Page 33 of Knight
"You said dinner."
"It is dinner."
"This is a compound."
He almost smiles. Almost. Then he walks around to my side, opens my door, and holds his hand out like we're arriving at a gala instead of a fortress. I take it because my legs feel less steady than I want them to and his grip is warm and certain and I hate how much that helps.
Inside, the house smells like garlic and red wine and something underneath both of those — old wood, polished stone, the kind of wealth that doesn't announce itself because it doesn't need to.
Romeo leads me through a marble foyer into a living room that could swallow my entire apartment twice. And every instinct I've spent two years sharpening — the ones that tell me when a customer's eyes have turned from appreciative todangerous, the ones that count exits in every room I enter, the ones that calculate how fast I can get to Marisol and Tomás if something goes wrong — every single one of those instincts fires at the same time.
Three men are already in the room.
They turn toward me before I finish crossing the threshold and I can feel the assessment landing on my skin like heat. Each one of them is measuring me — my clothes, my posture, my hands, the distance between Romeo and me — and each one of them is reaching a conclusion I won't be told.
The oldest is standing near the fireplace. Dark hair, black clothes, a scar at his collar where something used to hang. His eyes cut through me with surgical efficiency and I understand immediately that this man has decided nothing about me yet and considers that patience a weapon.
The tallest is leaning against the far wall. Younger, quieter, built like someone who has been growing into violence the way other boys grow into their father's suits. He watches me with an unnerving stillness and says nothing.
The third is closer — broad-shouldered, dark eyes that run warmer than the other two, a chess set visible on the table behind him. He's the one who lifts his chin and says, "Hey."
One word. Genuine. I hold onto it like a coin in an empty pocket.
Romeo's hand presses against the small of my back and I catalog the exits. Two doors. One hallway. Every window reinforced.
I walked into this house expecting dinner.
I am standing in a room full of dangerous men.
Three Brothers, Three Assessments
The oldest comes first.
He crosses the room toward me with the economy of a man who has never wasted a movement in his life. Up close, the scar at his collar is more pronounced — a pale line where something heavy sat for a long time and left its mark when it was removed. His handshake doesn't come. He keeps his hands at his sides and studies me with eyes that could take apart an engine and put it back together in a different order.
"Santino," Romeo says beside me. "My brother."
"Nova." I hold my ground because this man is testing whether I'll fold under his stare and I have been stared at by drunk men in dark rooms for eighteen months. A priest who traded his collar for a knife is not going to be the thing that makes me flinch.
"How long have you known my brother?" Santino asks. Polite. The question sounds casual the way a mousetrap looks like a piece of wood.
"A few weeks."
"And what is it you do?"
He already knows. I can see it in the way his mouth sets — he asked the question to watch me answer it. To see if I'd lie, deflect, perform some sanitized version of the truth for the benefit of this room.
"I dance at Romeo's club."
One beat of silence. Santino's eyes shift to Romeo and whatever passes between them is a conversation I am excluded from. Then he nods once and steps away, returning to the fireplace like a sentry resuming his post.
Assessment complete. Verdict pending. I can live with that.
The tall one is next, except he doesn't come to me. He stays against the wall and when I glance toward him he lifts his chin a quarter inch in acknowledgment. That's it. One gesture. His dark eyes track me the way a camera tracks — steady, patient, recording everything and revealing nothing. He makes me think of the security guards at Tomás's school who stand at the gate every morning and know every face that passes without ever saying a word.
"Dante," Romeo murmurs near my ear. "He doesn't talk much."
"I noticed."
