Chapter 3
3
ARIA
“Fuck! Cazzo !”
Marco’s office door is ajar as I approach, but the harsh sound of his cursing makes me pause.
I’m wearing a sundress, holding a basket with homemade chicken pie, a jar of freshly squeezed fruit juice and some slices of toast. This morning, I thought it would be a good idea for us to have breakfast together. I packed up what I was served and brought it here.
I thought it would be a good opportunity for us to bond. But from Marco’s voice, I can tell that this was a mistake.
I glance at his secretary, who has also stopped, her fingers trembling slightly.
“I… don’t think it’s a good idea to go in anymore, Miss Aria,” she murmurs
I look at Marco’s office door, then back at her, and finally, at the basket in my hands. If I came here to bond with my brother, I shouldn’t be running away now.
I know he’s involved in a shady business he doesn’t want me to be involved in, but I’m not as fragile as everyone thinks. I’m not some ‘pretty ornament’ meant only to be displayed or used for information.
I manage to smile and take a deep breath. “I’m sure I can handle it.”
I walk closer to the door, realizing Marco isn’t talking to anyone. It’s just him speaking to himself. “Paolo,” he spits, “That bastard’s asking for a war.”
I step inside quietly. The plush carpet muffles the sound of my heels so he doesn’t hear me approach.
Marco is behind his desk, pacing like a caged animal. His dark suit jacket is draped over the chair, and the sleeves of his black shirt are rolled up to his elbows. His hands clench and unclench at his sides, his chest heaving with barely contained frustration.
Seeing him like this makes me want to turn around and leave. But I take a deep breath. If I want Marco's trust, I have to earn it.
“Marco,” I begin slowly, careful not to provoke him. “What happened?”
Marco whirls around. His dark hair flies, and his eyes narrow on me. He stares for a few seconds, his frown deepening.
“What’re you doing here?”
“I—uhm…” I place the basket down. “I thought we could have breakfast together.”
He scoffs as though this idea is laughable. I don’t let it bother me.
“But we can eat later,” I say, keeping my voice calm as I approach his desk. “What happened?”
“What happened?” he repeats bitterly. “Nicolas Paolo happened.”
The name makes my stomach tighten. The handsome devil.
I don’t know why handsome even crosses my mind, but it doesn’t matter. “What did he do?”
“He intercepted one of my shipments.” Marco snaps, dragging a hand through his hair. “Some… really important goods.”
I don’t need an explanation to know what ‘important goods’ mean—illegal things. Things he can’t report to the police.
I sink into one of the chairs opposite his desk, taking my time before asking, “Are you sure it was him?”
Marco glares at me like I’ve just insulted him, but he doesn’t lash out. That’s something, at least.
“I called him myself.” He leans forward, fists planted on the desk. “Do you know what that son of a bitch said?”
I nod, bracing myself.
“He laughed,” Marco’s voice is cold, gritting through his teeth. “Laughed and said, ‘ That’s what you get for being on my bad side.’ He slams a fist down on the desk, making me jump. “He didn’t even deny it. He did this just for the fun of it. All my men are dead, and that bastard thought it was funny.”
I blink, trying to process what he just said. “What?”
Marco looks at me, his expression shifting. He hadn’t meant to say it, and he confirms it by muttering, “Nothing.”
“Do you know why he would do that? I mean, stop your shipment from coming?” I ask, trying to make sense of it.
Marco straightens, his teeth gritting. “Because that’s who he is, Aria. He is a cruel, arrogant bastard who thinks he can take whatever he wants. And because he hates me. Maybe he got pissed off at the party on Saturday? Who knows?”
I think about the party, and a shiver runs down my spine. Maybe if I’d known what Nicolas was capable of, I wouldn’t have pushed him. I feel guilty, like somehow I’m responsible for this.
“Fuck,” Marco curses again, his voice raw.
The anger I’d tried to placate earlier is rising again, but beneath it, there’s something else—fear. It’s not just in his voice; I can see it in his eyes.
Marco and I may have lost touch for a few years, but I grew up with him. I know his tells. The way he scratches the side of his thumb when he’s afraid or nervous. It’s something he’s doing right now.
Marco might not admit it, but Nicolas has the upper hand—and he knows it. My mind drifts back to the party, to the way Nicolas spoke to me on the balcony. There was a coldness in his voice when I mentioned falsity. And then it hits me.
He knew.
He knew exactly who I was. That’s why he was so cruel. He didn’t see me as a person—just a Rossi.
The realization stings, and my fists clench involuntarily.
“Marco?” I say softly, despite the tension building in my chest. “He’s not going to stop?”
Marco’s lips curl into a bitter smile. “Not unless I stop him first.”
My mind flashes to the face of the handsome man from Saturday—Nicolas Paolo. A cruel man with a strong vendetta against my brother and me.
My hatred for him hardens, and my chest rises and falls with anger. Whatever Marco feels for him, I’m beginning to feel it too.
