So, this is what they mean by the expression, ‘The black dog’s come to visit’.

Elation, joy, and happiness are leaving me faster than a speeding express train leaves the station platform.

Of course, it’s silly of me but I can’t help myself.

The day has been perfect, and now I’m standing here by myself in a room way too big for one person.

The bed is also too big for one, and I’m surprised that my entire body aches to be with one of the brothers, preferably all three at the same time.

Maybe I should be shocked by my own feelings, but I’m not. Quite the contrary, I’m feeling rejuvenated and getting to like this new me.

There is no denying I’ve been completely smitten by these three.

Franco.

Marco.

Antonio.

Brothers. Similar yet all so very different.

What an amazing couple of days I’ve had. To say it’s been action packed would be an understatement.

Okay, so not action-packed in terms of gun blazing, fist fighting and conquering blazing fires. Action-packed in terms of full-on fucking emotional turmoil and sex.

I pace around my massive living area and bedroom.

All around me, this obscene wealth glares at me, and yet I ignore it. None of the brothers flaunt it or make a big deal of it.

It’s almost as if they’re struggling to fight against it and what it brings. Maybe it’s not the wealth they’re fighting but the name.

Say their name, Monatello, and people quiver in fear.

It says so much, and yet they’re nothing like what the name suggests.

They don’t seem to be criminals. There’s no evidence of extortion, and I can’t see any corruption.

As if to tell me I’m wrong, I suddenly remember the piece of paper. I had retrieved it earlier and left it in my room.

It’s as if it is calling me now, calling me a liar.

With a trembling hand, I pick it up and stare at it.

A bunch of names. Of football clubs. And then there are the numbers.

None of it means anything to me.

Could it be innocent? Is it possible it was someone keeping score?

The tiny bit of cold hard spy left in me laughs out loud.

It’s as chilling kind of laugh, the kind that leaves you with a shiver down your spine.

Remember your mother, my inner voice adds, as if trying to make a point.

My eyes just stare at the handwriting until the letters and numbers blur.

I shouldn’t have this piece of paper. Suddenly, it disgusts me and I can’t believe I’ve brought it into my room.

After all they’ve done for me, I shouldn’t have taken it from the kitchen.

You’re on a secret mission, you fool, my inner voice reminds, and I shut my eyes.

What the fuck is wrong with me?

No mission has ever played with my emotions the way this one is doing. Something has happened to the cold, hard, badass spy I’ve come to be known as.

My judgment is never questioned by anyone, not even by me.

And now that’s exactly what I’m doing—questioning my judgment.

I take a deep breath and reach for my phone. First things first, take a photo of and then put it back.

Gently, I open my door and glance in both directions. I can’t hear or see anyone. It occurs to me how strange it is the brothers don’t seem to employ full-time staff.

Most people in their position would have staff for everything, from cleaning, cooking to simple day-to-day management matters.

I’ve heard mention of the cleaner coming, but I have seen no evidence of anyone else employed.

There’s been the occasional security guard, but the brothers aren’t flanked by them the way the senator is or any other people in the same business.

Slowly, I creep along the corridor. Soft light drops from the ceiling. Must be nightlights of some sort.

At the staircase, I stop again.

My heart is now beating so loud and fast I fear someone might hear it.

With my head tilted to the right, I hold my breath and hesitate. My right hand holds on to the piece of paper.

If I meet Franco, Marco or Antonio, I’m not quite sure what I’m going to say.

Maybe I should hide it so if I do meet one of them, I can pretend I’m thirsty and after a nightcap.

I stare at the paper.

To hide it, I have to fold it and it will be creased. Then, the brothers might suspect that the piece of paper had been taken. With a lack of staff coming and going, I would be their prime suspect.

Nothing to it; I’ll just have to bite the bullet and deal with it if it happens.

Instead of taking the stairs slowly, I practically sprint down. There’s no risk of creaking since they’re covered in thick plush carpet.

At the bottom, I stop again.

Was that a voice or several voices?

To my left, I think I can see light creep through one of the closed doors. Of course, I’m still not entirely sure what lies behind all these closed doors, and I guess now is not the time to find out.

Suddenly, I feel the hair on the back of my neck tingle. I spin around and am prepared for some lame excuse as to why I’m up.

But no one’s there.

False alarm.

My inner senses are really on fucking holiday tonight.

Throwing caution to the wind, I now sprint to the kitchen. Quickly, I throw the paper onto the marble kitchen bench, roughly the same spot where I had found it earlier.

All I want to do is get rid of it and go back up to my room.

With my little mission complete, I turn to leave.

When I turn, I nearly scream, but I hold my tongue.

There’s something at the door. Frozen, I stay where I am.

But then, I realize that what I thought was a person is the painting hanging in the hallway, the painting one can see through the open kitchen door.

I decide to calm my shaking nerves by making myself a warm drink. It takes me less than ten minutes to find and make hot chocolate.

At least now I’ve got a legitimate reason for being down here.

Back in my room, I cradle my warm drink and stare at my phone.

I should contact the senator and pass on what I had found. But my fingers don’t seem to obey my command.

Eventually, I type a short message to the senator.

But it’s not what he wants to hear.