Chapter 21 #2
"Speaking of business," Riccardo interjects, clearly sensing the conversation veering toward sensitive territory, "have you tried the new trattoria on Columbus? Their chef trained in Naples—makes a carbonara that would make your grandmother weep."
"High praise," I say, grateful for the redirect. "We'll have to visit before heading back to New York."
The conversation shifts to Italian cuisine, with Ava and Riccardo debating the merits of northern versus southern cooking traditions. I notice Zoe relaxing beside me, her shoulders losing their tension as she takes a bite of the risotto.
"This is incredible," she says to Ava. "Would you mind sharing the recipe?"
"Family secret," Ava winks. "But perhaps I could be persuaded to email it to you."
I drain the last of my wine, setting the crystal glass on the table as Riccardo catches my eye with a meaningful glance.
"Damiano," he says, his voice shifting from casual to business in an instant, "why don't we discuss our venture in my office while the ladies enjoy their dessert?"
I nod, squeezing Zoe's hand under the table before rising. "Of course."
Zoe's eyes meet mine, a question in their green depths. I give her a subtle nod—she'll be fine with Ava and Vittoria. She's proven she can handle herself.
"Don't worry," Vittoria says to Zoe with a mischievous smile, "we'll keep you entertained."
I follow Riccardo down a long hallway lined with family photographs and Italian landscapes.
"You've chosen well," he says over his shoulder. "She has fire."
I don't reply immediately, considering his assessment of Zoe. "She's... unexpected."
Riccardo's office is exactly what I'd expect—dark wood paneling, leather-bound books lining built-in shelves, a massive desk positioned to face the door. Two leather wingback chairs sit across from it, and a decanter of amber liquid waits on a silver tray.
He closes the door behind us with a soft click. The room smells of leather, whiskey, and subtle cigar smoke—the scent of power and tradition.
"Scotch?" he offers, already reaching for the decanter.
"Please."
He pours two glasses and hands one to me before settling into his chair. I take the seat across from him, feeling the weight of generations of similar conversations between our families.
"So," he begins, swirling the liquid in his glass, "this casino venture. The numbers look promising."
I nod, taking a sip of the scotch—smoky with a hint of caramel. "A legitimate front with significant profit potential."
"Equal investment, equal return," Riccardo says thoughtfully. "But what about management?"
"We each appoint a representative," I reply. "Joint decisions, mutual oversight."
Riccardo leans back, studying me over the rim of his glass. "And security?"
"Split responsibility."
A smile tugs at his lips. "Your father would be proud of how you handle business, Damiano. Direct, fair, but always with an eye to your family's advantage."
I incline my head slightly, accepting the compliment. "As would Santo be of you."
Riccardo contemplates his scotch, the amber liquid catching the warm light from his desk lamp. "I'll need some time to think on this proposal," he says finally. "To discuss with my brothers and make sure we're all aligned."
I nod, unsurprised. Riccardo never makes snap decisions—one of the traits that's kept the Sartori family thriving for generations. "Of course."
"I'll review the numbers again with my team. Run through the projections once more." His finger traces the edge of his glass. "You'll have my answer soon—within the week."
"That's all I ask," I reply.
He stands, signaling our business discussion has concluded. "In the meantime, enjoy Chicago."
I follow Ava and Vittoria through the French doors leading out from the dining room, grateful for the cool evening air that washes over my heated skin. The garden sprawls before us, illuminated by strings of fairy lights woven through trellises and small solar lamps marking the stone pathways.
"Finally," Vittoria breathes, kicking off her heels and leaving them by the door. "Those shoes were killing me."
Ava laughs, her voice melodic in the quiet night. "You could just wear flats like I suggested."
"And look like a child next to you two glamazons? I think not." Vittoria turns to me with a conspiratorial smile. "I'm already the baby of the family. I refuse to look the part."
There's something refreshing about Vittoria's candor. Unlike the carefully measured words at dinner, out here in the garden, away from the men's watchful eyes, a different atmosphere settles between us.
Ava leads us down a winding path. "Riccardo always gives the same tour—office, wine cellar, humidor—but this," she gestures broadly to the garden around us, "this is the heart of our home."
Roses, hydrangeas, and other flowers I can't name perfume the air. The garden is designed in a style that reminds me of Italian villas I visited during my time in Florence—structured but with a deliberate wildness that feels more authentic than the manicured precision of Byron's gardens.
"I designed it myself," Ava says, pride evident in her voice. "Riccardo wanted to hire a professional, but I insisted."
"It's beautiful," I say, meaning it. "There's something so... alive about it."
"Unlike sterile business dealings?" Vittoria suggests with a smirk.
I can't help but laugh. "I wouldn't know. I'm not exactly invited to those conversations."
"None of us are," Ava says, guiding us toward a small seating area surrounded by lavender. "Not officially, anyway."
Vittoria flops onto one of the cushioned benches. "Ava knows everything that happens in Chicago, though. Don't let her modest act fool you."
I look at Ava with new interest as we sit. She smiles, neither confirming nor denying her sister-in-law's claim.
The three of us settle into easy conversation, with Vittoria sharing stories about her latest tech investments and Ava discussing her charity work. There's an openness between them I rarely experience—certainly never felt with Byron's associates.
