Close Encounters of the Hot Kind

1. Aileen

CHAPTER 1

AILEEN

T hey say a thousand dreams come to live and die in the Windy City. I've never had any dreams die on me before. I'd have to actually live a dream first! Instead, I'm working in my parent's pizza shop for way longer since High School than I care to count.

The lunch crowd leaves behind their usual mess - crumpled napkins, half-empty cups, and enough crumbs to feed a small army. Mom and Dad's voices drift from the kitchen, arguing in Italian about the proper amount of yeast. Same old, same old.

I grab my rag and spray bottle, attacking the marinara splatter on table six. These stains never want to come off without a fight.

"Huh." Something green peeks out from under a Styrofoam cup. My heart skips - is that a hundred dollar bill?

"No way." I snatch it up, hands trembling. We could use this for the rent, or maybe that new oven Dad's been eyeing...

The paper unfolds to reveal its true nature. Not cash - just another scammy ad. "Double Your Money With CryptoMax!" Complete with fake money printing on one side. Great.

"Seriously?" I ball up the fake bill and chuck it over my shoulder. The trash can's somewhere back there. Probably.

The vinyl booth cushion needs attention - someone's kid went to town with their crayons. I bend down with my rag and- there it is. The wadded-up fraud, sitting pretty by the front door instead of in the trash where it belongs.

"Perfect. Just perfect."

The bell chimes and the door swings open. A pair of Italian leather shoes steps into view - the kind that costs more than I make in three months. The polish on them gleams so bright I could check my reflection if I wanted.

"I'll be right with ya!" The crayon marks refuse to budge, but one final scrub does the trick.

I straighten up and- wow. Just... wow. The guy towers over me like a redwood, muscles straining against what has to be an Armani suit. His face though... something's off about it. Too perfect, like one of those AI-generated models on Instagram. Not a single flaw or mark anywhere.

"Welcome to Papa Marella's Pizza. You can take any seat you like, but the ones on this side might still be wet."

"I care not for the dampness levels of your furnishings." His voice rumbles like distant thunder, each word precise and formal. Who even talks like that? "I am here to make a purchase."

"Um, okay." The menu card trembles in my hands. Must be Hungarian or something - that would explain the stiff way he speaks. "What would you like to purchase? We have the Wednesday Special. That's two medium one-topping pies with a family-sized salad and a 2-liter of Pop."

His gaze travels from my face down to my shoes, then back up again. Slow. Deliberate. The temperature in the room spikes ten degrees. His nostrils flare, like he's... what, smelling me? The heat crawls up my neck and into my cheeks.

The way he stares... it's not the usual creepy customer once-over. There's something else in those golden-brown eyes. Something hungry that has nothing to do with pizza.

"Simply gorgeous."

My spine tingles at the low rumble of his voice. Did he just-

"Excuse me?"

"Ahem. This corner lot. It's gorgeous." His manicured hand sweeps through the air, encompassing our worn booths, the faded checkered tablecloths, and the ancient ceiling fans that haven't worked right since the Clinton administration. "I would like to purchase it immediately. The current valuation of this property is 6 million. I am prepared to offer eight."

Eight... eight what? Eight dollars? Eight thousand? The words bounce around my skull like loose marbles until they click into place.

Eight million dollars.

My jaw drops. The spray bottle slips from my fingers and clatters to the floor. The sharp vinegar scent of cleaning solution fills the air as it rolls under table four.

He wants to buy Papa Marella's? Our little corner of Chicago that's been in the family since before I was born? The place where I took my first steps, lost my first tooth, and learned every curse word in Italian from Uncle Gio?

The stranger's golden-brown eyes fix on mine, waiting for an answer. But my tongue feels like it's coated in day-old pizza dough.

Eight million dollars. That's enough to set Mom and Dad up for retirement. Enough to send my little sister to any college she wants. Enough to...

Wait. Since when do people walk into family restaurants and offer to buy them on the spot? For millions over market value?

The artificial perfection of his face suddenly seems more plastic than prestigious. Those eyes that looked merely strange before now scream wrong.

"Just who in the Hell do you think you are, anyway?" The words burst out before my brain catches up with my mouth.

"Charles Varakian." His smile doesn't reach those strange eyes. "Perhaps you've heard of me?"

The name clicks. Headlines flash through my mind - skyscrapers rising from empty lots overnight, whole neighborhoods transformed in the blink of an eye. The man who's changing the face of Chicago, one property at a time.

"The Real Estate mogul?" The spray bottle forgotten at my feet, I cross my arms. "Well, you can forget it. My parents will never sell this place. You're not the first one to try."

Eight million would set us up for life, a voice whispers in the back of my mind. But I push it away. This place isn't just brick and mortar - it's the heart of everything we are.

