Page 28 of The Hunter's Empire

"One thing before tonight. If this works, I expect results. I'm not interested in reputation."

His tone shifts when he answers, becoming quieter and somehow more dangerous. "I'll send the address within the hour."

"Fine."

"And Elf?"

I close my eyes briefly at the nickname. "I hate that."

A low chuckle reaches me through the speaker. "I know."

Then the line goes dead.

I stare at the phone in silence for several seconds afterward. Annoyance rises at the fact that every conversation with him somehow feels like he’s reading half the thoughts I don’t say aloud. But beneath the irritation sits something far more dangerous. Curiosity. And worse… Anticipation.

I lower the phone slowly onto the desk and lean back into my chair, staring up at the ceiling for a brief second.

This is going to be complicated. Men like Domenico Valenti don’t follow instructions. They don’t negotiate normally, don’t think normally, probably don’t even view danger the same way other people do.

Everything about him feels unpredictable in a way that should concern me far more than it currently does. And yet the concern isn’t the problem. The problem is that part of me enjoys it. That realization irritates me immediately.

I’ve spent years learning how to navigate powerful men. Politicians, investors, criminals pretending to be businessmen, businessmen pretending not to be criminals. Men who underestimate me first and grow threatened later. I know how to handle those men.

Domenico feels different. Not because he’s louder or more controlling. Because he watches too carefully. And every conversation with him feels like standing half a step too close to the edge of something dangerous while pretending not to notice the drop beneath you.

I exhale quietly and force myself upright again.

The Keegan situation still exists regardless of whatever unsettling effect he seems to have on my nervous system. Ineed information. Stefano needs results. And if working with Il Fantasma is the fastest way to secure both, then that is all this becomes. Nothing more.

Chapter 8

Zora

Istand outside the two-storey estate, letting my eyes travel slowly over the property as dusk settles around it. The villa rises from the landscape with quiet authority, all warm beige stone, faded terracotta accents, and towering glass windows that reflect the last traces of evening light. Ivy curls along parts of the masonry like it has been there for decades, softening the sharp edges of Mediterranean architecture built for both beauty and defense.

The courtyard stretches wide before me, paved with pale stone and framed by perfectly trimmed greenery. An ancient olive tree stands near the center like a silent guardian, its twisted branches casting long shadows beneath the amber glow of the exterior lights.

Nothing about this place is loud. It feels old money. Dangerous money. The kind built so deep into power that it never needsto announce itself. Completely opposite of what I expected from someone like Domenico Valenti.

The evening air is cool against my skin as I climb the final steps toward the entrance. For a second, hesitation curls low in my stomach. Not fear exactly. Something sharper. Awareness.

I lift my hand and knock.

A few seconds later, the heavy wooden door opens to reveal a man in his late fifties. His silver hair is neatly combed back, and he carries himself with the kind of straight-backed confidence that comes from years of authority rather than physical strength. Calm eyes assess me carefully, taking in every detail without appearing obvious about it.

"Good evening." He says in a smooth, measured voice. "Mr. Valenti is expecting you. Please follow me."

I nod once and step inside.

Warmth immediately surrounds me, carrying the faint scent of cedarwood, expensive liquor, and something darker beneath it, leather, smoke, masculinity. The interior is quieter than I imagined. No frantic staff rushing through hallways. No visible security standing guard with weapons at their sides.

But somehow, that absence makes the house feel even more controlled.

Every corner is immaculate without feeling staged. Shelves lined with books that look genuinely read. Low golden lighting. Dark wood. Worn leather furniture that speaks of comfort instead of decoration.

A home. A real one.

The older man walks ahead of me silently, his footsteps barely audible against the polished floors. I follow him deeper into the estate, becoming increasingly aware of how isolated this place feels from the outside world.