Page 277 of Rosetti Family New York
"Even if there was something once," I continue, hating how my voice shakes, "using it to manipulate him is dangerous. Unpredictable. He's not someone who responds well to emotional manipulation."
"No," Chase agrees, satisfaction threading through his tone. "Which is why it will work. The Ghost prides himself on seeing everything and controlling every variable. When he realizes that his former lover, the woman who just warned him about an attack, is now dating his enemy... well. Emotional responses tend to override rational calculation."
The thought of Emilio's reaction makes my chest tight with something between anticipation and terror. I've seen his jealousy before, the cold fury that transforms him from a controlled genius into something far more dangerous.
"What if he doesn't respond the way you expect?"
"Then Connor eliminates him during your romantic evening together." Chase's words carry casual brutality that makes my stomach clench. "Either way, the Rosettis lose their greatest asset. Their eyes and ears. Their protection. Sell the performance, and Emilio Rosetti will come to you."
My hands shake, so I shove them onto my lap beneath the table, where Chase can’t see.
"And if I refuse?"
"Then you join Dale in whatever afterlife awaits traitors and their victims." His smile is sharp enough to cut glass. "Your choice, my dear. Seduce the Ghost, or become one yourself."
He stands with fluid grace, leaving currency on the table. "Tomorrow night, you remind Emilio Rosetti what it costs to inspire loyalty in assets who should belong entirely to me."
As he moves toward the exit, I sit frozen in my chair, processing the magnitude of what he's demanding. Not just betrayal of someone I once loved, but weaponizing that love against him. Using whatever feelings might remain as the blade that cuts his throat.
Through the café's windows, afternoon light paints Manhattan in shades of gold and amber. Somewhere in this city, Emilio Rosetti has received my warning and is making preparations to protect his family. He has no idea that the woman who sent it is about to become the weapon aimed at his heart.
The warning was pure impulse, three years of buried feelings surfacing in a moment of desperate concern. But tomorrow night will be calculation, performance, and deliberate manipulation of emotions I've never been able to fully sever.
The thought of sitting across from Connor while Emilio watches from whatever digital shadows he inhabits makes my throat constrict with something between guilt and terrifying anticipation. My body remembers him in ways my mind has tried to forget, the way his attention felt like being seencompletely, the devastating precision with which he could read every micro-expression.
Tomorrow night, all of that intimate knowledge becomes a weapon turned against him. And God help me, I don't know which terrifies me more, the thought that it might work, or the possibility that seeing him again will shatter every defense I've built since leaving his bed three years ago.
The hunter is about to become the hunted. And I'm the bait in a trap that could destroy us both.
2
Emilio
It's been three days since Rafe killed Dale Callahan. Three days since the uneasy peace between New York's top crime families shattered. And last night the Callahans struck back, attacking our warehouse at Pier 17.
The monitors cast pale light across my fingers as I review the Pier 17 aftermath—three dead, Leo hospitalized, millions in product destroyed. The attack could have been worse. Much worse. If not for the words that changed everything.
Pier 17. Tonight. Chase wants blood. —M.V.
Her initials burn across the screen like a brand. Mara Vale. The woman who vanished from my bed three years ago without explanation, leaving nothing but questions and a void that surveillance footage couldn't fill.
She's back in New York. And she warned me about the attack.
My fingers hover over the keyboard, torn between gratitude and fury. She saved lives last night—Leo might be dead without her intelligence. But she's working for Chase Callahan, has been for years, building God knows what kind of relationship with our enemies while I've been...
While I've been what? Mourning her? Building digital monuments to her absence? Transforming healthy obsession into something darker, more consuming, more pathological with each passing month?
The facial recognition alert chimes softly, dragging me from thoughts that lead nowhere productive. A hit from the city's surveillance network—not random, but flagged because I've programmed every camera in Manhattan to watch for one specific face.
Her face.
The image loads with HD clarity: Mara walking down Madison Avenue, dark hair shorter now, professional attire that speaks of money and careful presentation. She looks... different. Harder. The soft edges I remember have been refined by whatever she's endured in Europe, shaped by experiences I wasn't there to witness or protect her from.
But she's beautiful. Christ, she's still so beautiful it makes my chest ache.
I enhance the image, studying micro-expressions with the same intensity I apply to enemy intelligence. She's nervous—tension in her shoulders, the slight compression around her eyes that means she's processing stress. Her head turns constantly, scanning her surroundings with hypervigilance that speaks to someone who's learned to expect threats.
What happened to her in those three years? What did Chase Callahan's organization do to transform my soft, trusting Mara into this careful predator?
