Forty-six
Ciro
The late afternoon sun cuts across the glass walls of my office.
We’ve been back from Las Vegas for weeks, but the fallout from the show still dominates half my day.
Sales numbers climb across one monitor while Matteo’s revised projections sit open beside another round of international press coverage.
The emerald necklace refuses to disappear from the conversation.
Industry analysts dissect the stone sourcing. Luxury blogs argue over the valuation. Buyers keep calling anyway.
We didn’t take best in show, but the award we did get changed the trajectory of Luster almost overnight.
My phone buzzes against the desk with another incoming order request from Dubai while I skim updated placement offers for the Bellagio retail space. Every report circles back to the same thing—visibility. The show put Luster in front of the world, and now everyone wants a piece of it.
A knock sounds against the open office door.
Victor stands just outside the office, one hand braced against the frame. “You have a delivery.”
I look past him toward a man I don’t recognize holding a cream-colored envelope between two fingers. Dark suit. Neutral expression. Expensive watch. Professional enough to disappear into almost any lobby in the city.
“I have a delivery for Mr. Ciro Marino.”
I lean back slightly in my chair, studying him for a second before crossing the office. The paper is thick when he hands it over. Heavy stock. No return address. No courier markings. Very old-school and deliberate.
The second my thumb slides beneath the seal, I already know where it came from.
The single card inside contains only a time, a location, and one line beneath it.
Mr. Bullucci requests your presence tomorrow evening at 5 p.m.
No threats or explanation. And somehow that makes it worse.
The messenger looks at me. “Am I supposed to give you an answer?”
“If you would, please.” He stands with his legs spread to shoulder length and his hands clasped in front of him.
“Chiara and I will be there.”
He gives me a single nod and leaves without another word while I stare down at the card for another second.
A month ago, I would’ve handled this differently. I would’ve gone alone and made the decision myself containing it before it reached her.
Except I already know exactly where that road ends.
I pick up my phone and hit the extension to Chiara’s desk.
She answers on the second ring. “Miss me already?”
Despite myself, one corner of my mouth pulls slightly upward. “Come upstairs.”
There’s a brief pause. “I’m not having sex with you in your office in the middle of the day.”
“After work then?” I tease.
“No! We’ve had this discussion.”
“I do need you to come up.”
Her breath catches. “Is everything okay?”
“We’ll talk when you get here.”
“On my way.”
I hang up and move toward the windows overlooking Market Street, the card still balanced between my fingers.
Traffic crawls below while the office hums behind the glass walls outside my door.
Somewhere down the hall, someone laughs before the sound disappears beneath ringing phones and quiet conversation.
The soft click of heels reaches the office a minute later before Chiara steps through the doorway without knocking. She’s still wearing her wig and contacts. Until we know what’s going on, she remains in hiding.
She’s holding a tablet against her chest. Her eyes find the card in my hand immediately. She recognizes it.
“When did that arrive? What does he want?”
I cross the office toward her and hand her the card without answering right away. “He wants a meeting tomorrow.”
Her fingers tighten slightly against the edge of the card before she sets the tablet down on the seating area beside her. “That sounds ominous.”
“I told them we were coming.”
I see the exact second she notices them.
Something softens briefly around her mouth before she looks away toward the windows, hiding it almost immediately.
She looks down at the address. “It’s my family home, that’s a good sign.”
She walks toward me then, stopping close enough that the faint scent of her perfume cuts through the coffee and paper lingering in the office. Her hand smooths briefly along the front of my tie before flattening lightly against my chest.
I kiss her once, quick and restrained despite the warmth already pulling low in my chest, before reaching for the invitation again.
Then I look down at her.
“We’ve got this.”
We leave just after lunch for Chicago. Jim and a few of his Clear Security team have joined us on the private plane.
I’m not worried about this meeting. I spend most of the flight talking with Jim about security around the production floor at our South San Francisco campus.
I’ve tried talking to Chiara but every mile we cross, she becomes more anxious.
When we land, an SUV is waiting at the base of the stairs beside the plane, and within minutes, we’re being driven toward Chiara’s family home.
Chiara looks out the window. “Nothing ever changes here. It still looks like an expensive prison to me.”
Warm light spills across the stone driveway ahead while two guards stand near the entrance with their hands folded loosely in front of them. Neither approaches the vehicle. Neither needs to. They already know who’s inside.
