Chapter 4
Gianna
Ican't sleep.
The full moon shines brightly through my apartment window, casting long shadows on my bed.
It's three in the morning, but my mind won't shut down. Every time I close my eyes, all I see are numbers. Transactions. Shell corporations. And behind it all, the sharp green eyes of Angelo Bellanti.
The Golden Prince.
My target.
My fingers fly across my laptop, going through the copies of everything I've accessed so far in my first week at Bellanti Holdings. Angelo gave me unprecedented access to their Asia-Pacific operations, a level of trust that would make me laugh if I weren't so damn stressed about it.
"Trust," I snort, rubbing my tired eyes. "He doesn't trust anyone. He's testing me."
I've spent fifteen hours a day parsing through their so-called "legitimate" businesses. On the surface, everything is impeccable. Angelo Bellanti might be arrogant, might be a notorious playboy, but his financial genius is undeniable.
The way he's structured their global holdings—layering companies within companies, creating great tax efficiencies that skirt regulations without quite breaking them—it's brilliant. Infuriating, but brilliant.
I take a sip of cold coffee and pull up the folder containing the surveillance software I need to install. My fingers glide over my laptop, checking through once again.
I'll need to find the perfect moment to gain access to his systems—when his guard is down. And with a man like Angelo Bellanti, those moments are rare.
But I'll find a way. This is what I came here to do…
"These projections seem low for Q3." I tap my pen against the spreadsheet I've been analyzing for the past three hours.
Across the conference table, Angelo looks up from his phone, one perfect eyebrow arched.
The afternoon sun streams through the floor-to-ceiling windows, highlighting his dark hair.
"Most consultants wouldn't question my numbers, Little Auditor." His lips curve into that infuriating smirk. "They'd be too busy trying to impress me."
I feel my jaw tighten at the nickname. I hate it. I hate the way he says it—like he's discovered some private joke only he understands. I hate how it makes me feel small when I'm trying to establish professional authority.
The "little" part especially irks me—I worked too hard to be diminished by anyone, even someone as powerful as Angelo Bellanti. And every time he says it with that smirk, I'm reminded of how precarious my cover story is.
Also, the fact that my cover is three years older than him isn’t lost on me.
"I'm not most consultants." I tap each of my fingers in succession, counting off my points.
"Your shipping margins are too thin given fuel cost projections.
Your labor estimates don't account for the new regulations in Singapore.
And these tax calculations are aggressive even for a company with your resources. "
I expect him to dismiss me. Instead, something like respect flickers across his face before he leans forward, the movement causing his expensive cologne to drift across the table. It's subtle—sandalwood and something darker I can't place.
"Fix it then."
“On it.”
I work through lunch and into the evening. The office empties gradually, until it's just us and the cleaning staff. I'm so focused I barely notice when Angelo orders dinner until a container of what smells like Italian pasta appears at my desk.
"Eat," he commands, already twirling pasta onto his own fork. "I can't have my new risk consultant passing out from hunger."
I should say no, but I can feel my stomach growling in hunger, and one meal wouldn't hurt, right? So, I take a bite and nearly moan at the taste.
"Good, right?" He's watching me too closely. "From a little place two streets away. The owner's son got into some trouble a few years back. I helped."
"You helped," I repeat, keeping my face neutral while mentally filing this information away. "How generous."
His eyes narrow slightly. "I'm not sure I like that tone, Ms. Bennett."
I shrug. “I'm not sure what you’re talking about, Mr. Bellanti.”
"Angelo," he corrects for the fifth time this week. "And don't give me that bullshit professional distance. You've spent six days dissecting my company's financials. I think we're past formalities."
I don't respond, focusing instead on reorganizing his Asia-Pacific spreadsheets into something that won't trigger immediate IRS scrutiny.
An email notification pings on his laptop. I glance up to see his expression harden as he reads it.
"Problem?" I ask, trying to sound casual.
"Ricardo is pushing to cut twenty percent of our workforce in Malaysia." His voice is tight. "Says it's the only way to make the acquisition profitable."
I've read about Thomas Ricardo, the notorious corporate raider Angelo brought in as CFO six months ago. His specialty is gutting companies for short-term profit.
"And you disagree," I observe, watching him closely.
Angelo runs a hand through his dark hair. "Those people have families. The factory is the primary employer in that region. Twenty percent layoffs would devastate the local economy."
My eyebrows furrows. This doesn't match the profile I've been given of Angelo Bellanti, ruthless mafia heir who values profit above all else.
"What are you going to do?" I ask.
He looks up, his expression determined. "Find another way." He pulls his laptop closer. "Help me restructure the acquisition. There has to be a solution that doesn't involve mass layoffs."
For the next two hours, we work side by side, creating an alternative restructuring plan that preserves jobs while still meeting profit expectations.
I watch him make call after call—to union representatives, to local officials, to bankers willing to renegotiate terms. He fights for those workers with a ferocity that surprises me.
By midnight, my eyes are burning from staring at screens, but we've created a viable alternative that saves all but a handful of positions. When I finally look up, Angelo is watching me, his jacket discarded, sleeves rolled up exposing muscular forearms marked with the faintest scars.
"Done," I announce, sliding my tablet across to him.
He reviews my work in silence, his expression unreadable. After what feels like an eternity, he looks up.
"You're not what I expected."
"Sorry to disappoint," I reply automatically.
A genuine laugh escapes him—deep, unexpected. "Oh, you haven't disappointed me, Little Auditor. Quite the opposite."