As Marco stares at the papers scattered across his desk, an idea sparks in my mind.
Though Marco doesn’t know it, I’ve been keeping myself informed about the legal side of the family business. It might come in handy now.
“What if you used the docks on the south side instead? For the next shipment,” I suggest, leaning forward. “The ones closer to the industrial district. The roads there are quieter, less traffic, a bit more open. If Nicolas is watching the main port, he won’t expect you to move operations somewhere smaller. Somewhere, he doesn’t think you’d risk.”
Marco’s head snaps up, his frown deepens, his brows knitting together. “What?”
I can tell he’s wondering how I know this, but I press on.
“I know the south side is risky, but that’s the point. He won’t see it coming. And you could use smaller, independent trucks instead of your usual ones. It’s less obvious, less predictable.”
For a moment, he’s silent. His face goes slightly pale, and he stares at me like I’ve just sprouted horns.
Then, out of nowhere, he laughs. It’s short and sharp, a bark of amusement tinged with disbelief.
“You shouldn’t concern your pretty head with business,” he says dismissively. That’s a man’s job-”
But then he stops. His expression shifts abruptly—shock, followed by contemplation. I can almost see the gears turning in his head.
“Wait-” Marco’s voice softens, thoughtful now. “You might be onto something,” he admits, leaning back in his chair, studying me. “Maybe you’re more than a pretty thing. You could have your uses.”
“Duh,” I reply lightly, forcing a grin.
His words sting, though. They cut more than mere sibling banter. Just a pretty thing.
I push the feeling aside, rising from my chair with a smile. Picking up the basket I brought, I place it on the table before him.
“I know we can’t have breakfast today, but will you promise to join me for one meal next week? Breakfast, lunch, or dinner—your choice?”
Marco doesn’t meet my eyes as he mutters, “I’ll try.”
I take that as a small victory and head for the door.
Just as I reach it, Marco’s voice halts me. “Nicolas Paolo doesn’t breathe without an ulterior motive. Stay away from him. He’s dangerous.”
I nod, but my thoughts are already spiraling elsewhere.
Dangerous doesn’t even begin to cover it.
* * *
Instead of returning to the big family home, I take a detour to my apartment—a small sanctuary I got for myself when I moved back. As soon as I step inside, I kick off my heels and collapse onto the couch, letting the faint hum of the city filter through the windows.
The brief sense of ease doesn’t last.
A flicker of movement catches my eye. Through the curtains, I notice a black van parked across the street. Two men sit inside, their faces obscured in shadow, but it’s clear—they’re watching my building.
My pulse quickens, and I grab my phone, dialing Marco.
“At what age do I get to outgrow the security detail?” I ask, trying to keep my voice light despite the tension in my chest.
“When you’re ninety,” Marco deadpans.
I roll my eyes. “Come on, but do they have to be so obvious? There’s a big black van parked right across my street?”
“Black van?” Marco’s tone shifts instantly, hardening. “That’s not my men.”
The blood drains from my face. “What?”
“Aria,” Marco says, his voice sharp and commanding. “I’ll call the men I have on you. Stay put.”
Nicolas.
The thought of him watching my home, thinking he can scare me, ignites anger that burns through the fear.
First, he plays me at the gala. Then, he sabotages my brother’s business. And now, he’s sending goons to spy on me? All because he couldn’t handle me talking back to him?
I refuse to let him intimidate me. Grabbing my coat, I storm out of the apartment and onto the street.
The cold night air bites my skin as I march toward the van. It doesn’t move. Good. Whoever’s inside is about to get an earful.
“Who sent you?” I yell when I’m a few feet away. “Is it Nicolas? Tell him I’m not afraid of him and don’t appreciate being followed!”
The moment I get close enough to see the silhouettes in the van, the tires screech, and the vehicle takes off, racing down the street. I stand there, stunned and furious.
As I turn back toward the building, my phone rings.
“Aria,” Marco’s voice is sharp, urgent. “My men aren’t responding. I need you to get out of there and come to the house. Now.”
My blood runs cold, but my legs move on their own. I bolt toward my car. Reaching it, I fumble with my keys, hands trembling.
“Aria? Are you listening to me?” Marco’s voice is tight in my ear.
As I press the button to unlock the car, the lights flash.
And then—BOOM.
A deafening crack splits the air. I’m flung backward, hitting the ground hard. Flames engulf my car, roaring into the night sky as smoke billows upward.
“No,” I whisper, my voice shaking. My heart sinks, a heavy, aching weight in my chest. My car. My baby. Gone.
Carefully, I push myself up, testing my limbs. Nothing seems broken, but my body feels like it’s vibrating with shock. My chest tightens as fear claws its way to the surface.
My car just exploded.
As the fire roars on and the wail of approaching sirens grows louder, one question blazes through my mind:
Did Nicolas Paolo just try to kill me?