Page 7 of Valentino

"No problem," I say easily. "Just making sure the girls are comfortable. The one on the end seems a little—" I choose the word carefully. "Nervous."

"She is new." Greta's tone makes it clear the conversation has a ceiling, and we've just hit it. "She does not speak much English. She will be fine on camera. That is what matters."

"Sure," I say. "It's just that bruise on her jaw. Your artist's been working on it for a while. If she's hurt, we should⁠—"

"Models bruise." Greta cuts me off, smooth as glass. "They are clumsy. They do not eat. They faint, they bump into things. It is nothing." She tilts her head, and now there's something cool and assessing in the look she gives me, like she's recalculating exactly who I am and how much I can cost her. "You are marketing, yes? Not casting.The girls are my responsibility. You worry about the brand. I worry about them."

The dismissal is so polished I almost don't feel the blade until it's already drawn back.

I hold her gaze for a second longer than is comfortable. Every instinct I have is screaming that something is wrong here.

But I've spent years learning which questions you don't ask. I learned it around Vittoria's family, the way you learn the stove is hot before you understand what fire is. There are doors you don't open. Threads you don't pull. I've built an entire life around the careful art of not knowing more than I need to.

So I smile. The big one. The one that's gotten me out of a hundred awkward situations.

"Of course," I say. "You're absolutely right."

Greta's shoulders ease. She thinks she's won. She has, technically. She turns away, already barking at someone about call times.

But I don't get out of her hair, not really. I get her a bottle of water, and I bring it to the girl myself. When I hand it over I crouch down again and read the small white tag clipped to her wardrobe rack.

Nadia. And below it, the agency stamp. Agenzia Luce.

"Here you go, Nadia," I say.

She freezes when I use her name. Just for a heartbeat. Like being known is its own kind of danger.

"Thank you," she whispers. Her fingers close around the bottle, trembling. I see it. She sees me see it.

Then her hand disappears back into the sleeve of her sweater.

I stand and return to my tablet. I tell Marco the amber looks perfect, and it does. The shoot rolls on, gorgeous and gleaming and worth every euro.

Valentino

The espresso has gone cold in front of me, which tells me how long I've been sitting here doing nothing.

Two days here and I have ash. Shell companies that fold into other shell companies. A name that I cannot move on without proof. So I drink coffee across the street from Casa Aurelia, watching men carry equipment cases through a service door, and learning nothing I didn't already know.

I take out my phone and call Luca.

He answers on the third ring. He always answers on the third ring, never the first, never the fourth. I have stopped wondering why.

"Conti," he says.

"The thing in Sicily. Are you finished?"

A pause. With Luca, the pauses carry more than the words.

"Two days," he says. "Maybe less."

"When it's done, come to Milan." I turn the cold cup in a slow circle on its saucer, watching the ring of liquid it leaves on the white porcelain. "I need eyes I trust. Surveillance. Maybe entry on a property later…"

The line goes quiet again.

"Send me the address," he says.

That's the whole architecture of us, right there. He doesn't ask why. I don't pretend there's a warm reason. Six years of this. I give him a city and a target, and he disappears into it like water into dry ground.