The nickname again. I should be annoyed—I am annoyed—but something in the way he says it this time makes warmth spread through my chest. I immediately suffocate it. I can't afford to feel flattered by a target's approval. I'm here to gather evidence, not validation.
I'm about to speak when his phone vibrates across the desk. He silences it without looking.
"Your phone's been buzzing non-stop for the past thirty minutes," I observe.
He waves dismissively. "Board members are panicking over nothing. They do this every quarter."
"Ah, so they're like toddlers having tantrums but with expensive suits and stock options."
His lips quirk. "Exactly like that. Though I'd say more like kindergartners fighting over the last cookie."
"Let me guess," I say before I can stop myself, "you're the teacher who hides in the supply closet with the real cookie jar."
His phone buzzes. He glances at it, frowning. "I need to take this. Wait here."
I nod, watching as he steps into his private office. Through the glass walls, I see him pace, his expression darkening into something dangerous that sends an involuntary shiver down my spine.
This is the real Angelo Bellanti—not the charming businessman, but the mafia prince who destroys lives with a keystroke.
When he returns, the mask is back in place, but there's a coldness in his eyes that wasn't there before. I note the tension in his shoulders—perfect intel for Kaif. This would be the ideal moment to plant the surveillance software, but I haven't found the right opening yet.
"Sorry about that." He runs a hand through his hair, messing it up in a way that shouldn't be attractive but somehow is. "Where were we?"
"Finishing up," I say, gathering my papers. "It's late."
"One more thing before you go," he says, sitting on the edge of his desk. "The Jensen account. Tell me what you think."
I hesitate. The Jensen account is notorious within Bellanti Holdings. It's a client with suspicious cash flows and questionable business practices. If I were truly a risk consultant, I'd have flagged it immediately.
"It's problematic," I say carefully. "Their financials don't add up, and their business model is... opaque at best."
"Drop them," he says simply.
I blink. "Excuse me?"
"Draft termination paperwork. I want them gone by the end of the week."
"But they're one of your high-paying clients," I point out, confused by this decision that, again, contradicts everything I thought I knew about him.
"They're also cutting corners on safety regulations and exploiting immigrant labor," he says, his tone hardening. "Not the business we want to be associated with."
I stare at him momentarily speechless. Who is this man? The criminal mastermind I've been sent to investigate, or this principled businessman who fights for factory workers and cuts ties with exploitative clients?
The confusion must show on my face because his expression softens into amusement. "What's wrong, Little Auditor? Surprised I have standards?"
The nickname snaps me back to reality. "It's not that. It's just—"
"Just what?" He moves closer, his proximity making it hard to focus.
"You're not what I expected either," I admit before I can stop myself.
His lips curl into a genuine smile—not the practiced charm he uses in boardrooms, but something real and warm that transforms his face. "Good. I hate being predictable."
He leans back in his chair, his expression suddenly mischievous. "You remind me of my auditor from last year."
"Is that supposed to be a compliment?" I ask, not looking up from my spreadsheet.
"He was just as serious as you. Never smiled once in six months." Angelo taps his pen against the desk rhythmically. "Until his last day, when I asked him why auditors don't look out the window in the morning."
Despite my better judgment, I glance up. "And why don't they?"
"Because then they'd have nothing to do in the afternoon." His eyes crinkle at the corners as he delivers the punchline.
I try to maintain my professional facade; I really do. But the combination of his perfect deadpan delivery and the ridiculous stereotype—it catches me off guard. A genuine laugh escapes before I can stop it.
His eyes light up immediately. "I knew it," he says triumphantly. "You have a soul under all that regulation talk."
I roll my eyes, but I can feel a flutter in my stomach at the way he's looking at me. "Hilarious."
"Humor is subjective, Little Auditor. But that smile..." He pauses, his gaze dropping briefly to my lips before meeting my eyes again. "That smile is objectively beautiful."
The air between us grows heavy with something I can't—won't—name. I need to leave. Now.
"It's late," I say again, breaking the spell. "I should go."
He nods, stepping back. "Of course. I'll walk you out."
The elevator ride is silent, charged with unspoken tension. We get to the lobby, and Angelo insists on waiting with me until my cab arrives.
"You don't have to do this," I tell him, hugging my coat around me against the spring chill.
"Humor me," he replies. "My father would have my balls if he knew I let a woman wait alone on a New York street at two in the morning."
The cab pulls up, and he opens the door for me. As I slide in, he leans down, his face half-illuminated by the streetlight. "Good night, Sarah."
"Good night... Angelo." His name feels too intimate in my mouth.
He steps back, and the cab pulls away. I glance in the rear-view mirror to see him still standing there, watching me go. Just as we turn the corner, a sleek black car pulls up beside him, and a woman in a stunning red dress emerges.
She wraps herself around his arm, her head tilting back in laughter at something he says. Of course. The notorious playboy with a different woman every night.
I turn away, ignoring the unexpected twist of.
.. something in my chest. Not jealousy. It can't be jealousy.
I knew exactly who Angelo Bellanti was when I took this assignment—rich, handsome, with women falling at his feet.
I've read his file. I've seen the parade of models and socialites who've shared his bed over the years.
So why does the sight of him with another woman bother me at all?
"Pull yourself together, Gianna," I mutter to myself as the taxi speeds through the nearly empty streets. "He's a target, not a prospect."
But as I close my eyes, it's not evidence, or surveillance plans I see. It's green eyes, a genuine smile, and the unexpected revelation that Angelo Bellanti might be more complex than the criminal mastermind I've been sent to bring down.
And that realization is far more dangerous than any attraction could ever be.