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Lorenzo Costa, the man who had been sitting in the shadows like a silent predator, was no longer watching the tech CEO. His gaze was locked onto Genevieve. The air in the VIP lounge of the St. Regis had shifted from the stale, artificial atmosphere of a business deal to the electric, suffocating tension of a crime scene. Genevieve felt the weight of his stare, a physical pressure that made her skin crawl. She had just used the vernacular of the Corleonese underworld—a language that didn’t exist in textbooks or corporate boardrooms. It was the language of the ghosts she had spent half her life running from.

Arthur Castiglione, oblivious to the shift, continued to drone on about Q4 projections, his voice sounding tinny and distant. Genevieve kept her head down, her hands folded neatly in her lap, though her heart hammered against her ribs like a trapped bird. She had made a fatal error. By neutralizing the crisis, she had marked herself as someone who understood the mechanics of the mob. To Lorenzo, she was no longer just a translator; she was a variable, a mystery, and potentially, a loose end that needed to be tied up.

As the dinner progressed, the silence between courses felt like a countdown. Every time Lorenzo shifted in his chair, Genevieve flinched internally. She knew the rules of this world—you don’t survive by being interesting, and you certainly don’t survive by being recognized. She had been the perfect ghost for fifteen years, but the mask had slipped. When the meeting finally broke, she gathered her things with trembling hands, desperate to vanish into the Manhattan night.

She reached the lobby, her heels clicking rhythmically against the floor, but a heavy hand brushed against her elbow, stopping her in her tracks. She didn’t need to turn around to know who it was. The scent of expensive tobacco and cold, hard authority followed him like a shadow. Lorenzo Costa didn’t speak immediately. He waited, letting the silence stretch until it was heavy enough to crush her resolve. When he finally leaned in, his voice was a low, dangerous rasp that carried the same cadence she had just used on the phone.

“You have a very particular way of speaking, Miss Hayes,” he whispered, his tone devoid of warmth. “That dialect hasn’t been heard in these circles for a long time. It’s a shame to waste such a voice on corporate mergers.”

Genevieve turned, forcing her face into a mask of professional confusion. “I’m afraid I don’t know what you mean, Mr. Costa. I simply said what was necessary to end the interruption.”

Lorenzo smiled, but it didn’t reach his eyes. It was a cold, predatory expression that promised she would never be invisible again. “We aren’t finished, Genevieve. Not by a long shot. You have a past that belongs to me, and I have a feeling you’re going to be very busy working for me from now on.”