Twenty
Chiara
Katie is waiting when I walk into the kitchen, wooden spoon in hand and a question already forming on her face.
“Well?” she asks, falling into step beside me as I cross the open living space.
The kitchen is warm, the scent of butter and garlic soft in the air. A wide pan sits on the stove, rice simmering slowly in broth, mushrooms folded in until they turn deep and glossy. It smells rich without being heavy.
“It was good,” I say, setting my bag on the counter. “Better than good.”
She smiles as if she’d predicted that. “Did you survive the boss?”
“She survived me,” I reply lightly.
Katie laughs and stirs the risotto again, adding another ladle of broth with patient precision. “I like that answer.”
We talk in small pieces while she works—about the team on the fourth floor, about Heather’s sharp edges, about the cheesecake that appeared midafternoon as if it were a corporate ritual.
The conversation is easy, domestic in a way that still feels unfamiliar to me.
No strategy. No coded language. Just a kitchen, a stove, and the low hum of something building toward dinner.
My phone vibrates against the marble.
Ciro: On my way.
The message is brief, as he is when he’s moving between worlds.
“I should change.” I glance toward the staircase. “And I need to get these contacts out and this wig put away.”
“Dinner will be ready in twenty,” Katie replies. “Tell him not to rush.”
I nod and head upstairs.
The bedroom is quiet, the city beyond the windows already dimming toward evening.
I set my bag down and move to the mirror without hesitation.
My fingers reach for the edge of the wig, lifting it carefully from my scalp.
The dark strands come away in one smooth motion, revealing my own hair beneath—lighter, softer, undeniably mine.
I run my fingers through it, and it’s a tousled mess.
I set the wig on its stand and lean closer to the mirror. The contacts come out next, one at a time. When I blink again, the blue returns to my eyes, familiar and steady.
The woman looking back at me is not the one who spent the day at Luster with near-black eyes and sharp brown hair. Gone is the daughter in exile, the strategic liability everyone keeps trying to manage. For the first time all day, I look like myself.
I change into something more comfortable, wash my hands, and take one last look at my reflection before heading downstairs.
By the time Ciro walks in, loosening his tie as he enters the kitchen, the risotto is finished and plated.
He pauses when he sees me, his gaze sweeping over my hair first and then settling on my eyes. “There you are.”
“You sound relieved.”
“I’m adjusting,” he admits, stepping closer. “The dark hair throws me.”
“In a bad way?”
He considers that, studying me as if the answer matters more than he expected. “Not bad,” he says finally. “Just different. It makes you look…harder.”
“I can be harder,” I reply.
“I know.” His mouth curves slightly. “I’m not sure which I prefer.”
“The disguise or the original?”
He reaches out, brushing a strand of my real hair back from my face. “That’s the problem. I’m drawn to both.”
There’s no flirtation in the way he says it. It’s honest, almost analytical. He’s trying to understand something that doesn’t fit neatly into a category.
Katie clears her throat lightly from the kitchen, announcing dinner without interrupting.
Ciro’s hand drops, but his expression doesn’t shift. We move to the table, taking our seats across from one another, the city lights beginning to flicker on beyond the glass.
He kisses me softly. “I’m going to quickly change. I’ll be right back.”
“Okay, I’ll check my email.”
“Don’t forget to use the VPN,” he says as he climbs the stairs.
I cross into his office. The desktop wakes under my hand, the screen lighting to a neutral interface that holds no history.
I route through the VPN without hesitation, selecting a server halfway across the world.
Malaysia. It’s far enough to break any casual trace and routine enough not to raise flags.
The connection stabilizes, and only then do I open my email.
The inbox loads in layers, messages stacking faster than I expect.
Alyssa’s name appears immediately, repeated across the screen, subject lines shifting from casual to insistent.
Call me. Please answer. I need to know you’re okay.
I hover for a moment, reading just enough to recognize the tone without opening a single message.
I don’t know if she’s worried about me or if she was behind the photo or not, but I’m not ready to find out. I leave the emails unread and move on.
The sender name stops me before I register the subject.
Alessandro Ricci. Ventresca, Ricci & DeLuca LLP.
I don’t need to open it to understand what it is. My father doesn’t reach out directly when something matters. He uses lawyers. It keeps his hands clean and the message controlled. The language will be polite, but it won’t be a request. It will assume I fall in line.
I open the email. It has a calendar note, but I won’t open it.
From: Alessandro Ricci aricci@
To: Chiara Bullucci
Subject: Notice of Representation
Ms. Bullucci,
I hope this message finds you well.
Our firm has been retained on your behalf in connection with your upcoming marriage to Mr. Palo Ammazzalamorte, including the associated personal and financial arrangements requiring coordination.
We have been asked to establish direct communication with you and to begin formal preparation. To that end, we have scheduled an initial meeting via video conference. The invitation is attached with the proposed date and time.
Please confirm your availability or provide an alternative time within the same window so that we may proceed without delay.
Sincerely,
Alessandro Ricci
Ventresca, Ricci & DeLuca LLP
Chicago, Illinois
I read it once, and then again, slower the second time, letting the language settle into place.
It’s all laid out without apology. They represent me in my upcoming marriage to Palo Ammazzalamorte.
A meeting has already been scheduled. A calendar invite attached.
I’m expected to confirm or adjust, not refuse.
It’s already moving, with or without me, and my role in it has been decided.
The cursor blinks at the bottom of the screen, waiting for a response I don’t intend to give.
Instead, I forward the email to Jim, adding nothing to the body, trusting him to read it the way I do.
He’ll see the firm, the tone, the timing.
He’ll understand what it signals without needing any explanation.
Ciro comes up behind me and leans over my shoulder, close enough that I feel the heat of him as his attention moves across the screen. He reads it once without speaking, and then straightens slightly, his expression tightening in a way that has nothing to do with surprise.
“They’ve formalized it,” he says, his voice even. “That means it’s already in motion.”
I turn my head just enough to catch his profile. “There’s a meeting scheduled.”
“I see that.” His gaze drops back to the email, scanning the details again. “They’re not asking. They’re setting the timeline and expecting you to follow it.”
“Typical.”
His jaw shifts. “Have you answered?”
“No.”
“Good.” He rests a hand lightly on the back of my chair, not touching me, but close enough that the distance feels intentional. “Forward it to Jim if you haven’t already. He’ll want to see the firm and the timing.”
“I already did.”
“Then we let him come back with options before we move.” His eyes lift to mine, steady and focused. “We don’t respond to them until we have a plan.”
“I wasn’t planning to.”
“They’re trying to move you where they need you,” he says quietly. “We’re not going to panic. We get to decide what happens next, not them.”
I look at him for a second. The confidence in his voice settles something in me. “And if I don’t want any part of it?”
“Then we shut it down,” he says calmly. “But we do it our way.”
I close the message and log out, disconnecting the VPN before the system can idle.
The screen returns to its neutral state, empty and unremarkable, as if nothing passed through it at all.
For a moment, I remain where I am, my hand resting lightly on the desk, aware of how little distance there is between this room and the one upstairs.
The meeting is already set. The timeline has started. So is everything that comes after.
The smell of mushroom risotto drifts up from downstairs, rich with butter and wine.
Dinner is waiting.