Serena's POV

He was too close.

The scent of cedar and tobacco invaded my breath, and at this distance, he could kill me at any moment.

I pushed the dagger forward an inch. "Don't come any closer."

He looked at the blade's tip, then his wrist flexed with force, pulling me—knife and all—toward himself.

"If you're going to kill me, kill me here." He glanced down at where the blade pointed, then raised his eyes to meet mine, his gray pupils reflecting the fireplace's glow. "The carotid artery is too messy—blood all over you. How would you run then?"

"Are you insane?" My voice finally squeezed out of my throat.

"I'm teaching you." His hand gripping the blade tightened, and the tip pierced through the fabric of his shirt, penetrating the skin. Just a little—less than a centimeter.

But blood seeped out.

"Don't—" I instinctively tried to pull the knife back, but his hand locked around my wrist like iron, completely motionless.

"What's wrong?" He tilted his head slightly. "Didn't you come here to kill me? Do it."

I pulled several times with force, but couldn't move it at all.

The knife was embedded in his chest, yet his breathing remained as steady as if he were taking an afternoon nap. His pupils weren't dilated, his lips were relaxed—exactly the same as when he'd been sitting behind the desk reading documents.

Vera had said the snake venom would take effect within seconds once it entered the bloodstream—but his hand was steady as a rock.

The poison had failed, after all.

He didn't care about this knife at all.

What could I possibly threaten a man who wasn't afraid of death with?

"Let me go," I said.

"Answer one question first." He didn't release me; instead, he took another half-step closer, pushing the dagger deeper. He didn't even blink. "Vera sent you to kill me—what reason did she give you?"

"You killed my father."

He fell silent for two seconds.

Then he laughed, the sound low, rumbling from his chest. As he laughed, the blade's tip rose and fell with his chest, and a little more blood seeped out.

Seeing him like this made every hair on the back of my neck stand on end.

"It wasn't me." The smile vanished as quickly as it had appeared, and his voice froze over again. "The day he died, I was in a meeting in Palermo. I have thirty-seven witnesses. Even if the police came, that would be the truth."

"You're lying."

"Vera made you believe I did it, didn't she?"

He'd mentioned Vera twice now, and each time his guess had been accurate.

As if he knew certain secrets I didn't.

Suddenly he released his grip, and the dagger lost its support, clattering to the floor with a sharp sound, its blade covered in blood.

So was my hand.

Without even glancing at his bleeding chest, he casually picked up a dark pocket square from the desk and pressed it against the wound, his movements extremely practiced.

I was still pressed against the door panel, my heartbeat pounding against my eardrums like a drum.

"Before your father died, he entrusted me with two things." He discarded the blood-soaked handkerchief and wrapped another one around the wound. "First, to find out who wanted him dead."

He paused, lifting his eyes to look at me.

I stared at his face, trying to find any crack in his expression. But aside from coldness, there was nothing to see on his face.

Only his brow furrowed extremely briefly, then relaxed—so quickly I couldn't be sure whether it was my imagination.

"Second, to keep you alive."

I felt as if someone had slapped me hard, unable to think.

My father had known he was going to die but didn't tell me, instead entrusting everything to this strange man.

How could that be possible?

Why would my father do this? Did he not even trust me?

Carlo Morandi didn't give me time to process this. He turned and walked back behind the desk, sat down, picked up the phone and dialed a string of numbers, speaking rapidly in the Valdoro Island dialect. His speech was extremely fast, his tone commanding—I'd grown up in Bellavista and was completely helpless with this dialect.

He hung up the phone and looked up at me.

"From now on, you stay at the estate. Going out will get you killed." His tone dropped several degrees. "If Vera dared to send you to me as cannon fodder, it means she doesn't need you anymore. If you walk out that door, you might not survive a day."

My mouth opened and closed as I wanted to argue that Vera wasn't that kind of person.

But thinking of my current situation, I couldn't say anything.

Every sentence he spoke was demolishing all the understanding I'd built up over the past three days. Just an hour ago, in my eyes, Vera had been the good person and he had been the enemy, and I was going to avenge my father by killing him—that logic had been the only motivation supporting me as I walked into the estate.

Now everything had changed.

If what he said was true, then I... had been kept in the dark all along, like a fool who knew nothing.

No, I couldn't easily trust anyone!

"What proof do you have?" I asked.

"I'll show you tomorrow." His hand tapped on the desk, his calm tone carrying an innate sense of control. "It's too late today. The guest room is on the third floor, east side. The butler will take you there."

"I won't stay here."

"You don't have a choice." His tone was certain, as if stating a fact. "Vera already sent you here as an assassin. Do you think she'll let you go back alive to share the inheritance she deserves?"

My nails dug into my palms, digging in until it hurt, but I didn't loosen my grip.

He pressed the intercom on the desk. "Antonio, have the maids prepare a change of clothes and toiletries in the guest room on the third floor east side, then come to my study."

A respectful male voice came through the intercom. "Yes, sir."

He turned off the intercom and looked at me one last time.

This glance lasted longer than any before. His gaze slid down from my face, swept over my fingers stained with his blood, and finally settled on the dagger on the carpet.

"Tomorrow morning at seven, breakfast in the downstairs dining room." He said, "After we eat, I'll show you something. Something your father sent me right before he died. After you see it, you can decide whether you still want to kill me."

"What is it?" I was in a fog right now, desperately wanting to know more.

He didn't answer, lowering his head to pick up the unfinished document.

As if nothing had just happened, as if his chest wasn't bleeding, as if this study wasn't filled with the heavy smell of rust.

At that moment, the door behind me opened, and light from the hallway flooded in.

The butler stood in the doorway. "Sir, what are your orders?"

"Take this lady to the guest room." He commanded without looking up.

"Yes, sir." After the butler responded, he respectfully stepped aside. "Miss, this way please."

Seeing that he wasn't going to say anything more, I turned and walked out, suppressing my anger, but my steps were as unsteady as if I were walking on cotton.

As the study door slowly closed, I suddenly remembered something.

That photograph—the one of my father and him together—was placed in the most prominent position on the desk.

Right under the desk lamp, where he would see it every time he looked up.

Would a murderer keep a photo with his victim on his office desk?

The butler was waiting for me at the end of the hallway. I followed him, the sticky sensation of his blood gradually drying on my palm.

I didn't know whom to believe.

But I knew one thing—tomorrow, I absolutely had to see what was written in that document.