Chapter 3 — The Giovanni Proposition
Antonio
The Giovanni Estate loomed like a sentinel at the city’s edge, its manicured hedges and towering wrought-iron gates standing as a stark contrast to the chaos simmering just beyond its borders. Antonio Giovanni stood by the grand windows of his study, his piercing gray eyes tracing the rain-streaked skyline of the city. The faint drizzle softened the sharp glow of distant lights, but inside, the atmosphere simmered with quiet intensity. The air carried a faint aroma of leather and aged whiskey, mingling with the soft hum of security monitors embedded discreetly within the estate’s walls.
His fingers tapped rhythmically on the edge of the window frame, a measured cadence that belied the chaos of his thoughts. Beyond the estate walls lay a world of shifting allegiances and blood-soaked power plays, and Dimitri Ivanov was at the center of it all—a growing threat Antonio had not yet decided how to neutralize. His mind churned with options, none of them ideal. Every calculation carried risk, and in a game as volatile as this, risk was often indistinguishable from stupidity.
The sharp knock at the oak door behind him snapped him from his thoughts. His fingers stilled, and his posture straightened, the subtle shift in his stance betraying a flicker of tension he would never allow to reach his face.
“Come in.”
The door creaked open, and Victoria stepped inside, her presence immediately altering the energy in the room. Antonio caught her reflection in the rain-specked glass before turning to face her. Her green eyes burned with a barely disguised urgency, though the faint bruise along her cheekbone pulled his attention briefly. That small imperfection—a mark of vulnerability—jarred against the composure she usually carried.
“Antonio, you need to come downstairs,” she said, her voice cutting through the tension like a blade. There was no preamble, no softness in her tone, only the firm insistence of someone who knew she was pushing the limits of his patience.
His gaze swept over her, cold and calculating. “You’re bruised,” he observed, his voice calm but weighted.
“I handled it,” she replied, lifting her chin as if daring him to press the matter. “And so did she. Trust me on this, Antonio. You need to meet her.”
Antonio folded his arms, his expression unreadable, though his mind was already working through a dozen possibilities. Victoria’s impulsiveness had long been a thorn in his otherwise methodical world, but she rarely pushed this hard unless she was certain it mattered. And yet, the bruise on her face hinted at something more.
“‘She,’” he echoed, his tone flat but questioning.
Victoria held her ground, her defiance tempered by something deeper—a quiet urgency that softened the sharp angles of her demeanor. “You’ll want to hear what she has to say,” she said, her voice steady but her hands curling into loose fists at her sides. “And before you ask, it’s not a mistake.”
Antonio studied her for another moment, weighing her words against the risks. Finally, he stepped forward, brushing past her and into the hallway. “Let’s hope for your sake it isn’t.”
As they descended the marble staircase, Antonio’s gaze ticked briefly to the estate’s layered security measures. The soft whir of hidden cameras, the subtle glint of reinforced glass, the silent movements of guards stationed at key entry points—it was all necessary, but tonight it felt more fragile than usual. The chandelier above cast fractured light across the polished floor, its gleaming crystals a symbol of the Giovanni family’s enduring legacy. Yet even that legacy felt precarious, stretched taut under the weight of enemies crouched at every border.
Antonio moved with measured precision, each step echoing faintly in the cavernous space. He didn’t like surprises, and whatever Victoria had brought into his home was exactly that: a variable he hadn’t accounted for.
At the bottom of the stairs, his eyes settled on the figure waiting in the grand hall.
The woman stood with a deliberate casualness that set his instincts on edge. A scuffed leather jacket clung to her athletic frame, paired with fitted jeans and combat boots that looked ready to spring into motion at the slightest provocation. Her dark hair was braided practically, but it was her eyes—hazel with an almost golden glint—that seized his attention. They were sharp, unflinching, and assessing him as much as he was assessing her.
“Marilyne Parker,” Victoria said, gesturing toward her. “She’s the reason I’m still standing right now.”
