Chapter 42 Mara
MARA
The morning feels wrong from the start. Too bright. Too still. Like the Castello itself is holding its breath.
I stand at the top of the staircase with my bags beside me, staring down into the foyer. The marble gleams under the sunlight, spotless and cold. Duchess sits on top of my suitcase, tail flicking, unimpressed by the occasion.
Theo’s voice carries from below. “They’re here.”
I take one last look around at the chandelier above, the long hallways, the staircase railing my hand has brushed against a thousand times. Every inch of this place is stamped with his presence. His control. His silence.
And he’s nowhere to be found.
Theo meets me at the bottom of the stairs, his expression careful.
“Mr. Esposito had an urgent matter to attend to,” he says like he’s rehearsed it.
I nod. Of course he did.
He doesn’t meet my eyes. “The driver will take you to the airstrip. Your brother’s already waiting.”
I want to ask where Nicolo is. I want to ask if he said anything. But what would be the point?
Instead, I just grab the handle of my suitcase and start walking.
The drive away from the Castello feels longer than it should. The gates open slowly, the world outside stretching in muted greens and golds. I look out the window, half-expecting to see him appear somewhere—at the window, on the balcony, anywhere.
But there’s nothing. The house stands behind me, tall and still, as if it never held me at all.
The airstrip sits at the edge of the city, where the noise fades into quiet countryside. The private jet gleams under the sun, all silver and glass and power. Emiliano’s men move around it in silence, unloading cases, checking manifests, pretending not to stare.
Eli’s waiting by the stairs, crisp suit, sunglasses, the picture of composure. He’s always been good at hiding things. When he sees me, his expression softens for half a second. Then it’s gone.
“Mara,” he says, pulling me into a brief hug that feels more like a transaction. “You look tired.”
“I didn’t sleep.”
“You never do.”
He looks me over, eyes flicking to Duchess’s carrier, then back to me. “Everything’s ready. Let’s go.”
I glance back at the car, at the long stretch of empty road leading back toward the city. “Why are you doing this to me?”
Eli pauses, hands in his pockets. “It’s for your protection.”
I give him a look. “Don’t.”
He exhales through his nose. “I will always choose your safety above all else.”
“Even if it means keeping me a prisoner?” I whisper.
He doesn’t answer, just nods toward the jet. “Come on.”
The wind tugs at my hair as I climb the stairs. Duchess meows once in protest from her carrier, annoyed at the noise. I tell her it’ll be fine, even though we both know I’m lying.
Inside, the cabin smells like leather and jet fuel. Eli takes the seat across from me, phone already in his hand. Always working. Always controlling.
I press my forehead against the window, eyes tracing the distant line of trees. I keep waiting for something. A sound, a glimpse, a reason to believe he’ll show up.
He doesn’t.
The engines start. The plane lurches forward. And just like that, I’m gone.
Somewhere over the mountains, Eli finally looks up.
“You should rest,” he says, not unkindly.
I nod, unbuckling my seatbelt. “I think I’ll sleep in the back.”
He doesn’t stop me. Probably thinks I’m finally listening. I walk past him down the narrow corridor, into the small private cabin at the rear of the plane. The door closes with a soft click, muting the world.
The bed is neatly made, the sheets tucked with military precision. I sit on the edge of it, fingers twisting the hem of my sweater. The air hums with the low thrum of the engines. Steady. Relentless. Unfeeling.
And then it hits me—the weight of it all.
I press my hands to my face, but it doesn’t stop the tears. They come anyway. Hot, quiet, and angry.
I cry for the silence he left behind. For the way he made me believe there might have been something real underneath all that control. I cry because he didn’t come. Because I shouldn’t have expected him to. Because I still did.
When the sobs finally stop, I lie down and stare at the ceiling until everything blurs.
ONE MONTH LATER
New York feels too loud. I’ve been back for weeks, and the noise still grates at me. The sirens, the traffic, the constant hum of life that never pauses long enough for you to catch your breath. The city moves fast, merciless, like it knows if it slows down, it might remember what it lost.
I fit right in.
Valentina insisted on meeting for coffee, saying I need to “be around people.” I didn’t argue. Arguing takes energy I don’t have.
The car drops me off on Fifth, just outside a place called The Velvet Bloom.
The sign is painted in soft gold letters against navy wood, the kind of place people post on Instagram with captions about “slow mornings” and “self-care.” I push open the door, and a cool breeze washes over me as I step inside.
The scent hits first: coffee, sugar, vanilla.
The kind of smell that should comfort, but doesn’t.
A soft hum of conversation fills the air.
The café is small, but beautiful: exposed brick walls lined with shelves of mismatched mugs and old books.
