His tone made clear that this was not open for discussion.
I fell silent, watching through the darkened windows as we left my modest neighborhood behind and headed toward the affluent suburbs north of the city. The knot in my stomach tightened with every mile.
After about 30 minutes, we turned onto a private road lined with old oak trees. At the end stood an imposing stone mansion, its windows glowing warmly against the twilight sky. A high wall surrounded the property, and I spotted surveillance cameras discreetly positioned along its perimeter.
We pulled up to a wrought iron gate that opened automatically as we approached. Two men in dark suits stood on either side of the entrance, their hands clasped in front of them, eyes scanning the vehicle as we passed.
The driveway curved around a central fountain before stopping at the main entrance of the house.
“We’re here,” my escort announced unnecessarily.
He exited the car and opened my door. I stepped out, my legs unsteady beneath me.
The house was even more impressive up close: 3 stories of old-world elegance, ivy climbing the stone walls, meticulously maintained gardens stretching in every direction. It looked like something from a period film, not a place where real people lived.
The massive front door opened before we reached it, and Nicholas Russo emerged, his expression inscrutable.
“Miss Morgan.”
He gave a slight nod.
“Thank you for coming.”
As if I had been given a choice.
I held out the backpack like a peace offering.
“I brought it. And the money. I can’t accept it.”
Nicholas ignored the proffered items.
“My brother is waiting. Please come inside.”
The interior of the house matched its exterior in grandeur. Marble floors. Soaring ceilings. Antique furniture that probably cost more than everything I owned combined. Family photographs lined the walls, mostly of Marco at various ages. Sometimes he was with Nicholas, sometimes with an older woman who I guessed might be a grandmother, but I did not see anyone who looked like Dante Russo.
Nicholas led me through the foyer and down a hallway to a set of double doors. He knocked once, then opened them without waiting for a response.
“She’s here,” he announced, stepping aside to let me enter.
The room was a study, with bookshelves lining the walls and a massive oak desk positioned in front of floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the gardens. Standing at the window with his back to us was a man, his silhouette outlined against the fading daylight.
“Leave us.”
His voice was deep and commanding.
Nicholas hesitated for just a moment before nodding and closing the doors behind him, leaving me alone with Dante Russo.
Slowly, he turned to face me.
