Chapter 3
CHANTEL
Blinking through the fog, my eyes dart around the unfamiliar surroundings. The first things I notice are chrome, glass, and soft strips of blue light.
A low, steady hum fills my ears as a warm, masculine scent surrounds me. It’s familiar, in a distant way, but the details are just outside the reach of my memory.
At first, it calms me, until I actually register the position of my body, and the uncertainty of how I got here.
I’m sprawled across a lounge, covered with a blanket I don’t recognize. And when my eyes drift further, they settle on the silhouette of a man sitting across from me in the darkness.
My breath stalls as a singular thought loops through my brain.
He found me.
A tremor moves through me as I abandon all reason and scramble forward, searching for an exit. But before I can even force myself upright, the lights come on, and my fear turns to mortification when my gaze collides with Cristian’s.
“You’re on the boat,” he informs me, his voice uncharacteristically soft. “We’re heading to the island.”
A ragged breath spills out of me as heat crawls down my neck. Of course I’m on the boat. But naturally, my mind had to go to the worst-case scenario while Cristian’s here to witness it.
My humiliation has come full circle tonight.
After taking a minute to collect myself, I scoot back and curl my knees into my chest.
“How did I get here?”
His gaze dips to the pulse in my neck. “I carried you.”
A fresh sense of alarm unravels inside me as I consider that. “I didn’t wake up?”
“No,” he says quietly. “You didn’t.”
We share an uncomfortably long moment of eye contact, and I can only imagine what he’s thinking. If he suspected I was hiding something before, I’ve all but confirmed it now. The last thing I need is a man as astute as Cristian curious about my past.
In moments like these, the weight of what I’ve been carrying feels like a never-ending burden. It only serves as a reminder that there is no version of this life where I won’t fear being discovered. And I’m just so…tired.
Thankfully, Cristian doesn’t push for answers. Instead, he taps out a text on his phone, and a few minutes later, the stewardess appears with a tray.
“Good evening, Miss St. James.” Veronica offers me a warm smile. “Would you like to eat here or at the bar?”
“She’ll eat there,” Cristian answers without looking up from his phone.
Veronica follows his directive and sets the tray over my lap. I’m still trying to figure out why I’m being served a meal at all when she removes the warming dome, revealing a hot plate of Cacio e pepe.
I swallow the weird feeling in my throat as Veronica points out the rest—a burrata appetizer with olive oil and heirloom tomatoes, and a side of fresh bread. I’m not Italian, but if I had to assemble a perfect meal from all the delicious food I’ve eaten with the Vitale family, this would be it.
“Would you care for any drinks or dessert?” Veronica asks. “Perhaps an espresso martini or an affogato?”
“I’m fine with water, but thank you.”
She nods, and I sneak a glance at Cristian as she leaves, but his attention remains on his phone.
It seems impossible that Veronica just happened to serve my favorite dishes.
But I guess it really shouldn’t come as a surprise that Cristian knows these things.
He could probably list at least twenty obscure facts about every person he’s come into contact with.
Men in his position need to be observant.
Information, no matter how small, can be an asset or a weapon.
The problem is, I never intended for anyone to know too much about me.
After several minutes go by, I realize Veronica isn’t coming back.
“Aren’t you going to eat?” I ask Cristian.
“I already had dinner.” He continues typing on his phone.
“Oh.”
I’m hungry, so I eat, but it doesn’t lessen the discomfort I feel.
Accepting gestures of any kind is difficult for me, because I’ve spent most of my life making sure I never need anything from anyone.
When someone offers something that isn’t an even exchange, I feel like I owe them.
But in this case, I can’t imagine anything Cristian Vitale could want or need from me. The man has everything.
Silence hangs heavy in the air, but I suppress the urge to fill it and focus on my food. After a while, Cristian rises from his seat and takes a call as he faces the window.
He speaks quietly with whoever’s on the other line, the deep cadence of his voice lulling me into a false sense of calm. That’s the thing about Cristian. For someone like me, his quiet nature and measured words feel safe to my nervous system, though I know he’s the farthest thing from it.
He doesn’t have to raise his voice to be dangerous. For all I know, he could be issuing hits right now. Though, realistically, it sounds like he’s discussing the legal side of his business. Something to do with investments and acquisitions, whatever that entails.
