A TWIST

A TWIST

Silvio's POV

Argento mansion was subdued as I walked through the entry hall, each step echoing off marble floors that had heard more than laughter in the last few years. The chandelier barely flickered above, its shadows cast long on the tiles. Martina hadn't said a word to me since kissing me goodbye—soft and gentle, her lips trembling against mine like a silent whisper.

"Promise me you'll come back," she'd breathed, her fingers grasping the lapel of my jacket.

I'd nodded, our foreheads pressed together.

"Always," I'd breathed. "I'll always find my way back to you."

And now I was on my own. I headed for the east garage where my own vehicle was parked. I trusted no one else with driving tonight. The car was a low-slung black Aston Martin—tinted windows, recently washed. A status symbol, arrogance. and preparation.

I entered the driver's seat, closed the door, looked at the clock.

6:40 PM.

Ten minutes and we'd be dropped. I pounded the tracker on my belt, disguised as a fancy silver buckle. Knight had helped design it—it gave my live coordinates to his tablet. Leonardo would be within two miles, in a decoy vehicle, weaponized and on standby. We weren't idiots. We never trusted Vincent.

And still here I was. Driving alone. Without a gun. As instructed.

My phone beeped.

6:50 PM — Whereabouts Lost: Harris Vehicle Storage and Towing Lot, off Route 19 — 45th Industrial Park.

A damn car impound.

Of course.

I couldn't help but chuckle. Tasteless, but it works. No cameras. Off-site. And conveniently raucous with the tow trucks, forklifts, and equipment.

I turned over the ignition and sped out of the estate.

The air was heavy in the evening. Clouds overhead rolled with lazy menace, the sky the shade of ink heavy with a storm threat. The further away I drove from Argento lots, the quieter it became. No police vehicles. No pedestrians. Nothing but my own engine's rumble and my own thoughts.

I pulled into the lot at 6:58 PM. Exact timing.

The gate was slightly ajar—a rusty, creaky, off-hanging-from-one-hinge like a drunken bum. I drove through and pulled off to the side, where the impounded vehicles languished under tarps or out in the night air.

It was dark. There wasn't a light anywhere. Only the soft, unearthly glow of a distant streetlight and the occasional groan of metal.

I stepped out, closing the car door. My feet crunched against gravel and broke glass. Gasoline and rain filled the air.

No one.

Just me.

I wandered around, my hands in my coat pockets, counting the darkness. The silence crawled under my skin.

I waited.

Ten minutes.

Then fifteen.

Nothing still.

I pulled out a cigarette at twenty minutes, even though I hadn't smoked in months. There was something about the routine that reminded me of things. I lit it, inhaled deeply, and looked up at the black sky.

Thirty-five minutes.

That's when I heard it.

The thrumming of an engine.

A black SUV stopped, no lights, tires barely making sound.

It pulled up the other side of the parking lot, and four men got out—tall, hard-looking, military posture. I didn't flinch. I didn't move. I just raised an eyebrow.

Then a second black SUV appeared, as silent, as subtle. And a third.

I didn't need to be reminded I was outnumbered.

The third SUV doors opened and two more men stepped out. These were not Vincent's toadies. These were older. Nastier. They dressed like mercenaries—faces impassive.

I stood a little taller, the cigarette hanging off my lip. "Where's the welcoming committee?" I grumbled aloud.

Then.

He stepped out.

Morgan.

The son of a bitch.

Dressed in a navy coat, gloves, smug expression carved across his face like he was walking into a goddamn poker game he was sure to win.

My heart dropped, but my face didn’t twitch.

Morgan?

Where the hell was Vincent?

I took one step back and whispered into the mic stitched into my collar. "Knight. Tell me you’ve got eyes."

A low crackle. Knight's voice, tense. "Surrounded. Three SUVs. Nine hostiles. Leonardo's coming in from the east."

I swallowed. "Roger that. Do not fire unless I say so."

Knight: "Roger."

Morgan walked further until there were five feet between us.

I stubbed the cigarette out with my heel.

Well, I told him bluntly. "You're not quite as pretty as I remember. Sun hasn't been cruel to you. Or did you pop out of hell too quickly for it to catch up to you?,you know having that you ran away from our last battle."

Morgan smiled. "Still running your lip, Silvio. Still thinking you're smarter than the rest of us."

"Where is Vincent?" I snapped. "I haven't time to play chess with an old corpse."

His smile grew wider. "Vincent sends his greetings. This little setup—this operation—is now in my hands.".

I chuckled once. "Sure. Because he's too cowardly to meet my eye. So he gives the dead man walking instead."

Morgan's eyes darkened.

"You should've stayed away," he snarled. "You should've kept your little bride in a cage and forgotten about Layla."

That stung the nerve he desired. But I didn't give him the satisfaction of responding.

"I suppose you're here to threaten me?" I said. "Or perhaps this is one of those fancy suicide attempts?"

He laughed. "You're surrounded. No gun. No weapon. No leverage. You're a joke."

I moved in on him. A step. Just a little. Just enough.

"I'm never without leverage."

He leaned his head to one side, grinning. "What do you think you're going to do? Blarney your way out of it?"

I smiled faintly. "Something like that."

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Leonardo's form in the shadows. Knight was right behind him, watching from the roof of the impound building.

And I was on the air.

Word for word. Threat for threat. Face for face.

I mouthed softly into the wire, so softly only the mic could hear: "Record everything."

Then I turned to Wellington Morgan and said in a louder voice, "So. murdering me now or later? Because I'm making dinner plans."

Morgan's face flickered. "You're not playing a game, Silvio. Sorry, it's a funeral."

"Yours, I hope."

And then.

He patted his chest.

I tensed.

Guards around him clicked the safeties off.

But for a gun. he pulled out a phone. Pressed a button.

A screen flickered on. A video began playing.

Layla.

She wore some gorgeous gown, a mask, beside. Marcello.

I was frozen.

The screen went dark.

Morgan was smug. "She's not where you think she is. You're not the only one with alliances."

And that's when I knew this was more than about Vincent.

Marcello.

His father.

And no Vincent.

This was no meeting.