"So, Zoe," Vittoria leans forward, "how are you really adjusting to life with the Ferettis? And don't give us the dinner table version."
I hesitate, unsure how much to reveal. "It's... different than what I expected."
"I bet," Ava says with a knowing smile. "Those men are intense. The first time I met Riccardo, I thought he was the most arrogant man I'd ever encountered."
"And now?" I ask.
"Now I know he is," she laughs, "but there's so much more beneath that."
Before I can respond, the French doors open. Damiano and Riccardo step into the garden, their silhouettes backlit by the warm light from inside.
"Ladies," Riccardo calls out. "I hope my wife and sister have been entertaining you properly, Zoe."
"Absolutely," I reply, rising from my seat.
Damiano approaches finding my hand. "We should head out, lupacchiotta."
The possessive gesture and endearment are for show, but my body still responds to his touch with a rush of warmth.
"It was lovely meeting you all," I say sincerely. "Thank you for your hospitality."
Ava embraces me. "We'll do lunch next time you're in Chicago. There's a wonderful little place in the Gold Coast I think you'd enjoy."
Vittoria gives me a quick hug. "Don't be a stranger. The testosterone gets overwhelming without female allies."
We follow Riccardo and Ava back through the house to the front entrance. After final handshakes and kisses on cheeks, Damiano guides me toward our waiting car.
"Goodnight," I call over my shoulder as we step into the cool night air.
The car door closes behind us with a solid thunk, and just like that, we're sealed away from the Sartori world and back into our own complicated reality.
I sink back against the plush leather seats of the car as we pull away from the Sartori mansion, the lights of the property fading behind us.
"They seem nice," I say, breaking the silence between us. "Ava and Vittoria, I mean."
Damiano turns to look at me, his expression softening slightly in the dim light of the car. "They are. Riccardo is lucky to have them both."
I fiddle with the clasp of my purse, trying to sound casual. "Did your business with Riccardo go well?"
His eyes linger on my face for a moment before returning to the road. "Well enough. He's interested in the casino venture, but needs time to review the details with his brothers."
I nod, filing away this information. Byron will want to know about this casino deal—another piece in the puzzle of Damiano's empire that we're planning to dismantle. I should tell him during our next conversation.
My stomach tightens at the thought. This past week with Damiano have complicated everything. The way he looked at me tonight, possessive yet proud, introducing me to his allies... it felt almost real.
But it's not real, I remind myself. None of this is. I'm here for one reason: revenge for my father.
"We're not going back to the hotel," Damiano says suddenly, his voice cutting through my thoughts.
I sit up straighter, heart quickening. "What? Where are we going?"
His profile is sharp against the glow of passing streetlights, jaw tense as he maneuvers through Chicago's nighttime traffic. He doesn't immediately answer, which only heightens my unease.
"Damiano?" I prompt, unable to keep the edge from my voice.
His fingers tap against the steering wheel once, twice. "There's something I want to show you."
"Something you want to show me," I repeat flatly. "At midnight? In Chicago?"
A smile plays at the corner of his mouth, but his eyes remain unreadable. "You don't trust me, lupacchiotta?"
"Should I?"
"No," he says simply. "But you will anyway."
I cross my arms, battling the warring emotions inside me—curiosity and caution, attraction and anger. "Can I at least get a hint?"
He glances my way. "No."
Heat flushes through me—not entirely from frustration. Something about his secretive manner, the quiet confidence in his voice, has my pulse racing. I hate that he affects me this way, that I can't maintain the cold detachment I need for my mission.
I stare out the window, watching unfamiliar streets pass by. I should be more worried than I am. This man killed my father. Yet here I sit, following him into the unknown without real protest.
I glance over the mirror. "Where are Alessio and Noah? Shouldn't they be with us?"
Damiano keeps his eyes on the road, the passing streetlights casting shadows across his face. "I informed them of my plans. They've gone back to the hotel."
"Your plans?" I raise an eyebrow.
A hint of a smile plays at his lips. "Patience, lupacchiotta."
We drive for another fifteen minutes, leaving behind the main thoroughfares for quieter residential streets. The neighborhoods get progressively nicer. Finally, Damiano turns down a tree-lined drive and stops before a modest brick house with a wide front porch.
This isn't what I expected at all. It's nothing like the ostentatious Feretti mansion or even the Sartori estate we just left. It looks... normal. Homey, even.
"Where are we?" I ask, peering through the windshield at the darkened windows. The house appears empty, but well-maintained. "Whose place is this?"
Instead of answering, Damiano turns off the engine and gets out. I wait, expecting him to come around and open my door—his usual controlling ritual—but he simply stands there, watching me expectantly.
With a sigh, I exit the car myself, the cool night air raising goosebumps on my bare arms.
"Damiano, seriously, what—"
He reaches for my hand, his fingers warm against mine. The gesture is oddly gentle, lacking the possessive grip I've grown accustomed to. Something about his demeanor has changed since we left the Sartoris—there's a tension in his shoulders, a hesitancy I've never seen before.
"Come," he says, leading me up the walkway toward the front door.