Chapter 17
17
ARIA
After spending too much time lost in memories, questioning how to survive my present, I finally realized the answer was simple.
The first thing I need to do is free myself from this marriage.
Fine—I’ll admit it hasn’t been the nightmare I expected. But it still comes with too much uncertainty. And if there’s one thing I’ve never liked, it’s uncertainty.
Right now, the only solid ground I have is with the man I share blood with.
Marco may not love me the way I once loved him, but I am his sister whether he likes it or not. A Rossi . And to some extent, that still means something to him.
For now, he’s my best option.
I glance at the driver, noticing how his eyes flick at me a little too often in the rearview mirror. I’m still not sure if he was hired by Marco or Nicolas .
“Drop me off at Rossi’s Enterprises,” I say, keeping my voice even. “Come back in an hour to pick me up.”
The driver nods without a word and makes a sharp U-turn, merging onto the highway. Within minutes, we pull up in front of Marco’s office building—a sleek glass tower reflecting the night sky, as cold and imposing as ever.
I step out, adjusting my coat as I watch the car speed off. The air is thick with the scent of impending rain. I glance up at the heavy clouds, remembering how I used to love dancing in the rain with my father. He’d scoop me up effortlessly, spinning me around while the bodyguards hovered nearby under their umbrellas, scowling as we drenched them.
Then I grew up. I decided I was too old to dance in the rain with my dad. I was tired of the lies, the secret meetings, and the illusion of control. I wanted to take charge of my life.
I scoff at the irony. So much for that.
A dull ache pulses in my chest, but I push it down. This isn’t the time for grief. I have more pressing matters to deal with.
Inside, the lobby is so quiet that the faint tap of my heels echoes against the marble floor. The secretary’s desk is just ahead, a neatly arranged space cluttered with stacks of papers and an untouched cup of coffee.
She looks up as I approach, her face lighting up. “Aria! It’s good to see you.”
I lean against the desk, offering a small smile. “Hey, Clara.”
Her smile softens. “Mr. Marco said he was expecting you today.”
I frown slightly. Marco had asked to see me after the meeting, but Nicolas told him I’d reach out when I decided it was convenient. Did he just assume I’d come anyway? Am I that predictable?
Clara, oblivious to my discomfort, smiles warmly. She leans in slightly, lowering her voice as she glances toward Marco’s office door.
“That pie you brought that other day? A-maaaazing.”
I blink, tilting my head. “The one in the breakfast basket? Marco shared that with you?”
She waves a dismissive hand though her cheeks flush. “ Sharing is a strong word. There were some leftovers, and he said I could have them.”
I try to smile, but it feels forced, tight. I’m not sure what to make of this.
“It was the best pie I’ve ever had,” she continues. Did you buy it somewhere?”
I take a slow breath, pushing away the unease. Who Marco chooses to share his breakfast with isn’t my concern . Instead, I focus on the compliment,
“Nope,” I say, finally managing a real smile. “Made it myself.”
Her eyes widen. “ You baked that?”
I shrug. “Yeah. I like to play around in the kitchen sometimes. Nothing serious.”
“Well, it was incredible ,” Clara gushes. “After work that day, I even went to a bakery to get pie, but it wasn’t the same.” She grins, tucking a strand of dark hair behind her ear.
Before I can fully absorb the compliment, my eyes catch on something—a faint mark on her neck.
I stare for half a second before it clicks.
Not a full hickey yet. Just the early sign of one—a mark that shows her skin was recently sucked on. In a few hours, it’ll darken.
My brain does the math.
Sharing a breakfast basket. A hickey . And now she’s suddenly calling him ‘Marco’ instead of ‘Mr. Rossi’.
Marco and Clara?
I quickly tear my gaze away before she catches me staring and clear my throat. “I’ll go in now.”
She nods, still shuffling through her papers. “Good luck.”
As I step into Marco’s office, he looks up from his phone. His expression is unreadable at first, then it slowly hardens into a scowl.
With a sharp exhale, he drops his phone onto the desk and leans back in his chair, fingers tapping against the armrest.
“If you’re here to embarrass me like your husband did, don’t bother.”
His words hang heavy in the air. I stare at him for a beat, irritation simmering beneath my skin. He’s pouting. Over what? That Nicolas let me speak at the meeting?
