Ten #2
“Refused what?” I ask, watching her carefully.
“Right before she died, I heard her arguing with my father about another pregnancy. She didn’t want any more children.
” Her voice holds, but I track the slight pull in it.
She adjusts the blanket again, more for control than comfort.
“She told him four children were enough. He told her the decision wasn’t hers. ”
I don’t look away. “And then?”
“She was gone three days later,” she says, her eyes dropping for a fraction before coming back up.
“Officially?” I keep my tone even.
“An accident.”
“And unofficially?” I ask, holding her there.
She doesn’t answer. Her gaze looks past me again, settling somewhere behind my shoulder.
I give it a beat, watching her, and then ask quieter, without stepping back, “Are you certain?”
Instead of answering, she reaches beneath her shirt and pulls out a small gold locket on a thin chain. I track the movement as she brings it up, the metal worn from years of handling. She opens it briefly, just enough to confirm what’s inside to herself and then closes it again before I can see.
“She never took this off,” she says. “Not to sleep. Not to shower. It was on her dresser the day after the accident.”
Not an explanation. Just something that doesn’t belong.
She lets the locket fall back against her chest, the chain catching briefly in the fabric of my shirt before she frees it, her fingers brushing my skin in the process.
Something tightens in my chest, not anger but recognition.
I believe if she walks out that door, she walks back into a world where value is assigned, not chosen. I don’t need to know the rules to see how it ends.
“They didn’t break in to negotiate,” I say, my voice even. “They came to retrieve you.”
She watches me, searching. “Yes. But I didn’t recognize those men.”
I shrug it off. “Hired help.”
“I believe resistance has consequences in my father’s world,” she says, her voice even, controlled. “I was raised inside it long enough to understand how those consequences are delivered.”
“And you believe this is yours—the consequence, not ransom or negotiation, just reclamation.”
Her gaze holds mine, steady and unflinching, without plea or dramatics. “Yes.”
“And you think leaving here solves that?”
“I think proximity to you puts you at risk,” she replies. “You’re visible. You’re powerful. That makes you a variable.”
I shrug it off. “I’ve been a variable before.”
“This isn’t corporate rivalry.”
I cross my arms. “No,” I agree. “It isn’t.”
She watches me, her gaze steady, waiting for the recalculation—for the moment I decide she’s too expensive to keep inside my perimeter. I don’t give it to her.
“All of that is exactly why you’re not leaving,” I say, holding her eyes.
Her chin lifts, a fraction of defiance. “You don’t get to decide that.”
“What do you want?” I watch her carefully.
For the first time, something moves behind her composure. It’s small, but it’s there.
“I don’t want to be traded,” she says, her voice steadying as she meets my gaze. “Not as leverage. Not as correction.”
“That’s not what’s happening here,” I reply, keeping my tone even.
She studies me, searching for ownership dressed as protection, for control disguised as concern. I let her look. When she doesn’t find it, she exhales, the tension in her shoulders easing a fraction.
“I don’t hide well,” she says, her fingers brushing the edge of the blanket.
“Good.” I hold her gaze. “Neither do I.”
She glances around the room, and then back to me. “Those are all reasons I shouldn’t leave. So what exactly am I supposed to do—stay here and hide in your house?”
“It’s large, and you’re safe here,” I say, stepping past her toward the island, forcing her to turn slightly to track me. “You can’t go back to your coffee cart. You stay until we have a better plan.”
She exhales slowly, the calculation returning, visible now in the way her eyes shift, the way her grip tightens and releases on the blanket.
“I don’t want to run,” she says.
She picks up the new phone and turning it over in her hands, testing the weight of it, the edges, like she’s deciding if it’s something she can trust.
“We’ll figure something out.” I extend my hand to her. “Something that you can do that will have you hiding in plain sight.”
I pull her against me, and she comes willingly, her arms sliding around my waist. I don’t fully understand the instinct that keeps drawing me toward her, only that the thought of something happening to Chiara lands somewhere sharp in my chest.
I leave her behind with strict instructions to stay in the house, and I head to my home office.
The rest of the day moves without urgency.
I find myself thinking about her more often than I should.
When I check on them, Katie tells me Chiara took over the kitchen, moving around each other easily while they prep the lamb, opening cabinets, arguing lightly over seasoning, filling the house with the smell of garlic and rosemary. I stay out of the way.
By evening, I find her in the kitchen, the light shifting toward dusk through the windows.
