Dialect of Power Chapter 5

The Summons

The walk home was a blur of heightened senses and paranoia. Every reflection in a shop window was a threat. Every person walking too close behind me sent a jolt of adrenaline through my system. I clutched my damaged purse like a talisman, its torn strap a tangible proof of the danger I was in.

I made it to my building, my heart pounding a frantic rhythm against my ribs. The familiar lobby, with its worn marble and the faint smell of cabbage from a nearby apartment, usually felt like a sigh of relief. Tonight, it felt like a trap.

And then I saw them.

Two men. They flanked the interior door, their postures relaxed yet unmistakably vigilant. They weren't the thugs from my imagination; they were clean-cut, dressed in dark, well-fitting overcoats. They looked like finance guys, except for their eyes—flat, observant, and utterly devoid of warmth. They were the human equivalent of the black sedan: polished, powerful, and dangerous.

My feet rooted to the floor. This was it. The "cleaning" had come for me.

One of them, the larger of the two, stepped forward. He didn't smile. "Miss Costa?"

My voice was a dry rasp. "Who's asking?"

"Don Corsica requests your presence." The words were polite, but the tone was an iron fist in a velvet glove. It wasn't a request. It was a command.

"I... I have plans," I stammered, the lie pathetic even to my own ears.

The man's expression didn't change. "He insists."

The other man moved to stand behind me, not touching me, but closing off my escape route. The message was clear: resistance was futile, and it would be undignified.

Trembling, I nodded. What choice did I have? Scream? In this neighborhood, people knew better than to get involved. Call the police? And say what? That I was being politely kidnapped by the mafia?

They escorted me out of the building not to the black sedan of my nightmares, but to a different car—a dark, silent luxury sedan that smelled of leather and wealth. The larger man held the door open for me. The courtesy was chilling.

I slid into the backseat. The door closed with a soft, expensive thud, sealing me inside. The two men got in the front. The engine purred to life, and we pulled away from the curb, gliding smoothly into the night-time traffic. No one spoke. The only sound was the whisper of the tires on asphalt and the frantic beating of my own heart.

We drove for what felt like an eternity, leaving my neighborhood behind, moving through parts of the city I rarely saw. We eventually entered a district of converted warehouses, now housing exclusive, anonymous lofts and galleries. The car slid into a private, underground garage.

The door was opened for me. "This way, Miss Costa."

I was led to a private elevator. It ascended silently, without buttons, controlled by a key one of the men produced. When the doors opened, they did not follow me out. "Straight ahead," was all he said.

The elevator closed behind me, leaving me alone in a cavernous space. It was a penthouse loft, all exposed brick, soaring ceilings, and floor-to-ceiling windows offering a breathtaking, dizzying view of the Manhattan skyline. The furniture was minimal, modern, and undoubtedly priceless. The air was still, scented with a hint of sandalwood.

And there, standing before the panoramic window with his back to me, was Riccardo Corsica.

He turned slowly. He was out of his courtroom suit, dressed in dark trousers and a simple black sweater that did nothing to soften the hard lines of his body. He looked more dangerous here, in his own territory, than he ever had in chains.

He didn't speak. He simply looked at me, his grey eyes taking my measure in the dim light. The silence stretched, thick and heavy with unspoken threats and the memory of a bloody convenience store.

Finally, he gestured to a low-slung leather sofa. "Sit."

I remained standing, my knees locked. "Why am I here?"

He ignored my question, his gaze dropping to the purse I was still clutching like a lifeline. "They told me about the incident with your bag. Unfortunate."

"Unfortunate?" A spark of anger cut through the fear. "A two-ton car tried to turn me into a stain on the pavement!"

"Salvatore's men lack finesse," he said, his voice still that infuriatingly calm baritone. He took a step closer. The space between us crackled with tension. "They were not supposed to make contact. Only to observe."

"Observe?" I choked out. "Is that what you call it? 'Indagala. A fondo'?"

I threw his own words back at him, the dialect feeling foreign and dangerous on my tongue.

A flicker of something—surprise? respect?—crossed his features before the mask slid back into place. He had his confirmation, delivered directly from the source.

"So," he said, closing the distance between us until I could smell the faint, clean scent of his soap. "The ghost understands the old tongue."

He stopped an arm's length away. His presence was overwhelming, a force of nature contained in human form.

"My men will drive you home," he stated, as if the matter was settled. "You will be protected."

"Protected?" I laughed, a hollow, desperate sound. "From who? From you? From your… cleaning crew?"

His eyes hardened. "From the war you have been unfortunate enough to overhear. You are a civilian. An anomaly. And in a war, anomalies are often the first casualties."

He reached into his pocket. I flinched, expecting a weapon. Instead, he produced a sleek, black, unmarked cell phone. He held it out to me.

I stared at it as if it were a venomous snake.

"What is that?"

"Your lifeline," he said, his tone leaving no room for argument. "There is only one number programmed into it. You will keep it with you. Always. If you feel threatened, if you see anything out of the ordinary, you will use it."

I didn't take it. My hands were fists at my sides. "And become your property? No, thank you."

A muscle ticked in his jaw. "This is not a negotiation, Veronica." The use of my first name was a violation, an intimate claim I hadn't granted. "You stepped into my world the moment you understood those words. You do not get to step out. This phone is not a chain. It is your only shield."

He took my wrist. His grip wasn't brutal, but it was unbreakable, his fingers like bands of steel. He pressed the cold, hard phone into my palm and folded my fingers around it.

"Take it," he commanded, his voice dropping to a whisper that was more threat than comfort. "Or the next car won't miss."

Our eyes locked. The storm in his grey depths was real now, a turbulence that promised violence and protection in the same breath. I was trapped. By his world, by his rules, by the terrifying, magnetic pull of the man himself.

The phone felt heavy in my hand, a symbol of my surrender. A bargain with the devil.

He had summoned me, and I had come. He had given me an order, and I had taken the phone.

The game had changed. I was no longer just a witness.

I was his.