Chapter 4
“I’m sorry, I don’t know anyone by that name.”
The lie rolls off my tongue even as my pulse races. He doesn't move, doesn't even blink—just stands there like he has all the time in the world to wait for me to stop pretending.
"Is that so?" His voice is low, controlled, with an edge that makes my skin prickle.
Those gray eyes bore into mine with uncomfortable intensity, and I realize with a sinking feeling that he's not buying my act for even a second. This man—this dangerous stranger who walked into my gallery asking for Carmela Rosetti—sees right through me like I'm made of glass.
He's older—maybe mid-thirties—with hair kept short in a style that screams former military.
Broad shoulders fill out his worn leather jacket, and his hands look like they could break bones or save lives with equal skill.
There's something about the way he holds himself, all contained violence and rigid control, that makes my body respond in ways I don't quite understand.
My pulse quickens—from alarm, obviously. It has nothing to do with the way he commands the space around him without even trying.
"Just looking," he says finally, turning away to examine the paintings like we're really going to pretend this is about art. He studies each piece like he's cataloging escape routes instead of appreciating brushwork.
I should walk away. Should let Emma handle this clearly uninterested customer. Instead, I find myself fascinated by the contradiction he presents—controlled violence wrapped in a leather jacket, studying art like it might attack him.
"Are you interested in contemporary pieces, or do you prefer something more traditional?" I gesture toward the featured collection, noting how his gaze tracks my movement with an awareness that makes me think of the predator documentaries I used to watch.
"Depends what's on display." His focus shifts to me with uncomfortable intensity. "You seem familiar. Have we met?"
My voice stays bright and cheerful—my default setting, my armor. "I don't think so. I'm Lara. Lara Montague. But I'd be happy to help you find whatever you're looking for."
His lips curve in what might be amusement, and the expression transforms his harsh features into something unexpectedly beautiful. Like a Caravaggio painting—all dark shadows and dangerous light.
God, what is wrong with me that I'm thinking about Renaissance art while being interrogated?
"Lara Montague. And what does Lara Montague think about this piece?" He nods toward an abstract painting—all sharp angles and bleeding colors.
"I think it represents someone trying to escape something they can never really leave behind," I say honestly, then immediately regret the revelation.
"Interesting interpretation." He steps closer, and I catch his scent—clean soap and something medicinal. Hospital smell. "What makes you think they're running?"
"The way the colors bleed at the edges. Like they're trying to break free from the frame but can't quite manage it." I study the painting instead of looking at him, afraid of what I might see in those knowing eyes.
"Maybe they're not running," he says quietly, voice dropping to something almost intimate. "Maybe they just haven't figured out that some cages exist for a reason."
The words cut too close to home, and I force my brightest smile. "That's certainly one way to look at it. Art's subjective, isn't it?"
"I'm sure it is… Carmela."
My blood turns to ice, the cheerful mask slipping for just a second before I snap it back in place. "I'm sorry?"
"Drop the act. You might have fooled yourself into thinking you can play normal, but some of us know exactly who you are."
I lift my chin, clinging to the pretense. "I think you have me confused with someone else. But like I said, I'd be happy to help—"
His laugh is rough, unforgiving. "Carmela Rosetti, youngest daughter of Antonio Rosetti. Twenty-three years old, graduated from Northwestern with an art history degree. Should I continue?"
My carefully built world cracks, but I'm still smiling because that's what I do—I smile when things fall apart. It's wildly inappropriate and probably concerning, but there it is.
"I don't know what you're talking about," I whisper, but my voice shakes and we both know I've already lost.
He smiles then, slow and knowing. "Sure you don't, sweetheart. Sure you don't."
After he leaves—without buying anything, naturally—I throw myself into work with desperate enthusiasm.
If I stay busy enough, maybe I can forget those eyes and the way they stripped away every carefully constructed lie.
Maybe I can forget how my pulse raced, which I'm attributing entirely to fear and not at all to the way his voice made my stomach flutter.
"You're humming," Emma observes, looking up from inventory sheets. "Must have been some customer."
I am humming. Some cheerful tune that bubbles up despite the anxiety churning in my stomach. "Just happy to be here," I say, arranging a display with renewed focus.
This is my life. This ordinary, wonderful life where I'm Lara the gallery assistant. Not Carmela Rosetti with all that comes with that name.
The afternoon passes in a blur of actual customers—a couple arguing over a sculpture, a young woman crying over a painting of dancers, an older man asking intelligent questions about brushwork. Normal people doing normal things.
This is what I chose. This is what freedom looks like.
The parking garage echoes with my heels on concrete, each step bouncing off oil-stained walls. I'm mentally cataloging the day's sales, humming that same cheerful tune, when shadows separate from behind the pillars.
Four men, moving in coordination that makes my blood freeze. At their center stands a younger man with dark hair and cruel eyes.
"Carmela Rosetti," he says, and my name in his mouth sounds like a threat. "I'm Vinny Torrino. We need to talk."
