My nails scrape against the old wooden table where Bruno used to butcher the guests in the South Wing while I process Giacomo’s demands. Surprisingly, he gave me everything at once while simultaneously taking it away. I’m accustomed to changing plans, but I despise having them imposed on me.
I hate losing control.
I decide how things begin and how they end.
A splinter slips beneath my nail and I rip it out with my teeth, watching a tiny bead of blood appear. I decide when blood spills, when it becomes leverage, and the exact moment it signals defeat.
Nothing else can change my plans now. Enough of Lorenzo dictating when. Enough of Giacomo rushing me. Limits. I despise them completely, and I’ll eliminate both of them once and for all. From now on, I decide the pace, the timing, the dire
