Chapter 7 Gianna
Gianna
I've spent my entire career maintaining a distance. Putting up emotional walls keeps me focused.
Professional barriers between myself and the men I investigate.
Until now.
Until him.
My hand trembles slightly as I adjust my blazer while following Angelo through the wrought-iron gates of the Bellanti estate. Not a mansion—an estate. Of course, the Bellantis would settle for nothing less than a family home that belongs in a period drama about old money and older secrets.
"Nervous, Ms. Bennett?" Angelo asks, but his voice carries none of the warmth I'd grown accustomed to. Instead, there's a clipped formality to it. The smirk is there, but it doesn't reach his eyes.
“I'm just being curious," I counter, keeping my voice flat. "I'm eager to see how the infamous Bellantis live when they're not terrorizing Wall Street."
He laughs, but it's hollow, performative. "We prefer to think of it as 'educating' Wall Street. Come on. My father hates tardiness."
The space between us is filled with tension. Ever since that kiss, when his lips met mine with a hunger that mirrored my own, he has changed. Colder. More distant.
I've also been avoiding being alone with him, making excuses, leaving rooms he’s in, ensuring that other staff members are always present. But his withdrawal hurts more than I want to admit, even to myself.
When he announced his father wanted to meet the consultant overhauling their Asia-Pacific operations, I couldn't exactly say no. So here I am, walking into the lion's den with a man who now treats me like a stranger.
Discreet cameras track our movement while priceless art hangs on walls. I catalog everything, filing mental notes for my report back to Martinez.
From the grand foyer, I hear a child’s voice—high-pitched and excited. Not what I expected in the home of New York's most feared crime family.
Angelo's face transforms when a small girl with dark pigtails rockets around the corner. His hard edges soften, smile genuine instead of calculated as he scoops her up. The transformation is jarring, and it deeply contrasts with the cold treatment he's been giving me.
"Uncle Angelo!" she squeals, throwing her arms around his neck. "You're late! Daddy said you got distracted by a pretty lady again."
Angelo's eyes catch mine, and for a moment, I see something flicker there—something warm and familiar—before it's replaced by that same cool detachment. "Your daddy knows me too well, Lina. This is Ms. Bennett. She works with me."
The little girl studies me with green eyes that remind me so much of her uncle's. "Are you Uncle Angelo's girlfriend?"
My face flushes. "No. I'm just—"
"She's helping me with some very boring grown-up business," Angelo interrupts smoothly, setting his niece down. His tone is dismissive, as if I'm nothing more than a temporary inconvenience.
"Where's Grandpa?"
"In the garden with everyone else. There's tiramisu!" The girl races off, pigtails bouncing.
Angelo watches her go with affection in his eyes. It's weird. This glimpse of humanity in a man I've spent months building into a villain in my mind. A man who can show such warmth to a child while treating me with such indifference.
"My brother Lorenzo's daughter," he explains, not quite meeting my eyes. "She has him wrapped around her finger. Me too, if I'm honest."
We step into a sprawling garden where a large table is set under pergolas draped with wisteria. It's not what I expected. No hushed conversations about territory disputes or money laundering. Just a family—albeit one that runs a criminal empire—enjoying Sunday dinner together.
Luca Bellanti rises from his seat at the head of the table, leaning on his cane. He looks older than the photos in his files, but his eyes—the same piercing green as Angelo's—miss nothing.
"So this is the woman who's been keeping my son working late," he says, his voice carrying the rough cadence of Brooklyn layered over his Italian accent.
"Father, this is Sarah Bennett," Angelo introduces, his voice professional and devoid of any warmth, "our risk management consultant."
I extend my hand. "It's a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Bellanti."
His grip is firm, but his eyes narrow slightly. "You seem familiar."
My heart stops. Does he recognize me? Has my cover been blown?
But then he smiles. "You remind me of one of my best workers. She had the same... what's the word? Backbone."
Relief floods through me as we all settle down for dinner. Matteo Bellanti, the current head of the family, discusses his daughter Fiona's dance recital with fierce pride, while complaining about how much he misses his son, too.
Olivia Bellanti, who once ran the family's legitimate firm but left to create her own company, argues politics with her father but lights up when discussing her pro-bono work with domestic violence victims.
Lorenzo doesn't say a word. His attention is solely fixed on his daughter, his mouth curving into a smile.