Antonio stepped forward, his movements deliberate, his expression impenetrable. “You defended her,” he said, though his tone made it clear this wasn’t a question.
“I handled a situation,” Marilyne replied curtly, her voice clipped and devoid of deference. She stood like a soldier, her stance poised but not rigid, every line of her body radiating controlled confidence.
Antonio’s gaze flicked briefly to Victoria. “And you brought her here because…?”
Victoria didn’t flinch under his scrutiny. “Because she’s after Dimitri. And so are we.”
The name landed like a stone, thickening the air between them. Antonio’s reaction was subtle—a flicker of tension in his jaw, the faintest narrowing of his eyes—but it spoke volumes. He turned back to Marilyne, his voice low and even. “You’re after Dimitri.”
“Yes.” Her answer was immediate, clipped.
“And you assume I’m interested in him?”
Marilyne’s lips curved into the faintest shadow of a smirk, though her voice remained level. “Let’s not insult each other’s intelligence. If you’re not already watching him, you’re a fool. And nothing about you—or this place—suggests you’re a fool.”
Antonio tilted his head slightly, a cold smile tugging at his lips. “You’ve done your homework.”
“I wouldn’t have come here if I hadn’t.”
The silence between them stretched taut, unspoken tensions coiling like a predator ready to strike. Victoria broke it, her voice quieter now but no less resolute. “She saved me, Antonio,” she said, her tone softening. “And she’s our best shot at getting to Dimitri. You don’t have to trust her. You just have to see that.”
Antonio turned back to Marilyne, his gray eyes narrowing. “Trust isn’t something I give lightly.”
Marilyne didn’t blink. “You don’t have to trust me. You just need to trust that I want Dimitri dead more than you do.”
There was a flicker of something in Antonio’s expression—recognition, perhaps, or the faintest thread of unease. He stepped to the side, pacing toward the edge of the room. His father’s old desk stood there like a relic, its leather surface worn smooth by decades of use. The brass clasp of his notebook gleamed faintly in the subdued light, and his fingers brushed the edge of the wood as his thoughts churned.
“And what do you want from me?” he asked, his back still to her.
“Resources,” Marilyne replied evenly. “Information. Whatever it takes to get to him.”
Antonio was silent for a moment, the weight of her words settling over him. Finally, he turned, his gaze settling on her once more. “And what makes you think you can deliver anything of value?”
Marilyne didn’t hesitate. “Because I’ve been hunting him for eight years. And I’m still alive.”
His eyes drifted downward, catching on the dagger at her side. The obsidian blade gleamed faintly, its veined surface refracting the light like fractures in stone.
“Your weapon,” he said quietly. “Obsidian.”
Her hand shifted slightly, the barest movement toward the dagger. “It was my father’s.”
Antonio didn’t press further, but something shifted in his stance. The dagger, the fire in her eyes—they spoke of a determination he recognized all too well.
“You’re relentless,” he said finally, his voice measured. “But that doesn’t make you trustworthy.”
“I don’t need to be trustworthy,” Marilyne replied, her tone cutting through the tension like a blade. “I just need to be useful.”
Another silence stretched between them, heavier this time. Antonio’s gaze didn’t waver, but his mind was already calculating. Finally, he nodded, his movements deliberate.
“Very well,” he said. “I’ll give you what you need. But understand this—step out of line, endanger Victoria or anyone in my family, and this arrangement ends. Permanently.”
Marilyne’s lips twitched into a faint, almost bitter smile. “Fair enough.”
Victoria let out a quiet breath, her shoulders relaxing as some of the tension bled from the room. Antonio, however, was already turning away, his mind moving to the next steps.
As Marilyne followed Victoria toward the hall, Antonio’s eyes lingered on the empty space where she had stood. The dagger, the fire in her stance—they were reflections of something he couldn’t quite name but couldn’t ignore.
His fingers brushed the clasp of his leather notebook, though he resisted the urge to open it. Instead, he turned back toward the window, his reflection barely visible against the rain-streaked glass. This alliance was a gamble. But then, the most dangerous games often were.
