Chapter 8

Clemenza felt like a fish pinned to a cutting board.

Carmine’s kiss was domineering and urgent, carrying a sense of cathartic release as he gnawed at her lips. The taste of rust spread through her mouth.

Clemenza closed her eyes, adjusting her breathing in the darkness. She matched Carmine's rhythm, emitting broken gasps. Every act of compliance was a calculated performance. Her fingernails dug into the taut muscles of Carmine’s back, leaving red trails.

The pain seemed to stimulate Carmine’s nerves. His movements became more ferocious, like a siege engine battering down gates.

"Look at me."

Carmine gripped her chin, forcing her eyes open. In those dark brown irises, the fire of conquest burned.

"Say my name."

"Carmine..."

Clemenza’s voice trembled, sounding like a murmur of delirious passion. Her eyes were unfocused, seemingly lost in the storm. But in her mind, she was coldly counting the seconds. Not yet. She had to drain every last drop of his energy; she had to make him believe she had utterly submitted.

Sweat mingled, skin slapping against skin with a slick, sticky sound. The room was filled with a primal, chaotic atmosphere.

Clemenza engaged her core, actively meeting every thrust. Like a vine clinging to a great tree, she wrapped herself tightly around him. This initiative seemed to please the man above her.

Carmine let out a low growl, his movements intensifying as if he wanted to crush her into his very bones.

The struggle lasted a long time, until finally, Carmine let out a long sigh of satisfaction and collapsed heavily onto Clemenza.

Heavy breathing exploded in her ear. His arm remained draped across her chest like a heavy chain.

The room fell back into dead silence, save for the faint airflow of the air conditioning vent.

Clemenza lay motionless, letting the sweat dry on her skin. She counted the frequency of Carmine’s heartbeat.

One, two, three.

The heartbeat gradually became steady and strong, his breathing long and deep—the signal of deep sleep.

Now.

Clemenza shifted her body slightly. The separation of their skin made a soft peeling sound that seemed deafeningly loud in the silent night. She held her breath, her heart in her throat.

Carmine simply rolled over, turning his back to her and muttering a few indistinct words in his sleep.

Clemenza slid off the edge of the bed like a phantom. The moment her feet touched the floor, her knees felt weak.

The suit jacket still lay there quietly. The rectangular outline in the pocket looked incredibly tempting in the moonlight.

Five meters.

For a dancer who had performed the *Grand Jeté* on the stage of Lincoln Center, this was a distance of mere breaths. But tonight, in this cage of steel and glass, these five meters were a no-man's-land laden with mines.

Clemenza adjusted her breathing, using the technique she had learned practicing the ghostly corps de ballet in Act Two of *Giselle*—allowing air to enter and exit the lungs slowly without moving the ribcage, making the body as light as a feather. She glanced back at the dark mound on the bed. Carmine’s back was as broad as a wall.

She took the first step.

No sound. Feet tortured by years of pointe shoes now displayed astonishing control: the outer edge of the foot touching down first, rolling to the arch, and finally the heel, silently dissolving the pressure of her weight.

Second step.

Her heartbeat hammered against her eardrums like a war drum beating madly inside her skull. She had to open her mouth to equalize the pressure, preventing the tinnitus that came with tachycardia.

Third step.

She could already smell the scent radiating from the suit jacket. It was a mix of expensive cologne, aged whiskey, and gunshot residue—the scent of power, and the scent of violence.

Fourth step.

Clemenza reached out, her fingertips trembling slightly in the dark. She had to be fast enough, yet light enough. The phone was metal; if it clinked against the brass buttons or the zipper of the suit, the sound would be as piercing as a gunshot in the dead of night.

Fifth step. She was there.

She held her breath, her fingers grazing the cold fabric of the suit. The tactile sensation raised goosebumps all over her body, as if she were touching not clothes, but Carmine’s shed human skin.

Her hand, like a slick snake, slid soundlessly into the inner pocket. Her fingertips brushed against the hard, rectangular object. Cold, rigid, sharp-edged.

She had it.

Ecstasy surged through her like an electric current, nearly causing her to drop the black block. If she just took it and hid in the bathroom, even for thirty seconds, she could send out the coordinates that would detonate New York’s underworld.

She began to withdraw the phone slowly, with excruciating care. One inch, two inches.

Suddenly, the screen lit up.

It wasn't because she had pressed a key, but because a new text message had arrived. A ghostly blue fluorescence exploded in the darkness, illuminating Clemenza’s bloodlessly pale face, and illuminating the naked greed and terror in her eyes.

At the same moment, the rustle of fabric came from behind her.

"What are you doing?"