In his world, I suspect that means he has the power to crush companies, disappear board members, and use his connections to have assets frozen.
The Vitales have amassed a vast empire over generations, and by all outward appearances, their businesses are legitimate. But the Mafia plays by different rules, and I know from experience there are always gray areas.
Cristian keeps an office downtown, and he also oversees the management of a Vitale-owned nightclub. From what I can gather, something big is taking place there this weekend.
I’ve only been to Eden After Dark once with Mariella for a quick drink, but it caters more toward invite-only clientele.
Deciding it’s best that I don’t know what’s going on, I tune out the rest of the conversation.
Veronica returns to take my tray once I’m finished, announcing our imminent arrival to Black Stag Island. I’m surprised the forty-five-minute trip went so quickly, but I don’t know how long I was asleep before it started either.
When the boat docks, I realize I don’t have my shoes. As I’m about to get up and search for them, Cristian ends his call and turns to face me.
“You’re not walking on that.” He nods at my ankle.
“It’s fine,” I protest, sliding toward the edge of the lounge.
He takes a step closer, towering over me with that quiet dominance that makes my stomach somersault. Then, before I can launch another argument, he bends down and braces one arm behind my back and the other beneath my knees.
I let out an awkward yelp as he lifts me into his arms. The minimum amount of effort it took for him to do that is equally annoying and impressive.
I can’t imagine Marco ever even trying. The last time I hurt my ankle, he told me to walk it off, and when that didn’t work, he asked if he should get one of his staff to help me.
I guess Cristian is more of a hands-on problem solver. That thought spirals into how he handles other hands-on activities, and I shut it down quickly.
The last thing I need to be thinking about is Cristian’s virility as he carts me around like a caveman.
His palm feels like a brand on my bare leg as it is, and neither of us can seem to look at each other.
Our close proximity has reignited the same tension I felt as I clung to his body after my near fall, and I can only imagine he’d rather be doing anything else right now.
I’m grateful for the short distance to the SUV, because it means I won’t die holding my breath.
When he sets me onto the backseat and buckles me in, I sigh as if this is also the most torturous thing I’ve ever been through. Although, I suppose in some ways it is because I have no idea what to do with Cristian when he’s not tormenting me.
The stubborn part of me hopes he’ll send me off on my own and leave me to fend for myself, but he doesn’t. He takes the front passenger seat while one of the guards drives us to the Vitale estate.
Black Stag Island is one of those magical places that almost doesn’t feel real. When I first moved to the Pacific Northwest, I wasn’t sure I’d like it. But as it turns out, all those historical romances were right about the salt air. It is healing.
Over time, I grew to love the duality of the vibrant evergreens and the moody fog and rain. The island is a perfect encapsulation of that wild, mystical beauty. The landscape is raw and jagged in some places, and a lush, sun-drenched paradise in others.
That contrast doesn’t only lend itself to the terrain, but to the island itself. With one half being owned by the Vitales and the other by the Greeks, there’s a certain irony to the phrase “keep your enemies close.” In this case, they’re literal neighbors.
The Stavroses and the Vitales have a long history of bloodshed and a rivalry that seems to be inherited from birth. While the war between them is currently under a ceasefire, I suspect it’s far from over.
Both estates are beautiful in their own right, but as we pass through the porte-cochère, it’s Tenuta del Cervo Nero that has my heart. I don’t know if it’s because I’ve spent so much time here, but it almost feels like a second home. Or in my case, the family I always wanted.
The Mediterranean-style villa sits at the end of a long driveway dotted with Cyprus trees.
It’s impossible not to appreciate its beauty every time it comes into view.
The Italian-imported stone makes it look like a palace, carved through with Roman arches, marble balustrades, and columns wrapped in ivy.
It was built with the intention of being a multi-generational home for the Vitale descendants, with six wings connected by a central gathering space.
At the end of the circular drive, a polished limestone staircase leads to the open-air courtyard. Beyond that is the main entry to the property, which is the only one I’ve ever used. But tonight, Cristian’s guard drives into the tunnel that takes us down to the subterranean garage.