I inhale slowly, pushing past the annoyance, and drop into the chair across from him. “I’m actually here to give you something.”
Reach into my coat, I pull out my phone and swipe to the pictures I took from Nicolas’s office. Without a word, I slide it across the desk.
Marco hesitates, flicking his gaze between me, and then looks at the phone before finally picking it up. His frown deepens as he scrolls.
“These are shipment records,” he mutters, sounding uninterested.
I nod. “Not just shipment records. Locations. Dates. Even some of the men overseeing the shipments.”
He swipes again—then suddenly jerks in his chair, zooming in on one of the notes. His eyes snap to mine, then back to the phone.
“These… these are real?”
I exhale. “Yes, Marco. They’re real.”
His eyes search mine, probably looking for any sign of deception, but I hold his gaze, steady and unflinching.
Slowly, he nods. He studies the pictures again, scrolling through them over and over. His frown fades, replaced by something I don’t see often—a small smile.
“You did good,” he says.
For once, it actually sounds genuine . Or at least, I think it does.
I sit back, watching as he transfers the pictures from my phone to his. The original files are still tucked inside my coat, but I see no need to give them to him. Thi s should be more than enough-
“I need more,” he says before I can even finish the thought.
“What?”
He gives me a blank, unreadable stare. “Find out more, Aria. I need to know everything —not just his shipments. If possible, I want details on his exact operations. Where he grows his weed, what substances he uses in the final product, his distribution network, his marketing strategy. Every. Fucking . Thing.”
“There’s no way I can-”
“It’s called a master plan , you blockhead,” Marco scoffs, rolling his eyes. “Every mafia has one. Even me .” He lets out a dry laugh, shaking his head. “And here I thought you knew everything about this world after that little speech you gave at the meeting.”
My fingers into fists, nails biting into my palms. I press my tongue against the inside of my cheek so hard I almost draw blood.
He’s your brother, Aria.
I open my mouth to refuse, to tell him this is impossible. Then he says it.
“If you find his master plan and bring it to me, the marriage is done.”
A sharp breath leaves me.
Marco barely spares me a glance, still focused on the pictures, his lips curving into a small, excited smile. “Not only will I annul your marriage, but I won’t use you as a pawn ever again. You’ll be free . Do whatever you want. Go back to your life, stay here—whatever makes you happy.”
I stare at him, my heart pounding.
Freedom.
It sounds like a dream.
And as I watch the anticipation flicker in his eyes, I choose to believe him. I even let myself imagine a different life.
A life where I wake up to the scent of fresh bread baking in the oven. Where my hands are dusted with flour, kneading dough on a cool marble countertop. A small bakery—warm and inviting—filled with golden pastries and delicate cakes arranged in perfect rows. My name written in looping letters above the door.
Or maybe something else.
Charity work. Real charity work. Not just signing checks like Marco used to do whenever he wanted good press. I picture organizing food drives, visiting shelters, and standing beside people who actually need something—not power, not control, just simple human kindness.
For the first time since this nightmare began, hope flickers in my chest.
I can have this. I just need to be smart. I need to play the game, get what I came for, and win .
“I’ll get you the plan,” I say.
Marco smiles. “I knew you would.”
When the driver picks me up, I give him my new destination: the boutique where I do my shopping.
I don’t linger. I walk straight to the lingerie section, my eyes scanning the displays until they land on something perfect .
A deep blue set.
The sheer fabric is soft beneath my fingers, light as air—practically useless as clothing. Delicate straps, lace so fine it’s almost nonexistent.
Exactly what I need.
I pay in cash and leave without a bag.
When I arrive at the house, Nicolas’ bodyguards are stationed outside. Which means he’s home.
I head straight to our bedroom. It’s empty.
I shower, taking my time, letting the warm water glide over my skin, washing away the tension in my body even as my mind sharpens with purpose.
When I slip into the lingerie, it feels like nothing . The deep blue stands out against my pale complexion, the sheer fabric revealing just enough. In the light, the outline of my body is unmistakable.
I check my reflection. Soft waves frame my face, my lips are full and glossy.
I look like a woman on a mission.
Because I am.
I slip a bathrobe over my body and step out of the room. A guard informs me that Nicolas is in his home office.
