Fifteen
Chiara
When Ciro told me earlier this week that he had a job for me at Luster, I was excited right up until the moment I realized working there meant putting more people at risk.
But we came up with a plan. I met with a wig designer, bought brown contacts to hide my blue eyes, and his personal shopper rebuilt my wardrobe into someone less recognizable.
Tomorrow is my first day, and I’m nervous about it.
But tonight, I’m meeting his family for the first time, and somehow, that feels worse.
Ciro turns off the engine and looks at me, not questioning, not soft.
Measuring. His family’s house is already loud when we pull up.
Not music—voices layered over one another, uncontained and unapologetic.
The sound reaches the driveway before we do, spilling out into the night like something alive.
I smooth my hands over my skirt. Navy. Simple. Bought with the personal shoppers help.
Ciro comes around the car and rests his hand at the small of my back as we walk up the path. The door opens before he knocks.
Aunt Rebecca steps forward and pulls me into her arms, as if I’ve been expected for years instead of days. She smells like garlic and wine and warmth. There is no assessment in her eyes, no weighing of value.
“Finally,” she says, holding me at arm’s length. “Another beautiful woman in this house.”
Behind her, Gianna laughs. “We needed more estrogen. It’s unbearable in here.”
Matteo appears, loud and unapologetic, with Ellory and Ameila. Luca lingers near the stairs, quiet and observant. Dante stands farther back, composed, watching without appearing to.
They talk over one another. They argue about wine. Someone blames someone else for forgetting bread even though there’s plenty of it on the counter. Ciro answers three questions at once and shrugs off Luca’s attempt to steal his jacket.
No one is performing.
In my family, dinner is choreography. Seating arrangements signal rank. Conversation is currency. My father controls the tempo of the room with a single glance. My brothers compete for oxygen. I learned early that I would never win, not because I lacked capacity, but because I was born female.
Here, Henry calls from the dining room that the osso bucco is resting and if they don’t sit now it will be ruined. Rebecca swats Luca with a dish towel. Dante tells him to let their uncle finish a sentence. Ellory leans into Gianna and whispers something that makes her grin.
Ciro bends slightly so only I can hear him. “We’re always like this.”
“I can tell.” I smile at him because I am really enjoying this.
The dining room is set formally—crystal catching the light, linen pressed smooth—but the mood refuses to match the precision.
Rebecca serves the osso bucco herself, spooning sauce carefully over a beautiful polenta for each of us.
She gives Amelia a big stack of spaghetti while Henry follows with bread, and when Ciro reaches for it, he reminds him, “Only one until everyone gets one.”
Ameila grabs two and practically dares Ciro to rat her out. He plays wounded, and his brothers and sister snicker.
Rebecca settles into her chair and looks at me with open curiosity. “Tell me if it’s too much salt,” she says.
“It’s perfect,” I answer after the first bite.
Dante studies me over the rim of his wineglass while Henry sets another platter of osso buco onto the center of the table. The smell of red wine and rosemary hangs warm in the air, rich enough to soften the sharp edges of the room. It doesn’t.
“Ciro tells us you’ll be joining us tomorrow.”
Beside me, Ciro rests his hand lightly against my thigh under the table.
“That’s the plan,” I say.
“In what capacity?” Matteo asks from across the table.
“Financial analyst.” I smooth the napkin on my lap.
Luca reaches for the bottle of Barolo before the conversation can pause. “What is your financial background?”
“I’ve interned with Citadel as a financial analyst and in the retail business I worked with Crate and Barrel while I attended Northwestern for my MBA.”
“Kellogg School?” Luca asks immediately, already pouring wine into his glass.
I nod once. “Yes.”
Henry refills Dante’s glass without needing to be asked while Rebecca reaches across the table to shift the breadbasket closer to Gianna.
The conversation continues around me, silverware against plates, wine pouring, chairs shifting softly against hardwood.
No one stops eating just because I’m being evaluated.
But that’s exactly what this is.
Dante sets his glass down carefully beside his plate. “What was your concentration?”
I take a deep breath. “Financial modeling and risk exposure.”
Matteo’s eyes narrow slightly with interest at that while Gianna glances up from her polenta for the first time since I sat down.
“And Luster?” Dante asks. “Initial thoughts?”
For a second, every instinct I have tells me to give the safe answer. Compliment the company. Talk about growth. Brand positioning. Market share.
Ciro’s thumb brushes once against my leg beneath the table like he already knows I’m about to ignore that instinct completely.
“It’s stronger than people realize,” I say, meeting Dante’s gaze directly. “But it’s exposed in ways I don’t think the market would fully understand.”