Sunlight filters through the tall windows, catching on dust motes that dance in the glow.
The pendant lights above the counter cast a warm amber hue, making everything look softer, easier to believe in.
Valentina waves me over from a table near the window. She’s radiant as always: dark hair pulled into a sleek bun, diamond glinting on her left hand. Beside her sits Alessia, all polished charm and careful smiles.
“Mara,” Valentina says, rising to hug me. “You look good.”
“I look tired,” I correct, managing a small smile.
“Same thing,” Alessia says lightly, pushing a cappuccino toward me. “Here. You need this.”
I take it. “Thanks.”
The conversation starts slow. Small talk, updates, polite laughter. I let them lead, nodding when appropriate, pretending not to notice the glances they exchange when they think I’m not looking.
They’re dancing around something. I can feel it.
Finally, Valentina clears her throat. “We’ve noticed you’ve been restless and not yourself.”
“That’s one way to say it.”
“Mara,” she says gently. “You know why we’re here.”
“Coffee?”
Alessia sighs. “Don’t do that.”
I set my cup down. “Do what?”
“Pretend you don’t know what we’re talking about.”
I glance between them; they’re both watching me with a look of sympathy.
“What do you guys want from me? To be happy about my upcoming prison sentence?” I ask.
Valentina exchanges a look with Alessia. “You thought that the Castello was going to be a prison. You don’t seem to have minded being the—”
“This one is permanent,” I interrupt. “I’m literally being traded like cattle and you two are sitting here trying to convince me that it’s for my benefit.”
“Mara—”
“Just tell me.” My voice is sharper now. “Whatever it is, just say it.”
Valentina hesitates, then sighs. “He’s arranged something.”
My stomach twists. “Arranged?”
“A meeting,” Alessia says carefully. “With Orlo Chernov.”
The name hits like a cold slap.
“Chernov,” I repeat slowly. “As in—”
“Yes,” Alessia says. “The Chernovs. Eastern Europe. They’re old money. Powerful. Loyal.”
“Dangerous,” I mutter.
Valentina folds her hands. “He’s not like the rest of them.”
“Sure,” I say, bitterness creeping in. “And Nicolo wasn’t like the rest of them either.”
That gets me a look. The kind that says they’re not sure whether to tell me to let it go or grow up.
I look out the window instead. The street outside is alive: people moving, laughing, living. All of them free.
“When?”
“In five minutes,” Valentina says softly. “He flew in last night.”
I let out a breath I didn’t know I was holding. “Of course he did.”
The table falls silent. The only sound is the faint clink of cutlery from another corner and the soft hiss of the espresso machine.
“I don’t want this,” I finally say.
Valentina leans forward. “Give him a chance. You never know.”
Her voice is kind. It doesn’t make it any easier to swallow.
I nod once because fighting it won’t change anything. “Right.”
Alessia reaches across the table and squeezes my hand. “He’s a good man, Mara. Strong. Respected.”
“Men in our world are never ‘good’ men,” I whisper, too quietly for anyone to answer.
The bell over the door jingles and I glance up, half out of habit. A tall man steps inside—broad shoulders, black coat, sharp features softened only by the faintest curve of a polite smile. His gaze sweeps the room once before landing on our table.
Valentina straightens. “That’s him.”
Orlo Chernov.
He walks toward us with the easy confidence of a man who never has to introduce himself twice. His accent is faint when he speaks, smooth and deliberate.
“Ladies,” he says with a small nod. “I hope I’m not late.”
“Right on time,” Valentina says, smiling.
He takes the seat across from me. Up close, he’s all precision: clean lines, cold eyes, and the kind of presence that demands attention without raising his voice.
“Mara.” He holds out a hand. “It’s a pleasure.”
I stare at it for a second before shaking it. His grip is firm, controlled. Familiar in a way that makes my stomach twist.
“Likewise,” I manage.
His smile doesn’t reach his eyes. “I’ve heard a lot about you.”
“Funny,” I say quietly. “I can’t say the same.”
Valentina gives me a warning glance. I ignore it. The conversation drifts—formal, polite, shallow. I answer when spoken to, smile when required, nod when expected. It feels like watching someone else play me from a distance.
At some point, I glance out the window again. The sun’s dipped lower now, painting the city in gold. A car with black tinted windows passes by…and for a second, my breath catches.
For a stupid, fleeting moment, I think it might be him. It isn’t.
When I turn back, Orlo is watching me, expression unreadable. “You look distracted.”
“I was. I’m not anymore.”
He smiles faintly. “Good. Distraction is dangerous.”
I hold his gaze.
“Yeah,” I whisper. “I’ve learned that.”