallery each week, searching for him and stating that he owed money.

I refused to pay them off, letting them know all our transactions were electronic and that I held no cash on the premises.

Most believed me, some didn’t, and I was weary of the threats, cursing, and promises to harm the Tirone family if Claudio didn’t settle what was outstanding.

I was also sick and tired of calling my brother to berate him for putting me in such a vulnerable position.

All I wanted to do was to create, curate, and sell my art.

‘I’ll be in my office,’ I murmured, excusing myself before Lucia asked any more questions. I needed a moment to regain composure.

My mind raced with thoughts of the cars following me around, the strangers haunting my gallery, and the neverending niggling sensation that I was under surveillance.

Seeking privacy, I closed the door and sat at my desk, staring blankly at the scattered papers. My hands trembled as I tried to push away the fear, but my efforts were useless.

Something wasn’t right.

Fuck, nothing had ever been in my life.

I was a scion of one of Naples’s more influential criminal families, the only girl among two boys.

My father, Olivio, was the son of the legendary 1970s gangster Nino Tirone.

A mafioso masquerading as a local businessman, Nino had built a reputation for ‘looking out for others’ in his neighborhood.

Which meant working for the Neapolitan underworld and aiding in its devastating violence.

Nino had cultivated relationships with corrupt business people and judges.

He’d died in a glorious gun battle on the streets of Naples in the early 1990s.

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