Chapter 4 Three

The sun had barely breached the horizon when Jenny Parker slipped out of the small, nondescript room that had become her refuge. Her phone vibrated instantly-Colhart was already pushing for intel. She ignored it, fingers grazing the envelope in her clutch: an invitation to San's family breakfast at the Moretti estate. Unmarked, but unmistakably real.

She checked her reflection in the dusty mirror: dark circles under her eyes, hair pulled back in a tight ponytail. She'd played the part of "Tara" twice now, danced close to a killer, even kissed him. But today was the real test. Breakfast with the family meant scrutiny on a personal level. One error, one slip of the accent or the backstory, and San would know she was a fraud.

She arrived at the estate through the staff entrance, past the same gates made of sliver and manicured hedges. The dawn light made the place look almost like an illusion. San had cultivated it that way to hide its darkness. Inside, the servants moved silently, like ghosts obeying an ancient code. As she waited in the grand foyer, her pulse roared in her ears.

"Tara!" A voice like beads and silk. San emerged from the staircase above, dressed in a tailored navy suit that made him look every bit the heir apparent. His eyes flashed when he saw her. Not cold, not warm-just curious. He descended the stairs with measured steps.

"Morning," he said, offering a slight nod. "I hope you sleep well."

"Like a baby," Jenny lied, sliding her clutch strap off her shoulder. "Thank you for having me."

He led her into the breakfast room: long mahogany table, heirloom china, and portraits of stern-looking Moretti ancestors lining the walls. At the head sat Luca Moretti, tall and broad-shouldered and had a broad back, his face carved from marble. To his right, Marco, the middle brother, whose eyes flickered with a predatory gleam. To his left, Dante, quietly observing, fingers steepled under his chin. Already seated were a few lesser associates-chief enforcers, accountants, and two women Jenny hadn't yet met.

Luca's gaze traveled over Jenny. "San's new friend," he said, voice deep but low. "Welcome."

"Thank you, Mr. Moretti," Jenny replied, forcing a steady smile. She reminded herself of her cover: Tara Moretti-San's distant cousin from the Naples branch. A plausible story, if she didn't stumble.

Marco leaned forward, eyes narrowing. "Naples?" His Italian rolled softly off his tongue. "Your accent doesn't match."

Jenny felt heat rise in her cheeks. Focus. "My mother's from Sicily, close to the border. I learned Italian from her and the servants, not from the streets." She pushed her hair off her face, adding a genuine Sicilian inflection she'd practiced.

Marco's lips curled. "Interesting." He shook his head, as if amused. "We'll talk later."

Dante's gaze flicked between them. Luca cleared his throat. "Breakfast."

A small staff member served fresh-baked rolls, fruit salad, and some soft drinks. Jenny had never eaten so quietly in her life. Every spoonful sounded like a ticking timer.

San leaned close. "You did well."

Her heart thumped. "Thanks."

He didn't elaborate. Instead, he watched Luca pick at his omelet, and Jenny noticed something: Luca's right hand tapped the table in a slow, anxious rhythm. A sign of nerves?

Or something darker?.

Luca looked up. "San told me you're an art student."

Jenny blinked-art student? She'd never claimed that. "Oh, yes," she said quickly. "I'm majoring in fine arts. I draw and paint."She offered a timid sketch of a city skyline on her phone.

Luca leaned forward. "We have a project in Florence. I'd like you to help assess authenticity."

Jenny forced a nod. "I'd be honored."

San's gaze sharpened. "You like surprises?"

She swallowed. "I do."

But as the others talked business-ships, investments, collections-Jenny realized the trap. They were roping her in. The invitation wasn't generosity; it was a test of loyalty and usefulness. If she refused, suspicion would bloom. If she accepted, she'd be deeper in their world.

She suddenly had a feeling of mixed emotions of fear anxiety and maybe fulfillment?

After breakfast, the family dispersed. San guided Jenny back through the hallway. "Florence is next week," he said softly.

She paused outside the study door, heart in her throat. "San..."

He turned, expression unreadable. "Be ready."

She nodded and slipped away, checking her phone in the privacy of a linen closet. No messages from Colhart-early morning protocols must have delayed them. She texted: Need intel on Moretti's art dealings. Florence.

No response.

The rest of the day blurred. Jenny trailed the family accountants, pretending to catalog financial ledgers. She hid a pocket recorder in the folds of her dress, but the room's thick windows and carpeted floors muffled sound. She gained nothing concrete, just whispers about "new shipments" and "unlawful transfers."

Later that day, Jenny found herself alone on the terrace which was overlooking the estate's sprawling gardens. She leaned on the stone balustrade, letting the cool breeze settle her nerves. That's when Marco appeared, cigarette in hand, eyes sharp.

"You're good," he murmured, exhaling smoke. "Too good."

She turned slowly. "Excuse me?"

Marco flicked ash into a gilded urn. "Because San's interest isn't solely personal." His gaze lingered on the gardens below. "He's protecting something-an asset. And you might be the key."

Jenny's pulse spiked. "What asset?"

Marco smiled thinly. "You'll find out soon." Then he walked away, shoulders relaxed, leaving her with more questions than answers.

Inside the study, Jenny found San reviewing a ledger. He looked up at her approach, inviting yet wary.

"I spoke to Marco," Jenny began.

San's eyes slid closed briefly. "That bastard," he muttered. "He's testing you. Messing with you."

"Why?"

He pushed the ledger aside. "Because he doesn't trust anyone but Luca." He stood and closed the distance between them. "But I do."

Her breath caught. "Why?"

He lifted her chin, gaze intense. "Because you're not afraid of me."

She could feel her heart pounding beneath his gaze. "What do you want from me, San?"

He studied her mouth, then her eyes. "Everything you have to give."

A distant clock chimed six. San glanced at the doorway. "Business calls." He sighed, as if torn between duty and desire. "Meet me in the courtyard at midnight. Alone."

Jenny nodded, though her insides tightened. Midnight. Alone. Everything pointed to danger-and that was exactly what she was here for.

As she left the study, her mind raced. She needed proof-something to bring down the Moretti empire. But with every step deeper, her resolve wavered. San's fierce attention made her question her mission. Could she betray him? Could she destroy a man who'd kissed her like it was survival?

Undercover, she was supposed to be invisible. But as she walked the corridors of the lion's den, she realized she'd become the eye of the storm.

Or a target?