Kyle had done the impossible. He’d walked into Marcello Vescari’s home as a suspected traitor with a target painted on his back, and somehow—through balls, timing, and information. He turned the whole thing around. The most powerful mafia boss, the man who’d united five families through blood and fear, was actually listening to him now. Not as some underling. Not as another body to be used and thrown away but as an equal.

But outside that conference room, in the hallways where the other family heads paced and whispered, things were a mess.

-

Isabeau had her back against the wall, trying to look as put-together as always. Lucius Moretti stood too close, his Italian features sharp with something that made her skin crawl.

"You know," Lucius said, casual as hell, "I’ve been thinking about your husband. Shame what happened. Car accident, right? Brakes gave out on that mountain road."

Isabeau kept her face blank. "Yes. It was devastating."

"I bet." Lucius cocked his head. "Strange thing though. Brand new car, brake lines just failing like that. Doesn’t happen often. Not unless someone gives it a push."

"Are you accusing me of something?"

"Just making observations." He moved closer, dropping his voice. "See, I’ve had this feeling about you. Nothing solid, nothing I could prove to Marcello or anyone else. Just my gut. And my gut’s kept me breathing in this business for thirty years."

Isabeau stared him down. "Your feelings are noted. But without proof—"

"Proof’s a funny thing." Lucius smiled, cold. "Especially when someone’s careful. All the loose ends cleaned up real nice. Records vanishing. Witnesses forgetting things or disappearing. You’ve been thorough, Isabeau. Maybe too thorough."

Viktor watched them fill out each other, this always seemed to happen. The smart version, eyes missing nothing as he took in the scene without interfering.

"That is enough. Is this going to be a problem?" Vitkor said with so much authority that one would think these were his underlings.

Lucius tensed. He held Isabeau’s stare another second, then backed off with an exaggerated sigh.

"No. Just chatting. You know how it is." He fixed his fedora, giving Viktor a look that said plenty.

"Though there’s probably no point dragging this out. Any concerns I have would be damn near impossible to prove."

Lucius also suspected she had a hand to play with the current events as well which was the point of this interrogation.

He brushed past Viktor, footsteps loud on the marble.

Viktor and Isabeau stood there alone. She started to smooth her jacket, readying some excuse, but Viktor just watched her with those calculating eyes.

"Be careful," he said.

"What?"

"Lucius." Viktor’s tone was firm.

"He’s one of the more unstable family heads. Paranoid as hell, and once he gets something in his head, he won’t let it go. Whatever he thinks he knows about you, whether it’s real or not, he’ll keep digging. You don’t want him as an enemy."

Coming from Viktor, who could flip between genius tactician and psycho killer on command, that warning meant something. If he was telling her to watch out for Lucius, the Italian was genuinely dangerous.

"Noted," Isabeau said.

Viktor nodded and walked off, leaving her alone with the sinking feeling that she was running out of room to maneuver.

-

The family heads gathered in the main hallway, tension thick enough to choke on. Viktor rejoined them. Lucius leaned against the wall, eyes half-closed but watching everything. O’Rourke paced, scars twisting on his face. The Kurobane head stood motionless, hands behind his back.

The conference room door opened.

Marcello came out first, straight-backed, face giving nothing away. And next to him, not trailing behind, but right beside him, was Kyle.

The difference was stark, Kyle didn’t look like someone who’d barely escaped getting shot. He wasn’t small or scared or thankful. He stood tall, shoulders squared, moving like he owned the space. Level with the Don. Just as calm, just as ready.

"You bastard," O’Rourke muttered, Irish accent getting thicker. His hands balled into fists. "What the hell—"

Marcello lifted one hand. The hallway went dead quiet.

"Let me be clear," Marcello said, voice cutting through the silence. "Kyle doesn’t answer to any of you anymore. He’s not someone you can use. Not a piece you move around your territories however you want."

Confusion spread through the group like wildfire.

"Starting now," Marcello went on, "I recognize him as an equal."

The words hit like a punch to the gut.

Isabeau’s blood went ice-cold. Equal? That put Kyle above the other family heads automatically, gave him protection that even she’d spent years earning. He could cross their territories without asking, do business without approval, push back on their calls without worrying about getting killed for it. One sentence, and Marcello had taken this nobody from the entertainment world and put him at the top of the food chain.

She didn’t know who Kyle really was. What he said behind that door, what cards he pulled, what secrets he’d dug up or made up. But this was bad. Really bad. It threatened everything she’d built with Cleopatra.

Kyle’s eyes moved across the family heads, taking in their shock and rage and confusion. Then he looked at Isabeau.

He smiled slightly.

It wasn’t warm nor was it friendly. It was the look of someone who just found their target. His stare locked onto hers with force that made her chest tighten, and the message came through loud and clear even without words.

"I’m going to hurt you."

Not maybe. Not if things went wrong. A guarantee. He knew something, about her and Cleopatra, about her schemes, about her angle in this whole game, and he planned to use it to tear her apart at any moment.

Isabeau’s brain went into overdrive, running through plays and backup plans and escape routes. But standing in that hallway, watching Kyle next to Marcello while the other family heads tried to process what just happened, she felt something she hadn’t felt in years.

Real fear.