Page 88 of Ricardo

“A professional courier with the appropriate vehicle.”

“What’s the difference if we take it in ourselves or a courier takes it?”

“The courier will take the fastest safe route, and only the document will be at risk of delay.” His gaze remains steady on mine. “Not you.”

Something tight pulls in my chest.

I look away from him.

The rain makes everything outside feel uncertain. Trees bend under the weight of it. Water runs along the road in fast, uneven streams, and the SUV moves through it carefully. The city feels much farther away than it did ten minutes ago.

“I think Mario would rather—”

“Mario would rather have the paperwork late than risk either of us in these streets.”

I opened my mouth to object again or make some other excuse. But Mario is his brother, and he knows him better than I do.

I close my mouth.

Ricardo’s mouth curves faintly, then he takes out his phone and makes a call.

His words are in rapid Italian, and my mind is swirling with so many thoughts that I don't catch many of them. Only enough to know that he's speaking to Mario and discussing the paperwork and a courier.

Is he telling him that we're going to his house?

Does my boss know that I'm going to be in his brother's house alone?

My stomach pitches, and I feel a little sick.

Ricardo ends the call and slips the phone back into his jacket. “A courier will be by to pick up the paperwork shortly.”

“Good. That's good,” I say nervously. I'm clutching the strap of my bag and trying to make my voice steady.

The SUV turns again, this time between two stone pillars and onto a private drive.

And suddenly, we’re here.

There is no gatehouse, no attendant waiting, as I expected. Just a dark metal gate already opening in the rain, a line of trees bending over the drive, and landscape lights glowing dimly through sheets of water.

The house appears slowly.

It is not what I expect.

I’m not sure what I expected. Something enormous and ostentatious, maybe. A mansion that announces power and prestige. Columns. Fountains. Too many windows. Some grand, cold place designed to impress people before they even reach the front door.

Ricardo’s house is large, yes, but it is none of those other things.

Of course, no. I don't know why I expected that. The man who raised Dante would not have a home like that.

Stone and dark wood. Low rooflines. Wide windows reflecting the storm. A long front walk bordered by hedges now beaten down by rain. Warm light glows from inside, soft against the gray afternoon.

It looks like the kind of place people actually live.

The SUV stops beneath a covered entrance, and the driver gets out first. Ricardo turns to me before opening his door.

“Wait here a moment.”

This time, I do.