Charlotte Through the Glass.

Charlotte Through the Glass.
Diego

Nico didn’t want to give me the cameras at first. He tried reason. He tried sarcasm. He even tried Winnie, which was a rookie mistake because Winnie thinks blackmail is an art form and she taught me most of it. So, yes, I had to remind Nico about that one time he accidentally erased Connor’s offshore ledger from his own server. A little leverage goes a long way. By the time he shoved the box across the table at me, muttering curses in Italian I’m pretty sure he doesn’t actually know the meaning of, I’d already tuned him out. I had what I needed. I’m gone before the sun even thinks about waking up.
The Ricci estate sits quiet in the pre-dawn dark, the kind of quiet that hums, like the air itself knows it’s about to be disturbed. The new cameras are already humming to life on my tablet — six perfect, undetectable eyes watching from every corner of her room. Charlotte Ricci. The half-sister. The inconvenient secret. The girl who doesn’t smile when she’s supposed to. She moves differently than the rest of them. Not like someone born into privilege, like someone who’s learned to make herself small to survive it. Through the feed, her room glows soft, washed in the early grey light. She stirs. Turns. The sheet slips from one shoulder. There’s something strangely holy about watching someone before the world wakes up to judge them. She doesn’t stretch right away. She lies there for a while, staring at the ceiling, her expression unreadable. Then she exhales, long and slow, the kind of sigh that sounds like she’s already tired of the day ahead, and then she sits up.

I zoom in just slightly.
Her movements are neat and practised. Hair tied half back at the top, the bottom falls out messily. Once her feet are on the floor, she pauses, like she’s counting the seconds before she stands. Then she does. She moves to the window, and I get my first clear look at her face. Charlotte Ricci isn’t beautiful in the way most women try to be. She’s the kind of beautiful that sneaks up on you. The kind that can slip a knife under your ribs and make you thank her for it. Oh and I think I would thank her for it. She yawns. Rubs at her eyes. Checks her phone, scrolling absently. There’s a moment, the smallest one, where her face softens. Maybe it's a photo she's looking at, maybe. She smiles, faintly, and it feels like watching the moon through glass. I make a mental note to get Nico to help me tap her phone. She pours herself tea from a pot that’s already waiting on the counter. I can’t tell what kind, but she takes it without sugar, no milk. Plain. I make a note of that too. Who is she when she’s not wearing the Ricci name like armour? What makes her laugh? What does she look like when she cries? Who is she when no one’s watching but me? The feed flickers as she moves through the room. I watch her brush her hair. Fix the collar of her blouse. Slide a gun from the drawer beside the bed, check the magazine, then tuck it back like it’s just part of getting dressed. That’s when it hits me, the control. The precision. She’s not Ricci’s pet. She’s someone who pretends to be tamed, so the leash stays loose. My mouth curves into a grin. I think I like her.

It’s late morning when he comes in. Marco Ricci. The new Don. The one with his father’s temper and none of his grace. He doesn’t knock. Just swings the door open and walks in like he owns the air she breathes. He’s got a glass of wine in one hand and arrogance in the other.
Charlotte doesn’t turn right away. She just says, without looking up, “It’s nine in the morning, Marco.”
His smile doesn’t reach his eyes. “And you’re still here. We’ve got a meeting in an hour.”
“With who?”
“The Calabresi. I expect you to look presentable this time.”
She finally looks at him, and I swear the temperature in the room drops ten degrees. “Then you can expect to be disappointed. I’m not your decoration.”
He laughs, but there's no humour in it. “You think you have a choice?”
“I think you can go fuck yourself.”
There it is. Fire. He sets the glass down hard enough that I hear it crack through the mic. Then he moves. Fast. One hand around her throat. I sit forward before I realise I’ve done it. She doesn’t fight him. Doesn’t cry. Just stares at him with those same unflinching eyes. It’s almost worse, the way she refuses to flinch for him.
Marco leans in close. “You’ll play nice, Charlotte. Because if you don’t, I’ll make sure Mamma’s next little hospital visit is her last. Do you understand?”
Her throat works against his hand. “You touch her,” she rasps, “and I’ll finish what your father started.”
His fingers tighten once, then release. She stumbles back, coughing, rubbing at her neck.
He straightens his cuffs, as if nothing happened. “Be ready in an hour.”
Then he’s gone.

I don’t move for a long time. She doesn’t either. Through the camera, I can see the faint red marks where his fingers were. The way her hands shake just once before she steadies herself. She grabs her phone, dials, stops halfway, deletes the number, exhales. When she finally sits on the edge of her bed again, the light hits her face just right. And that’s when it happens — the moment I know. This isn’t just curiosity anymore. I’m not watching because I want to. I’m watching because someone has to. Because if Marco Ricci ever puts his hands on her again, I’ll show him what real fear feels like. She doesn’t know it yet. But she’s not alone anymore. She’s not his prisoner. She’s mine to protect. And I don’t lose what’s mine.