The Don

The office is dark. Expensive dark. The kind of darkness that costs money, leather and mahogany and silence thick enough to choke on.

I shouldn't be here.

I shouldn't be anywhere. I should be dead in an alley, bleeding out next to a man I never met.

But I'm not.

I'm standing in front of a desk made of wood so dark it's almost black, facing a man who could kill me with a phone call.

Don Emilio Conti doesn't look up from his paperwork.

"You're the witness."

Not a question.

"Yes."

He sets down his pen. Finally looks at me.

I've heard stories about him. Everyone has. The young Don who took over three years ago. Cold. Controlled. Nothing like his father, they say. More dangerous, others say.

His face gives nothing away. Dark suit. Still face. Nothing given away.

"My brother wants you dead."

"I know."

"I'm supposed to want you dead too."

I swallowed hard. "Do you?"

Long pause. He studies me like I'm a problem to solve. A variable in an equation.

"I haven't decided yet."

The silence stretches.

I should be terrified. I am terrified. But I've been terrified for three days now, and at some point the fear stops feeling like anything at all.

"Why did you come here?"

"Because the police can't help me."

"They can't."

"Because you own them."

He tilts his head. Slight movement. "Some of them."

"Enough of them." I don't look away. "Your brother killed a man in front of me. I went to the police. They took my statement. Then they told me there was nothing they could do. That I should go home and forget what I saw."

"Sound advice."

"Your brother found my home. He was waiting outside my apartment building."

His hand stilled on the desk. Just for a second.

"When?"

"Two days ago. I've been sleeping in my car since then."

He stands. Walks to the window.

The view is the city skyline, all those lights, all those people with normal problems. Bills. Traffic. Whether to order pizza or Chinese.

Not this.

"My brother is..." He pauses. Chooses his words. "Impulsive. Our father encouraged that quality. I do not."

"Is that supposed to comfort me?"

"No." He turns. "Nothing about this situation should comfort you. You saw something you shouldn't have. You're a liability to my family. The logical solution is obvious."

"Then why haven't you done it?"

Neither of us filled the quiet.

Emilio

I'd expected begging. Bargaining. Not this.

I've dealt with witnesses before. Informants. Loose ends. They beg. Bargain. Offer things they think I want.

This woman, Isla, the file says, just stands there. Calm. Quiet. Watching me with those hazel eyes like she's studying a problem.

Like she's already calculated the odds and accepted them.

"Because my brother's incompetence offends me." The truth, partially. "A public execution witnessed by a civilian? Sloppy. Careless. The kind of mistake that brings attention we don't need."

"So you'll kill me quietly instead?"

"That would be the smart move."

"But?"

I don't answer. Because I don't have one.

I should kill her. It would be cleaner. Easier. Paolo would stop his tantrum, the loose end would be tied, and everything would return to normal.

Instead, I'm standing here. Talking to her. Letting her ask questions.

What the hell is wrong with me?

"You came here instead of running." I circle back to my desk. "Why?"

"Because running doesn't work. Your brother has resources. I have a ten-year-old Honda and three hundred dollars in my checking account."

"You could have left the city."

"And go where? I have no family. No one who would hide me." She shrugs. Small movement. "I figured coming to you was either the smartest thing I could do or the dumbest. Either way, at least it would be over."

"You want it to be over?"

"I want to stop being afraid." She looks straight at me. "Three days of looking over my shoulder. Three days of sleeping with a knife in my hand. I'm tired. If you're going to kill me, just do it. If not, help me."

Bold.

Reckless.

Stupid.

And somehow, exactly right.

Isla

He's silent for a long time.

I can see him calculating. Running scenarios. Weighing options.

I've done the same thing. Endlessly. For three days. And every calculation ended the same way: I'm dead unless someone more powerful than Paolo Conti decides I'm not.

"My brother will keep hunting you." He sits back down. "He takes elimination of witnesses personally. It's a pride thing."

"I noticed."

"If I let you walk out of here, you'll be dead within a week."

"I know."

"If I kill you now, the problem disappears."

"Also true."

His lips twitch. Almost a smile. "You're remarkably calm about your own death."

"I've had three days to make peace with it." I haven't. But he doesn't need to know that. "What are my other options?"

He considers.

Then:

"I could protect you."

The words land like stones.

"Why would you do that?"

"Because it gives me leverage over my brother. His mistake, my solution. It reminds him who's in charge." He steeples his fingers. "Because killing witnesses is messy, it creates investigations, even superficial ones. And because..."

He stops.

"Because what?"

A muscle jumped near his mouth. "Because you walked into my office knowing I could kill you, and you asked for help anyway. That takes..." He pauses again. "I'm not sure what that takes."

"Desperation."

"Perhaps." He stands. Opens a door I hadn't noticed. "Dante. My office."

A man appears. Large. Scarred. Built like a weapon.

"This is Isla. She'll be staying at the compound. Indefinitely." Emilio turns to me. "You'll have a room. Security. Everything you need. In exchange, you don't leave without permission. You don't contact anyone from your old life. You become invisible."

"I'm good at invisible."

"Let's hope so." His eyes meet mine. "Because my brother will never stop looking. And if he finds you, I won't be able to stop what happens next."

I follow Dante out of the office.

At the door, I pause. Turn back.

"Thank you."

Emilio is already looking at his paperwork again.

"Don't."

The door closes.

And my new life begins.