“My aunt and uncle host dinner on Sundays,” I say, stopping a few feet from her. “They’ve lived in the family house since my parents died. It isn’t optional.”
She nods once, her expression unchanged, but I see the understanding in it.
“I’ll have Katie make whatever you want,” I add, adjusting my cuff without looking away from her. “I won’t be late.”
“You don’t have to explain,” she says.
“I do if you’re staying here.”
“I’ll be fine.” She holds my gaze.
“I’ll be back before ten,” I say, turning slightly toward the door but not leaving yet, giving her the space to say something if she’s going to.
She doesn’t.
Victor drives me to the house that hasn’t changed in two decades, the grand stone facade set high above Golden Gate Park in the Haight, the iron gate closed and the rosemary bushes Aunt Rebecca refuses to replace lining the manicured yard.
Inside, the warmth hits immediately—voices overlapping, wine already poured, the house alive in a way mine never is.
Luca’s voice reaches me before I’ve shrugged out of my jacket. “You can’t reroute through Singapore the week before the show. It adds twelve days.”
Matteo doesn’t raise his voice. He never does. He stands near the entry table, phone in hand, thumb scrolling, and his tone level. “It adds twelve if customs flag it. It won’t.”
“It always does,” Luca snaps, swinging a garment bag with enough force that it nearly clips my shoulder. Matteo shifts half an inch without looking up, avoiding it without breaking rhythm.
From the kitchen, Gianna’s laugh cuts through the tension. “Aunt Rebecca, you cannot put that much garlic in—”
“I absolutely can,” Rebecca answers, striking a wooden spoon against the side of a pot. “And you’ll eat it.”
The smell of tomato and basil rolls down the hall, warm and familiar.
Gianna leans against the counter with a glass of wine in hand, flour dusting her wrist like she’s been pulled into service.
She bumps Rebecca’s hip and steals something from the cutting board, earning a quick swat with a dish towel.
In the dining room archway, Ellory stands still, with eye on Amelia who is coloring a picture.
She isn’t part of the argument, but she’s following the rhythm of it—the timing, the escalation, the way Luca pushes while Matteo contains the fallout.
When Luca says risk, her attention catches on him, and when Matteo says exposure, it returns the other way.
She catches my eye and smiles.
Dante stands with his legs wide and his arms crossed, authority settled around him without effort.
“You’re late,” Luca says.
“I’m on time.”
“For you,” Matteo adds under his breath.
Luca is halfway through another argument about shipping routes when Dante’s gaze finds mine across the foyer. He doesn’t interrupt or raise his voice. He holds my eyes for a beat longer than necessary, and then says, “A minute.”
It isn’t addressed to the room.
He turns toward our father’s old office without waiting, and I follow. The door closes behind us, muting the noise of the house, the scent of garlic and wine giving way to something quieter, more controlled.
“Jim tells me you had a break-in last night and you’re harboring Enzo Bullucci’s daughter? Do you know who he is? He’s a major crime boss in Chicago.”
“She came to me.” I don’t shift.
Dante nods once, like that confirms something rather than answers it. “Then you need to understand how this reads to them.”
I hold his gaze. “Then explain it.”
He rests his hands on the desk, controlled, deliberate. “They want her back.”
“She’s an adult,” I say. “She’s not locked up.”
“I didn’t think she was.” His eyes stay on mine. “And your involvement puts you in the middle of something that could put all of us in danger.”
I let that sit a beat. “Look, I get it. I’m sure Jim told you they didn’t see her. And we’ve destroyed the phone they were tracking her on.”
“Why did she run away?”
“Besides the obvious?” I tell him what Chiara has shared with me about the arranged marriage.
“You’re inserting yourself into something that was already in place,” Dante says, watching me steadily. “That has implications.”
“I’m aware,” I answer, holding his gaze.
“Are you?” he asks, his tone even. “Because this doesn’t stay contained. It becomes a story. And once it’s a story, we don’t control how it’s told.”
He lets that sit and then adds, quieter, “And we don’t control who decides to act on it.”
“I’m not disrupting anything,” I say, not moving.
“Are you high?” His attention fixed on me. “You brought her into your home. You’re CFO of our company, and that makes all of us part of it. That’s not neutral.”
We hold each other’s gaze, the space between us tightening—not argument, not emotion, just assessment.
“She’s the daughter of a man who treats people like leverage,” I say.
“And that may be exactly how this gets framed,” Dante replies. “Not as protection. As involvement.”