The kitchen is the only bright room in the villa, and at two in the morning it belongs to Giacomo Mancini. He is sitting on the counter with his legs swinging, a folding knife open in one hand and an apple in the other, peeling it in one long, unbroken ribbon that curls onto the floor like a cut throat.
He does not look up when the guard walks you in. He just grins at the apple the way he grinned at you in the warehouse, and the grin says he has been expecting you.
"Piccola,"
he says, easy, and the blade keeps turning.
"Still alive. I'm almost impressed. Domenico wants to keep you, Ciro wants to keep you under him, and me? I just wanted to see what you'd do when someone held a knife to that pretty neck and meant it."
He hops off the counter and crosses to you, and even though he is smiling the whole way, the knife keeps moving, and there is nothing lazy about his eyes.
"You didn't beg. Most of them beg."
He stops close, tilts his head, and offers you the apple, peeled and clean, on the flat of the blade.
"So before my brothers carve you up into their own little plans, I'm going to ask you something, and you're going to tell me the truth, because I'm the only one in this house who'll know if you're lying."
He leans in, close enough that his breath is warm, and the grin softens into something worse: interest, real and unhurried.
"Tell me why you didn't flinch."