Henry pours wine into my glass mid-breath. I thank him with a small nod and continue.
“Your diamond side is steady,” I say evenly, “but you’re leaning harder into emerald at a moment where it can turn quickly. If prices shift before the Vegas show, you could be holding too much of one thing at the wrong time.”
Luca lets out a low whistle. “Jesus.”
Matteo leans forward now, forearms resting on the table. He isn’t casual anymore.
“You’ve reviewed the filings?” Dante asks.
“You don’t file publicly,” I say. “But the people you work with do. Suppliers. Insurers. When there’s a lot of money in one place, it leaves a trail.”
Henry pauses mid-pour. “Insurers always leak something,” he mutters, almost approving.
Dante angles toward me instead of the center of the table. “And what does that trail tell you?”
“That you’re confident,” I reply. “But confidence doesn’t protect you if the timing is wrong.”
Luca interrupts before Dante can respond. “We’re not reckless.”
“I didn’t say you were,” I answer, meeting his gaze briefly before returning to Dante. “I said you’re exposed.”
Dante leans back slightly, his attention sharpening.
“What would you do differently?” he asks.
“Pull back a little in the short term,” I say. “Control how much emerald you put forward. Make the Vegas moment deliberate instead of all-in.”
Henry shakes his head once. “Vegas is the moment.”
“It still is,” I say. “You just don’t want everything riding on it.”
Luca laughs. “She talks like Ciro.”
Matteo’s fingers drum once against the stem of his glass. Then he leans in fully, elbows now on the table. “Are you sleeping with my brother?”
Rebecca makes a sound of exasperation. Gianna chokes on her wine. Luca mutters, “Subtle.”
Before I can answer, Ciro speaks.
“That’s none of your business.” His voice isn’t raised. But the room feels it.
Matteo doesn’t sit back this time. He holds the position, studying me instead.
“If I were,” I say evenly, “it wouldn’t affect my analysis.”
There’s a half-beat of silence.
Then Henry resumes pouring wine as if that’s the cue to reset the table.
But the air has shifted.
Rebecca turns to Matteo. “Will you eat and stop interrogating our guest?”
I didn’t expect to feel the shift that quickly.
Dante returns to me. “What were you doing before you came here?”
“I worked for an asset management company in Chicago and made recommendations on how they used funds,” I say. “Deciding where it should go.”
He doesn’t look away when he says it. “And you walked away.”
I rest my fingers against the edge of the table, keeping my voice level. “Yes.”
His head tilts slightly, not out of curiosity, but more assessment. “Why?”
I hold his gaze. “Because my father was ready for me to marry.”
Ellory’s hand stills against her wineglass. Gianna’s fork pauses halfway to her mouth.
Luca starts to say something—some half-formed joke—and then stops when he sees my expression.
“Who did he want you to marry?” Dante asks.
I don’t reach for details this time. They already have them. “One of his rivals’ sons,” I say. “You can fill in the rest.”
The word hangs there.
Rebecca doesn’t move. The warmth that had animated her all evening goes quiet. Her hand rests flat on the table now, fingers splayed as if she’s steadying something.
“And you refused,” Matteo says.
“I left.”
“That won’t stop them,” Dante replies, not unkindly.
“No.” I take a breath, not to steady myself, but to give the room a second to absorb it. “They’ve been aggressive in trying to find me. They intend to bring me home.”
The table goes still in a way it hasn’t all night.
Even Henry stops pouring.
“Bring you home,” Luca repeats, but there’s no humor in it now.
“Yes.”
Dante leans forward slightly, forearms resting on the table. Not relaxed. Focused. “Is this about pride,” he asks, “or leverage?”
“Leverage,” I say. “Expansion. Territory. Access.”
“And you’re the bridge,” Matteo finishes.
“Yes.”
Rebecca’s voice is softer than it’s been all evening. “You’re not an asset,” she says. “You’re a woman.”
I meet her eyes. “In my family, those aren’t mutually exclusive.”
The silence deepens.
Ciro hasn’t spoken. I can feel him beside me, still as stone.
“They won’t hurt you,” Luca says automatically.
Dante nods once. “How are you going to stay out of sight?”
“Ciro and I’ve been working with Jim and his team and we’re being strategic.”
Ellory tilts her head, watching me more closely now. “What does that mean?”
I reach up and tuck a strand of my blonde locks behind my ear. “Tomorrow, I’ll be wearing a dark brown wig. Dark brown contacts with glasses, and I’ll be dressed more Californian than mid-west.”
Gianna leans forward. “What is Californian and mid-west look like?”