Chapter 2 - The Scent of Jasmine and Lies
"You're working late again," Isabella murmured, gliding across the Persian rug toward his desk. Her hand hovered near his shoulder before she let it drop, a hesitation so subtle most men would have missed it. But Aleandro missed nothing. He noted the slight tremor in her fingers, the way her eyes darted toward the painting on the wall before she forced them back to his face.
"Just wrapping up accounts," Aleandro replied smoothly, leaning back in his leather chair. He kept his voice even, devoid of the jagged edge that usually accompanied business discussions. "The port expansion in Brooklyn is proving more complicated than expected."
Isabella offered a soft, sympathetic smile, though it didn't reach her eyes. "You always carry the weight of the world on your shoulders, Alex. That's why you need me to remind you to breathe."
She reached out and placed a warm hand against his cheek. Her skin was soft, smelling faintly of the jasmine soap she used. Three years ago, that touch would have grounded him, chased away the ghosts of boardroom battles and street wars. Now, every second her skin touched his, his mind screamed back to the footage on his monitor: Her hands shaking as she taped the bug to his family portrait.
"I'm always breathing when you're around, Izzy," he said softly, a dark irony tasting like ash on his tongue.
She pulled her hand back quickly, clutching a small leather clutch against her waist. "Well, don't stay up too long. Dinner is getting cold downstairs. Mrs. Davis made that roast you like."
"Go ahead down. I'll be there in five minutes. I just need to secure the safe."
"Of course," she said, turning on her heel. As she walked toward the door, her red coat—hanging casually over the coat rack by the entrance—caught the amber light of the desk lamp. She hadn't worn it today, but it was there, waiting.
When the door clicked shut behind her, Aleandro didn't move for a long time.
He sat in the dark stillness of the office, staring at the spot where the painting had hung. The bug was locked in his desk drawer, humming silently on a frequency he couldn't hear. Who was on the other end of that feed? The Russian syndicate? The federal task force? Or someone closer to home—someone within his own inner circle leveraging Isabella to bring him down?
He stood up, walking silently down the grand marble staircase of the mansion.
The dining room was vast, lit by a single heavy crystal chandelier that cast long, dramatic shadows across the mahogany table. Isabella sat at the far end, picking at her food with a silver fork. Marco, his second-in-command, stood quietly in the corner by the arched doorway, his face carved from granite.
As Aleandro took his seat at the head of the table, he caught the faint, shifting exchange of glances between Isabella and Marco.
It lasted less than a second. A micro-expression. A tightening of Marco’s jaw. A subtle dip of Isabella’s chin.
Aleandro’s fork stopped halfway to his mouth.
Marco.
His brother in arms. The man who had taken a bullet for him in Palermo ten years ago. The man who had absolute access to this house, to the guards, to the blind spots in the security grid.
If Isabella was the one who placed the device, Marco was the one who authorized it.
"Is everything alright, Alex?" Isabella asked, her voice tight as she noticed his silence. "You're not eating."
"I'm fine," Aleandro said, setting his silverware down with a soft clink that sounded like a hammer hitting an anvil. He looked up, locking his dark gaze onto Marco across the room. "In fact, I was just thinking about trust. About how rare it is in our line of work."
Marco didn't flinch. His posture remained rigidly professional. "Trust is a luxury, Boss. You taught us that yourself."
"Did I?" Aleandro murmured, a cold, dangerous smile touching the corners of his mouth. "Strange. I always thought loyalty was a requirement, not a luxury. Tell me, Marco... what would you do if you found out someone in this house was bleeding our secrets to the outside?"
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The air in the dining room turned to ice.
Isabella dropped her fork. It bounced against the porcelain plate with a sharp, echoing ring.
