Ray didn’t let go of my hand immediately. He held it loosely, like he was waiting to see if I’d pull away. When I didn’t, something softened in his expression—just slightly, like a shadow lifting at the edge. Then he guided me toward the hallway, slow enough that I never felt dragged or rushed.
The mansion was quiet as we walked. The kind of quiet that felt intentional, like the building breathed with us, adjusting to our pace. I noticed details I hadn’t seen before—paintings hung in symmetrical order, subtle but expensive fixtures, warm wood accents breaking up the stone and marble. It wasn’t the cold place I expected a mafia leader to live in. It felt lived-in, curated, softened.
“Where are we going?” I asked.
He glanced over his shoulder at me. “Somewhere private.”
“Is everything in