His phone pings, and he picks it up, his eyes lighting up, perhaps texting his wife, Sophia, according to my intel, is currently on a trip with Matteo's wife Elena and Isabella Bellanti, the oldest Bellanti daughter. Olivia is only here because of a case she’s working on that requires her presence.
And Angelo—the man I've watched destroy business rivals without blinking—patiently helps his niece cut her pasta and wipes sauce from her chin with gentle hands.
Throughout dinner, Angelo barely acknowledges me. He speaks when I speak to him and answers my direct questions but otherwise acts as if I'm barely there.
Each time our eyes meet across the table, he looks away first, his jaw tightening imperceptibly. I tell myself this is what I wanted—distance, professionalism—but the ache in my chest says otherwise.
After dinner, Angelo's sister Olivia corners me in the kitchen as I refill my water glass.
"So," she says, leaning against the marble counter. "You're the one."
"Excuse me?" I keep my voice neutral while my mind races. What does she know?
Olivia smiles, but I can see the wheels turning in her head. Harvard Law didn't just give her a degree; it gave her the ability to dissect people with her eyes.
"I see how you look at my brother. And how he looks at you when he thinks no one's watching." She tilts her head. "Something happened between you two, didn't it?"
My silence is answer enough.
"Be careful with him," she continues. "Not because he'll hurt you. He won't. Angelo isn't like my father or my older brothers. He doesn't believe in violence. His revenge philosophy is more... comprehensive. He makes people live with their mistakes. Forever."
Her eyes bore into mine.
"If you're hiding anything from him, and we all have something to hide, make sure it's worth the cost."
She glides away, leaving me frozen, glass clutched in my hand. My pulse hammers in my throat. Could she know? Have I slipped up somehow?
I excused myself to find the bathroom, needing a moment to collect myself. I can hear the voices from the garden as I walk down the hallway right beside the kitchen and push open the door at the end of the corridor.
Only it's not the bathroom. It's a study, dimly lit and smelling of leather and whiskey. And Angelo stands by the window, silhouetted against the garden lights.
"Looking for something?" he asks without turning.
When did he get here?
"I'm sorry. I thought this was the bathroom." I step back, reaching for the door handle, desperate to escape the tension that fills the room.
"Down the hall to the left," he says, then adds, "Wait."
I freeze, my heart pounding against my ribs. Being alone with him is exactly what I've been avoiding.
He turns, and the dim light catches the angles of his face. There's something pained in his expression that he quickly masks. "Are we going to keep pretending that kiss didn't happen?"
"I'm your employee," I say stiffly, though my traitorous mind replays the moment his lips met mine. The heat. A sensation of hunger. The way the world fell away until there was only Angelo and the feel of his hands on my skin.
"Consultant," he corrects, moving closer. "And I'm tired of this game. You avoid rooms when I enter. Making excuses to leave meetings early. Looking everywhere but at me."
"It was unprofessional. A mistake." The words feel hollow even as I say them.
"Bullshit." His voice is low, dangerous. "You want me to be the villain in this story, don't you? It's easier than admitting you feel something."
"What I feel doesn't matter." And it doesn't. It can't. Not when I'm here to destroy everything he's built.
"It matters to me." He's close now, too close.
I can smell his cologne, see the pulse jumping in his throat.
His eyes soften, and for a moment, I see the man who's been haunting my dreams. Not the distant figure he's become since our kiss, but the man who looked at me like I was the only woman in the world.
"Tell me there's nothing between us, and I'll never mention it again."
I should say it. Three or four words to put distance between us again. To protect my cover. To remember why I'm here.
But the lie sticks in my throat.
His hand comes up to trace my jawline. His fingers are warm, slightly calloused at the fingertips. I should pull away, but I don't.
Everything I've worked for depends on my focus…on remembering that he's Angelo Bellanti, the criminal, the financial mastermind who's laundered billions in blood money.
Not the man who helps children cut their pasta. Not the man whose touch makes me forget years of training in self-control.
Not the man I can't stop thinking about, no matter how hard I try.
"Say it," he demands, his thumb brushing my lower lip. "Say there's nothing between us, and I'll walk away. You'll never have to deal with this—with me—again. That door will be closed.”
“What I feel doesn't matter," I say, and the words taste like ash. "It can't matter."