Perfect.
The door is open when I reach it. Nicolas sits behind his desk, sleeves rolled up, tie loose around his neck. He looks like he’s been working for hours. A glass of whiskey sits untouched beside him, papers scattered across the surface.
His pen stills the moment he sees me.
A sharp inhale. A flicker of something in his expression—then it’s gone.
I step inside slowly, my bare feet silent against the hardwood floor. Nicolas watches my every move, his gaze dark and unreadable.
I stop in front of him, placing my hands on his shoulders before lowering myself into his lap.
For a moment, he remains still.
Then his hands move, sliding over my waist, his fingers pressing into my skin. His grip is firm. Possessive .
I tilt my head, letting my lips graze his jaw. “Don’t you think you work too much?”
I pull back just enough to meet his eyes.
“I think you should take some time to-”
He grabs my hair and pulls me down into a kiss.
It’s deep. Hungry . Like he wants to devour me.
I let myself melt into it.
But something is off .
His other hand stays on my waist—still, unmoving. No bruising grip, no desperate pull. Just resting there while his lips consume mine with impossible fire, making me breathless.
He’s never hidden his attraction to me before. So why isn’t he doing more now?
Despite the thought, I don’t stop. I kiss him back, losing myself in how our tongues move together, messy and urgent.
Then, just as suddenly, he pulls away.
I blink, gasping for air.
His jaw is tight. His fingers flex against my waist—then, without a word, he lifts me—off his lap and sets me back on my feet.
“I have work to do,” he says.
I search his face, trying to understand. His eyes are dark and unreadable. His hands still burn where they touched me.
For a moment, I consider pushing—saying something, doing something to make him lose control completely.
But I don’t.
I turn and walk out, leaving him to his papers.
Back in the bedroom, I let the bathrobe slip from my shoulders and curl under the sheets. There’s a lump in my throat, and an ache in my chest I don’t know quite understand.
I feel like I might cry.
I don’t know why .
I lie there for nearly an hour, staring at the ceiling, willing the feeling away. My body is restless, buzzing with unsatisfied energy. The sheets tangle around my legs. Every time I close my eyes, I feel the ghost of his hands, his mouth, the heat of his breath against my skin.
The door opens.
I freeze.
Pulling the sheets down just slightly, I see Nicolas step into the room.
I steady my breathing, keeping my eyes closed, pretending to sleep. The mattress shifts beneath me, warmth radiating from his body as he settles beside me.
A gentle stroke against my cheek. His thumb glides over my lower lip, slow and deliberate.
“She looks so peaceful when she sleeps,” he murmurs, tracing the curve of my cheek again. “Where does all that fire go?”
My heart pounds. Has he done this before? Watched me sleep? Talked to himself like this?
I try to stop the heat rising to my cheeks, but— God —it's unfair how cute this is!
My chest tightens with the effort of keeping still, keeping my breaths even, when suddenly-.
He kisses me.
“She tastes so good,” he mutters, almost to himself. Then kisses me again.
It takes everything in me not to react.
His hand trails down, the sheets shifting slightly as his fingers brush over my already hard nipples. A shiver runs through me, my body reacting instinctively.
“Fuck. Even in her sleep,” he murmurs, almost to himself.
My mind races. What the fuck? What is he doing? Is he…touching me while I’m sleeping?
I should be angry, should say something- but instead, heat coils low in my stomach. A traitorous thrill rushes through me, and I don’t know whether to fight it or give in, Then, just as suddenly, the warmth of his presence disappears.
I hear him moving around the room. The sot rustle of fabric. The click of the bathroom door opening.
I risk a peek, just enough to see—and then he steps out. Completely naked.
I shut my eyes again, pressing my lips together to keep from reacting.
There’s no way he’s going to… He wouldn’t …
A few seconds later, I feel the bed shift beneath me. But this time, he’s not beside me—he’s below me.
Cool air brushes against my skin as he lifts the blanket, settling between my legs.
A sharp inhale. A gentle touch. The slow, deliberate press of his hands as he parts my thighs, opening my pussy to him. I wish I could see his expression. My head falls back into the pillows as Nicolas puts his lips between my thighs and licks my pussy with a slow, hot flick of his tongue.
Fuck.