Chapter 3 — The Lion's Territory

Valentina

Morning sunlight spilled through Villa Russo's grand windows, transforming dust motes into floating gold. Each of my heels clicked against marble floors as Dominic led our tour, the sound echoing like a metronome counting down to detonation. The Phoenix Pendant rested cool and vigilant against my collarbone, its hidden circuits capturing every detail of my new prison – or kingdom, depending on how the next few hours unfolded. My fingers brushed the pendant's wing, seeking the familiar comfort of its razor edge as I cataloged potential escape routes.

A pair of guards straightened as we passed, their earpieces betraying connection to a security network far more sophisticated than the villa's old-world façade suggested. I noted the make of their concealed weapons – German, not Italian. Interesting. The same supplier who'd armed the men who killed my father.

"The east wing houses our legitimate enterprises," Dominic said, his measured stride marking him as much predator as businessman. The precise cut of his charcoal suit couldn't quite disguise the warrior's grace beneath. A muscle in his jaw tightened when we passed the portrait of his brother – a tell so subtle most would miss it. "Shipping, real estate development, import-export... Settori che conosci bene, sectors you know well."

The Italian phrase carried an edge of suspicion. I caught a glimpse of our reflection in a passing mirror – the mafia prince and his new bride, a tableau of power and beauty concealing enough weaponry between us to start a small war. The glint of his family ring reminded me of its hidden compartment, likely containing data that could prove Marco's treachery.

"I look forward to reviewing the portfolios," I replied, letting my gaze linger on a Caravaggio that definitely wasn't a reproduction – I'd seen the original in my father's study the night he died. "Sofia mentioned some promising ventures in waterfront development. The port's north sector seems particularly undervalued."

His stride hitched – almost imperceptible, but there. The north sector had been Cavalli territory until recently, and the timing of their sudden surrender had never quite added up. The weight of his family ring caught the light as his hand flexed, a tell he probably thought too subtle to notice.

We passed Marco's office, the polished oak door a siren song of secrets. The ledger I needed would be inside, likely in the false bottom of the right desk drawer, if Marco's habits hadn't changed since he'd visited my father. I forced myself to study the Baroque molding instead, cataloging the camera angles and keypad model for tonight's inevitable exploration. The scent of his signature tobacco lingered – he'd been here recently, perhaps reviewing the very evidence I sought.

"Our family maintains certain traditions," Dominic continued, leading me down a portrait gallery where long-dead Russo patriarchs watched our passage with painted suspicion. "La famiglia è tutto – family is everything." His voice carried the weight of generations, but something in his tone suggested doubt. Had he already begun to suspect Marco's manipulation?

The master key appeared in his hand, its gold inlay catching sunlight as he pressed his thumb to the handle's hidden scanner. My pulse quickened at the soft click of ancient tumblers meeting modern security. That key could unlock every door in the villa – including Marco's office.

The room beyond stole my practiced composure for a genuine moment. Weapons lined the walls in gleaming ranks – everything from ceremonial daggers passed down through generations to state-of-the-art tactical gear that still bore factory oil. A training mat dominated the center space, its surface bearing fresh scuff marks. The air carried traces of gunpowder and metal polish, mixing with the leather and wood that spoke of deadly history.

"The family armory," Dominic said, watching me with predator's focus. His eyes tracked my movements, measuring each reaction. "Every Russo bride is expected to demonstrate proficiency. For protection, naturally."

I stepped onto the mat, letting my fingers trail along a rack of throwing knives. Each blade sang with familiar promise – identical to the set my father had trained me with since childhood. "I prefer diplomatic solutions when available."

"E quando non lo sono?" His switch to Italian revealed genuine curiosity beneath the challenge.

I turned to face him fully, allowing a glimpse of steel beneath silk. "Then I prefer to walk away alive."

He moved with liquid grace, the test blow designed to evaluate rather than harm. I shifted just enough to deflect it, making my defense look instinctive rather than trained. We flowed into a deadly dance of calculated strikes and measured responses, each movement a question and answer. My heart raced not from exertion but from the electric awareness of his proximity.

I let him see fragments of skill – a counter here, a dodge there – while studying his own formidable capabilities. His style spoke of military training layered over street fighting pragmatism, refined by years of practical application. The Phoenix Pendant captured every detail of his technique, data that could prove either salvation or damnation.

"Impressive reflexes," he said, stepping back. A bead of sweat traced his collar, betraying that I'd pushed him harder than he'd expected. "Unusual for a banker's daughter."

The memory of my father's voice rose unbidden: Always be prepared, little phoenix. Our world devours the helpless. I forced it down, focusing on the present threat. "Father believed in comprehensive education. The world holds dangers for women in powerful families." Especially when those dangers wore friendly faces and carried silver pens filled with poison ink.

"Indeed." His tone suggested layers of meaning. One hand absently touched his family ring – another tell I filed away. "What other lessons did he consider essential?"

Sofia's arrival cut through the tension, her Louboutins sharp against marble. Her expression soured at finding us alone, hand drifting toward her concealed holster. "The Cavalli representative arrived early. Something about port authority concerns."

Dominic's transformation from sparring partner to mafia don was immediate and complete. "Che seccatura – what an annoyance." The curse carried genuine frustration. "We'll continue this discussion." The promise in his voice held equal parts intrigue and warning. "I trust you can find your way back to the main wing?"

"Of course." I smiled, knowing cameras would track every step. "I wouldn't want to wander somewhere... restricted."

His jaw tightened at the challenge. He followed Sofia without another word, leaving me alone in this arsenal of old and new power. I waited precisely thirty seconds before moving to examine the nearest display case, playing my role for the surveillance feed.

The weapons were immaculate, but a slight discoloration in the wood paneling behind them caught my attention. The variation matched architectural plans I'd memorized – a passage to the west wing study where Dominic's brother had met his end. The same night Marco's silver pen had signed the Cavalli trade agreement.

I made a show of admiring an antique stiletto before departing, my steps deliberately uncertain as I appeared to navigate toward the main wing. Three calculated turns brought me to my real target – the hidden access panel that might lead to proof of Marco's decades of manipulation.

Twelve minutes until Dominic's meeting concluded. The Phoenix Pendant hummed against my skin, ready to record whatever secrets lay hidden in the darkness. The panel slid aside silently, revealing shadows that promised answers.

I had barely crossed the threshold when his voice emerged from the darkness behind me, smooth as aged whiskey over broken glass. "Looking for something specific, wife?"