Victor climbs out first and scans the courtyard before opening Chiara’s door while I walk around the car.
Chiara looks at the men at the front door. “Hey, Dino. How are the girls?”
He smiles. “They’re growing big.”
“That’s great.” She looks at the other man. “Hey Tiny. How’s Jeannine?”
“She’s pregnant with our fourth.”
“That’s great news. Congratulations.”
The front doors open before we reach them.
Chiara warned me about what to expect. So I’m not surprised when one of Enzo’s longtime security men waits inside the entry hall, his expression unreadable as his gaze moves briefly over me before settling on Chiara. “Miss Bullucci.”
“Marco.” She slips her coat from her shoulders and hands it to him without breaking stride. “You’re still pretending retirement is an option?”
His mouth almost turns into a smile. “Your father prefers consistency.”
“That’s a polite word for paranoia.”
Marco inclines his head slightly, neither agreeing nor disagreeing.
The house stays quiet as we move deeper inside. Conversations lower in nearby rooms before disappearing completely. A few men glance up from the bar area off the main hall, their attention lingering just long enough to acknowledge me beside her before looking away again.
I feel it in the way her hand brushes briefly against mine as we walk, not seeking reassurance so much as confirming position.
Together.
Marco stops outside the office doors and pushes one side open. “Mr. Bullucci will see you now.”
The office beyond is exactly what I expected—dark wood and low lighting.
Enzo stands near the windows overlooking the bay with one hand in his pocket while another man closes a folder near the desk. The second he sees Chiara enter beside me, his attention sharpens slightly before smoothing out again. “Massimo, leave us.”
Massimo gives me a dirty look as he gathers the folder immediately and heads for the side exit.
Enzo waits until the door shuts behind him before speaking.
He extends his hand to me. “Welcome to Chicago. You can call me Enzo.”
I take his hand. “Ciro. It’s nice to finally meet you.”
The silence after that feels controlled instead of hostile. Measured men taking stock of each other before deciding where the conversation goes next.
Enzo gestures once toward the seating area near the windows. “Sit down.”
I wait for Chiara to move first.
Enzo notices that too. I can tell by the brief pause before he reaches for the decanter on the sideboard.
Enzo pours three glasses of an amber liquid without asking what anyone wants.
I note the scotch is old enough that the bottle probably costs more than most people’s monthly rent.
He hands one to Chiara first. Me second. Then he lowers himself into the chair across from the seating area while the city lights burn against the windows behind him.
He looks at Chiara. “How’s your mother?”
“She’s fine. I told her I was coming.”
He holds up his hands. “She left a long time ago—”
“Did you think she was dead, or did you know she disappeared?”
“I knew she left us, but to save face, we had the funeral.”
“Why didn’t you tell me the truth?” Chiara draws in a slow breath beside me, her grip tightening slightly around her glass.
Enzo looks at me “I saw the footage from Vegas.” He rests one ankle over his knee. “Congratulations.”
“It was a good show for us,” I answer, lifting the glass briefly before setting it untouched on the table.
“That necklace changed the entire conversation at your show,” Enzo says, ignoring the interruption completely. “Every article I read mentioned it before they mentioned the company.”
“That was the point.”
“And the Bellagio?”
“It will be our first brick and mortar location.”
Enzo studies me over the rim of his glass. “Expensive.”
“They made an offer we couldn’t refuse.”
Chiara watches the exchange quietly beside me, her fingers resting against the the glass balanced near her knee.
Enzo leans back farther into the chair. “The emerald piece was designed by your mother?”
“Yes. We have several. My brother Dante has been collecting the stones for it for years.”
“And he built it. It’s impressive in pictures. I bet it’s even more impressive in person.”
“It is.” Chiara answers for me.
“You understand visibility better than most men your age,” Enzo says after a moment, setting his glass down beside him. “Most luxury brands still think scarcity means silence.”
“Scarcity only works if people know what they can’t have.”
A faint sound leaves Chiara beside me. Not quite a laugh.
Enzo notices it immediately. “You disagree?”
She shakes her head.
“You had buyers from all over the world,” he says. “Long-term contracts?”
“We’re negotiating. The emerald drop beads require a certain stone.”
He nods once, slow and thoughtful. “You’re expanding faster than the market expected.”