Alya
She smiled again, but this kind didn't quite fit her face; it was tight, metallic, rehearsed. The kind people wear when they recognize the name, not the person. I knew that look. I've seen it too many times. The same expression people give me when they find that information out. And beneath it, I could feel her watching me; measuring, guessing, wondering just how much of Siege I carried under my skin.
The name Moretti pinged somewhere in the back of my mind, quiet at first, then louder. Second only to the Carrizos in power, the Morettis weren't just another old-money dynasty playing dress-up in mafia politics. They were the politics. Embedded deep in the Nosa Costra, their influence stretched like veins through every major city in southern Italy, pulsing under the surface. Police forces, judges, arms deals, high fashion, blackmail—if it had power, they had a hand in it.
And Fleory? She wasn't just a Moretti. There were rumours that James Carrizo and her were to be engaged. An union that would solidify their dominance. The fact that she was here, smiling at me like we were strangers at a dinner party in a normal setting, made my skin crawl. Nothing about this felt accidental.
"You were unconscious for six days," she then mentions, my eyes snapping to her.
My mind becomes a swirling mess of disbelief and denial. Six days. A week had passed, and he still wasn't here. The silence between us stretched so long I could almost feel it suffocating me. Why isn't he coming? I couldn't even voice out the question. I couldn't let her know how badly it twisted inside me, how that aching void of uncertainty was gnawing at my insides, growing larger every minute. I could feel the ice against my lips, the coldness doing nothing to numb the crushing weight in my chest. My hands were trembling again, and I hated it. Hated how weak I felt, how exposed. I took another chip, but it barely even registered as anything more than a distraction, something to keep my mind busy for a moment longer. Fleory was still smiling, that tight, almost clinical smile that didn't reach her eyes. She was watching me, waiting, measuring.
"If I guess correctly, you're here to ask me where he might be?"
The pieces clicked together in my head, one after the other, all of it now making sense. Fleory wasn't just here to make small talk, to offer ice chips or fake sympathy. She wasn't just some woman trying to put on a nice face for someone like me. She had a purpose. A motive. And that motive was exactly what she'd just hinted at—she wanted something from me. She wanted answers, and she thought I had them. She thought I knew where Siege was.
She needs me to trust her.
Trusting her would be the worst mistake I could make right now. It would be handing her and James leverage, giving her a piece of me that I couldn't afford to lose. I didn't know where Siege was. Hell, I wasn't sure I even knew where I was at the moment. My entire world was off-kilter, and all I could do was try to stay upright in the chaos. And Fleory... Fleory had been sent here to get information, to worm her way in and pry whatever she could out of me. She wasn't fooling anyone.
"Well, I heard rumors that he's been moving through the back channels of the Carrizo territories, but I can't say for sure. You might want to check with Hule about that—he's the one who always gets the details." I joke, rolling my eyes.
Getting answers out of Hule would be a start. But it wasn't going to be easy. The man was stubborn. Loyal as hell, too, if you could call it loyalty. Hule had his code, and he followed it with a fierce kind of devotion that was as unshakable as stone. He had never once betrayed Siege, not even when the world was burning around them.
"Hule?" she asked, like the name didn't quite register. I couldn't help but scoff internally. What? Did James Carrizo not fill her in on the details?
"My friend that's probably fighting for his life in one of your friend's warehouses." I explained, already growing tired.
"Ah," she murmured, breaking eye contact entirely, her voice suddenly... off.
Ah? What the hell was that supposed to mean? Did they kill him? My chest tightened, and for a brief moment, I almost forgot about the pain gnawing at me. The room seemed to tilt, the uncertainty hanging heavy. They wouldn't—they wouldn't dare.
"What does that mean?" I asked, the calmness in my voice betraying none of the sudden panic that surged in my chest.
"Your friend escaped last night."
What.