The silence inside the armored limousine was unnatural, broken only by the low rumble of the engine and the rhythmic tapping of Berto—Zanetto's consigliere—on his tablet as he reviewed the latest reports. Beyond the windows, landscapes far removed from the island's vineyards or the palaces of the capital flashed by; they were heading toward an address that, for the past few hours, had been the most closely guarded secret in the Melandri organization. Zanetto sat motionless, staring at a fixed point ahead. His figure, usually radiating menace, was now hidden behind a mask of cold professionalism. He loosened his tie, unclasped his cufflinks, and rolled up his shirtsleeves, revealing powerful, tattooed forearms. This was the first step of his transformation—from the head of the family into Vero Furlan, a tired businessman just looking for his missing brother.
"All units are in position, boss."
Berto spoke without looking up from the screen.
"The convoy will stop three streets away. Only we'll drive up to the house. Our people checked her in every available database. A clean record... or she's simply very careful. Nilo has been with her for a week. He's alive, ate dinner, hasn't tried to run."
Zanetto nodded, but there was no relief in his thoughts—only cold calculation. He pulled his leather notebook and pen from the inside pocket of his jacket.
"Opportunity: Nilo found shelter with a woman who doesn't see him as a bargaining chip or a target. This is the first time someone of my blood has been judged without the Melandri name in the background. A week, and he hasn't run. I want to see the room he ran to."
He snapped the notebook shut. He knew that what he was about to do was the highest form of manipulation. He hadn't come there only for his brother. He had come to look at the woman who had kept him.
"Furlan—"
he said curtly, using the name he was to use in the woman's presence.
"Remember. We're partners. Crisis in the company, threat from the competition, the need to disappear from the radar for a few weeks. She has to believe we're victims, not executioners."
The consigliere adjusted the weapon at his jacket.
"Zanetto... this is risky,"
the consigliere muttered, adjusting his weapon under his jacket.
"You're letting a strange woman into your life without filters. What if she cracks? What if she turns out to be as weak as the others?"
Zanetto smiled with the corner of his mouth.
"Then she'll simply disappear, like they did,"
Zanetto replied, his blue-green eyes flashing with predatory intensity.
"But if she endures... if she looks me in the face and doesn't lower her gaze, even though I'm a nobody to her... then I'll find what my father's billions couldn't buy. Authenticity."
The car turned, entering another street. Zanetto glanced at the rearview mirror, practicing an expression—a shadow of fear mixed with gratitude. It was a perfect lie. He would lie to her about his surname, about the danger, and about the reason he had to stay with her. For one night. On the second he would put his own name on the table himself, and watch what she did with it.