"You are lovely." His gaze rakes over me again, making my skin crawl. "But naive. Is there someone else I might speak to? The head of household? A man perhaps?"

The nerve of this guy! My knuckles turn white around the spray bottle. But wait - why waste my breath? I know exactly how to handle this walking designer suit.

"Hey, Pop?" My lips curl into the sweetest smile I can muster. "I've got a Tycoon with Extra Cheese out here!"

The beaded curtain parts with a clatter as Dad bursts through, flour coating his apron and dusting his balding head. Even with marinara stains on his shirt and standing a good foot and a half shorter than Mr. Perfect, Pop radiates the kind of confidence you can only get from decades of telling people where they can stick their "authentic Italian cuisine."

"Listen up you stuffed suit, Papa Marella's ain't for sale." Dad plants himself between me and Varakian, chest puffed out like a territorial rooster. "Not today, not tomorrow, not ever."

Mr. Varakian's perfect face twitches - just for a second, but I catch it. That's right, buddy. You wanted to talk to the man in charge? Well, here he is. Hope you're happy.

The perfect mask cracks. Varakian's shoulders hunch forward, his pristine suit wrinkling. Those otherworldly eyes dart to the windows, checking the street outside.

"Please, you must understand, it's imperative that I acquire this restaurant."

The desperation in his voice catches me off guard. What happened to the arrogant suit who waltzed in here moments ago?

Pop waves his flour-covered hands in dismissal. "Ah, I don't got time for this. I gotta take the dough outta the proofer. Beanie, show this clown the door."

The beaded curtain rattles as Pop disappears into the kitchen. Varakian's perfect brow furrows, his head tilting like a confused puppy.

"Who is this Beanie, and why does your father assume I cannot find the door or that I am some sort of Harlequin?"

A laugh bubbles up from my chest. The genuine confusion on his face only makes it worse. Here stands Chicago's most powerful real estate mogul, baffled by a nickname and common phrase.

But Varakian's expression remains dead serious, waiting for an answer. My laughter dies in my throat.

"You're not from around here, are you, Mr. Varakian?"

"I don't know what you mean?" His perfect face twitches, eyes darting to the windows again. "I am a perfectly normal human businessman from planet Earth. You never answered my query. Who is Beanie?"

A chill runs down my spine. Who says they're from "planet Earth" unless... no, that's crazy talk. The heat must be getting to me.

"It's just a stupid nickname my Dad gave me when I was little." A humiliating nickname. "Why is it so important that you get your hands on this corner lot? Does the world really need another Starbucks?"

His head snaps toward me, those golden eyes widening. He glances over both shoulders, then beckons me closer with one manicured finger.

The scent of his cologne hits me first - something expensive and exotic that definitely didn't come from the mall. But underneath that, there's something else. Something that reminds me of ozone and thunderstorms.

I shouldn't step closer. Everything about this screams "bad idea." But my feet move anyway, drawn by that strange desperation in his eyes.

His breath tickles my ear, sending shivers down my spine. "The very fate of your world is at stake."

The words hang in the air between us, heavy with meaning. I should laugh. I should tell him to get out and never come back. Rich people and their designer drugs, right? That's all this is.

But those eyes... there's something in them that stops the laughter in my throat. Something ancient and desperate that doesn't belong in a human face.

My mouth goes dry. The scent of ozone grows stronger, making the hair on my arms stand up. Outside, clouds gather over what was a clear sky moments ago.

This is insane. I'm standing in my family's pizzeria, talking to Chicago's most famous real estate mogul, and he's either completely off his rocker or...

Or what? An alien? A time traveler? Some kind of supernatural being?

The rational part of my brain screams to run away. But there's another part - the part that used to stay up late reading fantasy novels under the covers - that wants to know more.

"Okay." The word comes out barely above a whisper. "When and where can you tell me, then?"

His perfect face breaks into a smile that's equal parts relief and triumph. The storm clouds outside seem to pulse in response.

What am I getting myself into?

His finger brushes my lips, and electricity zips through my body. Not the metaphorical kind - actual static electricity makes my hair stand on end.

"Tonight, at eight o'clock PM as your kind reckons time," Varakian's voice drops to that otherworldly rumble. "I will arrive to take you to dinner. I will explain all then."

"You're going to what?" The words squeak past my lips, but his finger presses against them, silencing me. The scent of ozone intensifies.

"Hush." Those golden eyes bore into mine. "Soon, all will be revealed to you, fair Aileen. You have the heart of a warrior and the soul of a lover. I will count the nanoseconds until we meet again."

He spins on his heel and practically glides to the door. The bell chimes his exit, and I'm left standing there with my mouth hanging open, static still crackling through my hair.

"What's going on?" Pop's voice drifts from the kitchen.

"I think I have a date." The words taste strange on my tongue, like I've just admitted to having dinner with Big Foot and/or the Loch Ness Monster.