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Families wanting better profits and alliances have pushed marriages on my brother and me since we could walk. Our father bartered us all away, but once we took over the Order, we broke all the arrangements. Nobody can tell me who I’ll spend my life with. I live on my own terms. As do my siblings.
“Last week, Paulina got a call asking when I’m coming into the city,” I say. “I think she said it was Baker’s daughter who asked. Maybe Walsh’s.” I’m unsure because I’m uninterested.
Severio chuckles. “They’re all attending tonight’s party. I’m sure of it.”
I groan.
He starts laughing.
“So happy to amuse you, brother.”
“You’re walking into the hornets’ nest.”
“Yes, but I’m carrying the torch.” I hear mumbling at the front door. “Talk tomorrow.” I disconnect and shut off the light in the bathroom. The rest of the apartment is dark, giving the impression that nobody’s here.
Outside, something heavy hits the marble. Nobody’s supposed to be here. This is a safe apartment in Manhattan owned by my sister’s offshore company. Nobody could possibly have traced it since we manage property acquisition so carefully.
When the door starts to open, I walk out, my gun pointing at the intruder.
In walks an exquisite woman in her late twenties carrying two laundry bags and a phone, which she drops the moment she stares down the barrel of my Walther. Big light-brown eyes wide, she shows me her hands, and her lips part.
Gesù Christo, she’s beautiful, with an angelic sort of face I wouldn’t mind being the last thing I see on this earth. Which might be the case if she’s been sent to kill me.
“Who are you?” I ask.
“Michela Trantino.”
Mentally, I run the Italian last name through the Order’s catalog and find no match.
“Who sent you?” I press.
“Um… The agency.”
She’s about five foot nine to my six foot four, so when I step closer, I inhale the flowery scent wafting off her long, voluminous brown hair. I press the barrel of my weapon to her forehead. “Little more specific, if you don’t mind? Which agency?” FBI? CIA? She could be a messenger for me or an assassin. I have no idea.
“The Temps of Manhattan Agency. Oh my God,” she whimpers. “Don’t kill me.”
Who are the Temps of… Is she a civilian?
I step back and give her a once-over. Brown hair falls over one shoulder all the way down to her navel, partially covering the little silver dress she’s wearing paired with high heels of the same color. “What are you doing here?”
“I house-sit this apartment. I come here twice a week.”
I can’t imagine anyone house-sitting dressed up as if they’re going out for the night, so I’m still skeptical, my general paranoia notwithstanding.
“What’s in the bags?” I ask.
Still up in the air, her hands are trembling, and it’s clear her knees are threatening to fold.
“Laundry. The housekeeper asked me if I could drop off the laundry.”
“Tonight?”
“Well, no. I was on my way out, and I thought I’d stop by.”
I contemplate what to do with her.
“Please, sir, let me go.”
