Page 18 of Ruthless Scar
LORENZO
She follows me to Dante’s study without speaking. Good. I prefer silence. Silence is safe and honest. Silence doesn’t require anything from me.
The house has gone still this time of morning, most of the staff still moving through their routines. Her footsteps behind me are lighter than mine, quicker to keep pace. The borrowed clothes hang off her. White T-shirt slipping off one shoulder. Sweatpants sitting low on her hips.
I’m clocking details. That’s my job.
The study door is already open. Dante sits behind the desk, laptop open, coffee steaming beside him. He looks up when we enter, and his eyes narrow when he sees her. Assessment. Calculation. The same look he gave Cassia once, before everything changed.
“Isabella.” Dante gestures to the chair across from him. “Sit.”
She doesn’t hesitate. Doesn’t defer. Just crosses the room and takes the seat like she belongs in it. Like she’s not surrounded by people who could end her with a phone call.
I position myself by the window. Near enough to hear everything. Far enough to observe.
“You said you have intel on the Benedettis,” Dante says. “Locations. Routes. Operations.”
“I do.”
“How much?”
“Years of surveillance. Financial records, shipping manifests, property holdings. Names of buyers.” Her voice is steady. Professional. “I know where they move their product. I know who pays them. I know which cops look the other way and how much it costs.”
Dante’s expression doesn’t change, but I catch it. The flicker he’s too disciplined to show.
“And you’re willing to share all of this.”
“That’s the deal.” She leans forward, jaw set. “You help me get my sister back. I give you everything I have.”
“How do we know it’s accurate?”
“You don’t.” She holds his gaze, steady as stone. “But I’ve spent years building this database. Cross-referencing sources. Verifying every piece of information. I didn’t do this for fun. I did it because my sister’s life depends on it being right.”
Silence stretches. Dante looks at me. I give him nothing.
“Show me,” he says.
She turns to face me. “I need my laptop. Or access to one.”
“Your laptop is being analyzed.”
“I figured.” No anger. No accusation. Just fact. “Then I need a clean machine and network access. My files are backed up.”
“Where?”
Her lips press together. “You think I kept all that incriminating evidence on a single device? Everything’s backed up and hidden across multiple locations. I can access it from anywhere.”
It lives in my head now. Not on those drives.That’s what she told me in the apartment. Looking me dead in the eyes while her screens burned. And I bought it.
Shit.My knuckles whiten against my forearm.
“You’ll have supervised access,” I say. “Monitored connection. Nothing goes out without approval.”
“Fine.”
“And I’ll be monitoring.”
Now she does smile. Small. Sharp. “I’d expect nothing less.”
