Page 42 of Double Trouble for the Mafia Prince
"You’re mistaking me for someone interested in fantasy. I’m going because they asked, and I agreed. End of story."
"You’re lying."
"I’m protecting the family."
He slams the ledger onto the table, and it lands with a slap against the cool marble.
"You walk out now, and you’re walking into something I can’t shield you from. You think the Salvatores will keep you safe because you signed your name in blood?"
"No," I say evenly. "I think they’ll keep me useful because I don’t make noise when they ask me to vanish."
He stares at me for a long time.
Finally, he lowers his voice, quieter but far more dangerous.
"If you come back in pieces, don’t expect me to scrape them up."
"I won’t." I leave before he can say anything else.
Although I don’t leave for days, I begin packing with the efficiency of someone who has done this before, though not under these circumstances.
Clothes first, then documents, then the smaller, harder-to-replace items: encrypted flash drives, burner phones, false passports.
A vial of vitamins goes into the lining of my cosmetics bag, prescribed discreetly by the same doctor who confirmed the pregnancy.
My travel papers include medical clearance, forged to reflect a clean bill of health with no annotations.
I don’t think of Dante.
I don’t let myself remember the way his mouth moved against mine or the way his voice had gone cold the moment the word permanence entered the room.
I think only of the child inside me, of the life I now carry like a secret buried beneath steel.
Four days pass without incident.
On the fifth morning, I am at the airstrip before sunrise, boarding a private flight with no insignia and only one other passenger, a woman who does not speak and who keeps her eyes on her phone for the duration of the trip.
We don’t acknowledge each other.
By the time we land in Singapore at the Changi airport, the sky has gone a hard, pale blue.
The heat is dense, not the kind that burns immediately, but the kind that clings, seeping into your collar and cuffs until it becomes part of you.
A man in a dark suit meets me on the tarmac.
He does not offer his name, but he hands me a set of keys and a manila envelope.
"Apartment is furnished. Six-month lease, auto-renewal. Instructions inside. You’ll be contacted when needed."
"Understood."
He disappears as quickly as he arrived.
I find the car parked where he said it would be—unmarked, black, low to the ground.
Inside the envelope are documents, codes, a burner phone, and a plastic card that grants me access to the building listed on the back.
The drive is without incident.