Torrino. I've heard that name whispered in my father's study. Ancient enemies. Blood feuds.
The soldiers spread out, cutting off exits with practiced efficiency. Professional. Methodical.
My escape, my freedom, my new life—gone in an instant. Was it always an illusion?
"I think you have me confused with someone else," I try, keeping my voice bright even as my heart hammers.
"Cut the shit. You think daddy's little girl can just disappear into Chicago without consequences?" Vinny's smile is all teeth. "The Torrino family has plans for you."
Terror rises, but something else rises with it—a core of steel I didn't know existed. "My family will—"
"They have no idea where you really are, do they? Poor little Carmela, all alone."
The concrete walls feel like they're closing in. Every shadow could hide another threat. This is what the real world looks like—not gallery openings but concrete and fear and men who see me as leverage.
The first soldier drops without a sound, crumpling like his strings were cut. Before I can process what happened, a shadow moves and the second man follows.
The man from the gallery emerges from behind a pillar, and my body's response is immediate and confusing. This isn't the careful observer from earlier—this is something else entirely. He moves like the Bernini sculptures I studied, all controlled power and terrible beauty.
My pulse races—from fear, obviously. It has nothing to do with the absolute authority in his movements.
"Get behind the car," he orders, not even looking at me. "Keep your head down. This is going to get messy."
I scramble toward the nearest vehicle, my heels slipping as chaos erupts. He doesn't fight like in movies—no wasted motion, no dramatic poses. Just brutal efficiency that reminds me of a dance, if dances involved breaking bones.
This is absolutely not the time to notice how his jacket stretches across his shoulders when he moves like that. Hi, yes, I'm being kidnapped and I'm critiquing outfit choices. Very normal. Very stable.
A strike to the throat cuts off a scream. A blow to the temple sends a man into concrete. Movements too quick to follow, like watching a master artist work—every gesture purposeful, nothing wasted.
I press against the car, hands shaking as I watch. This is what real power looks like—not wealth or influence, but devastating competence. The way he flows through violence awakens something unexpected in me. Something that feels suspiciously like the Rosetti blood I've been running from.
I should be horrified. The Carmela who got excited about marshmallow cereal should be screaming. Instead, I'm mesmerized, and that realization is almost as frightening as the violence itself.
Vinny tries to circle around, pulling a gun, but Van moves like he anticipated it. Disarm, strike, and Vinny's on his knees gasping while Van calmly checks him for weapons.
"Tell your father," Van says conversationally, pressing the gun against Vinny's temple, "that Carmela Rosetti is under protection. Try this again, and I'll send him pieces of you in a gift box."
That should repel me. Instead, something dark and unfamiliar stirs in my chest. Maybe this is what I've been running from—not just my family's violence, but my own response to it. The part of me that finds beauty in dangerous things.
"Carmela, now." He's beside me suddenly, hand on my elbow, guiding me toward the exit with military precision. "We need to move."
Only now do I realize what just happened. He knew to find me here. Knew my real name. Knew exactly how to handle armed men.
"You're Van Reyes," I say stupidly. "You signed up to be my bodyguard."
He grunts and motions to his sedan.
"That was incredibly fucking stupid," Van says once we're in his car, his voice deadly calm. "Playing normal while Torrinos tracked your every move. Dom should have locked you in a tower."
His controlled fury fills the confined space, and my inappropriate brain notes that anger makes his jaw do interesting things. Focus, Carmela. Men tried to kidnap you. This is not the time to notice jaw structure.
"I didn't know—"
"You didn't know because you didn't want to know.
" His hands grip the steering wheel with white-knuckled force—surgeon's hands that just broke bones with the same precision they probably use to save lives.
"Walking around Chicago like you're just another college graduate when you have a target on your back. "
"I just wanted to be free," I admit.
"Playing normal, convincing yourself you could walk away from who you are. How'd that work out?"
The question stings because we both know the answer. My independence lasted exactly as long as it took real predators to find me.
"I wanted to find out who I could be," I say quietly. "Without the name, without the protection, without everyone treating me like I might break."
"And instead you nearly got yourself killed by men who would have used you to hurt people you love." His voice hardens. "That's not independence, Carmela. That's selfish stupidity."
The words hurt, but something about his anger feels protective rather than cruel. Like he's furious because I could have been hurt, not because I inconvenienced him.
"I'm not a child," I say finally, hating how young I sound.
Van pulls over into an empty lot with barely controlled precision. The engine ticks in sudden silence, and when he turns to look at me, his eyes burn with something that makes my breath catch.
"No," he says, voice rough. "You're not a child. You're a twenty-three-year-old woman who makes me want to do things that have nothing to do with keeping you safe." His jaw clenches, fighting for control.
The confession hangs between us, and suddenly I understand that racing pulse, that strange heat, that inappropriate fascination with his violence. It's not just adrenaline. It's not just fear.
It's attraction to something dark and dangerous that mirrors something inside me I'm just beginning to recognize.
"You're Carmela fucking Rosetti," he says finally, like that explains everything.
Maybe it does.