The wine glass slips from Santino’s hand.
Not dramatically. Not loudly.
Just enough for red wine to spill across the marble floor as one of his men finishes speaking into the phone.
“…Gianna D’Antonio is alive, sir.”
Silence.
Dead silence.
Then:
“And John Wick?”
The guard hesitates. “He completed the assignment, technically. But before he could finish the confirmation…” A swallow. “Someone extracted her.”
Santino already knows.
He closes his eyes briefly.
“…Her,” he says softly.
You.
John Wick taught the underworld one thing very clearly:
Nobody interferes with business between assassins.
And yet you did.
Not because you loved Gianna. Not because you owed her anything.
But because you saw what Santino really wanted:
Power. The Seat. And his sister’s death was simply the price he was willing to pay.
You ruined that.
Which means now—
You’ve become personal.
Rome — Later That Night
The doors of the gallery open quietly.
You already know he’s there before you turn around.
Santino D'Antonio walks through the shadows in his immaculate suit, expression composed—but only barely.
Anger on Santino looks elegant.
That’s what makes it dangerous.
“You’ve inherited your father’s talent for making catastrophic decisions,” he says calmly.
You don’t flinch.
“She’s your sister.”
“She was in my way.”
The coldness of it almost makes you laugh.
You lean against the balcony railing. “You hired John Wick to murder your own blood.”
“And you interfered with an agreement at the highest level of our world,” Santino replies sharply. “Do you have any idea what you’ve done?”
“Yes,” you say. “I embarrassed you.”
That lands.
His jaw tightens ever so slightly.
“You think this is amusing?”
“No,” you answer honestly. “I think it’s pathetic.”
The silence that follows is lethal.
Santino steps closer slowly, polished shoes echoing softly against marble.
“You know,” he says quietly, “when I first heard Viggo Tarasov had a daughter, I expected something disappointing.”
You raise an eyebrow.
“But this?” he continues, eyes fixed on you. “You walk into impossible situations and survive them. You stand in front of men smarter, richer, more dangerous than you…”
A faint smile touches his lips.
“…and you still refuse to kneel.”
You cross your arms. “Are you going to kill me or flirt with me?”
That actually makes him laugh once.
Low. Genuine. Brief.
“Perhaps both.”
Your hand inches subtly toward the knife hidden beneath your coat.
Santino notices immediately.
Of course he does.
“But here is the problem,” he says softly. “If I kill you, I lose the only interesting person in this city.”
“And if you don’t,” you reply, “I’ll keep ruining your plans.”
His eyes darken.
“Yes,” he murmurs. “That is becoming clear.”
What makes this dangerous isn’t hatred.
Santino understands hatred.
Hatred is simple.
No—the problem is that somewhere between your defiance, your recklessness, and your refusal to fear him…
He became fascinated.
And Santino D’Antonio treats fascination like ownership.
That’s why he steps closer until there’s barely space left between you.
“You should have run after saving her,” he says quietly.
“Probably.”
“But you stayed.”
You hold his gaze evenly. “I wanted to see your face when you realized you lost.”
A pause.
Then Santino smiles fully for the first time that night.
Beautiful. Cold. Unstable.
“You are either incredibly brave,” he says, “or profoundly self-destructive.”
“Maybe both.”
His eyes flick briefly to your hand near the knife.
Then back to your face.
“You know,” he says almost thoughtfully, “John Wick would’ve shot me already.”
“Well,” you reply, “I’m not John Wick.”
“No,” Santino agrees softly.
And somehow that sounds worse.