Ten
Ciro
I get into bed in my jeans, and Chiara folds into me like she’s been holding herself together all night and finally doesn’t have to.
I feel the shift the second it happens—her weight settling, her guard dropping—and I bring my arm around her without thinking about it.
She sleeps hard, her hand fisted in my shirt like if she lets go I might disappear.
I stay where I am, watching the rise and fall of her breathing, not moving enough to risk waking her. I don’t sleep much.
I ease out from under her grip carefully just before the sun rises, making sure the blanket stays tucked around her before I step away and then dress for spending my Sunday in my home office in the quiet, working through what doesn’t make sense before Jim even walks in.
He sets his tablet on my desk as he approaches. “The house is secure. No devices left behind. No tampering inside.”
I don’t look at the tablet. “The front door.”
He turns the screen toward me, tapping once to pull up the entry logs. “Override code was entered correctly on their first attempt. Not brute-forced.”
I study the screen for a beat and then shift my attention back to him. This was too easy for them. There was nothing that slowed them down. There must be a leak somewhere.
“Do you know how they got in so easily?” I ask, straightening slightly.
“We’re still investigating.”
I let that sit and then move past it. It’s not an answer.
“What about security?”
“James was on his walkthrough,” Jim says, sliding the tablet back toward himself. “Same time he always does. Just after two.”
I nod once, already mapping it. They hit the window between coverage without hesitation. That’s not luck.
“She hadn’t even spent a night here,” I say, more to the room than to him, my gaze drifting briefly toward the hallway. “So how would they know that?”
“We’re looking into it.”
Katie steps in beside me and sets a triple espresso on the desk. I pick it up without looking away from Jim. “Keep going.”
“They weren’t carrying burglary tools,” he says, his tone staying even. “No bags. No cutting equipment. They weren’t here to steal anything.”
I take a sip, letting that settle. It tracks with everything else.
“But they had flexi-cuffs,” he continues. “A syringe of ketamine. And a ball gag.”
I lower the cup slightly, my grip tightening around it. I don’t react beyond that. I don’t need to.
“My guess,” Jim adds, “is they thought it would keep her quiet.”
I set the cup back down with more care than necessary. I don’t acknowledge the comment. There’s no value in entertaining what they planned beyond what I need to know.
“What do the police think?”
“They’re classifying it as an attempted kidnapping of you.”
I lean back slightly, exhaling through my nose. That almost makes me laugh.
“You know that isn’t right.”
“No,” Jim says, meeting my eyes. “Victor agrees. We’re keeping it that way. No reason to confirm Chiara’s here.”
“Good.” I nod once, already moving ahead of it. If they’re not sure, they hesitate. If they hesitate, I get ahead of them.
Jim shifts his weight. “We swept her devices.”
That pulls my focus back to him fully.
“Her phone was compromised.”
I don’t react outwardly. “What does that mean?”
“A photo was sent to her three days ago,” he says, watching me carefully.
“Looked normal. There’s a lot of communication between her and the number, so it’s easy to assume she thought it was safe.
But when she opened it, it executed an embedded tracking code.
It’s been transmitting her location since. ”
I go still, the pieces aligning without effort. So they didn’t find her here. They followed her here.
The door code, the timing, the entry—it wasn’t discovery. It was confirmation.
“Origin?” I ask, my tone unchanged.
“Masked through relays,” Jim says. “We’re working it.”
I think about her in my hallway last night, the way she watches before she speaks, the way she chooses what to give you, and I shift my focus back to Jim.
“She knows who sent them,” I say, watching his reaction.
Jim studies me for a beat, and then nods once. “It’s a number she speaks with often.”
Of course, she does.
“And we ID’d the man from the farmer’s market,” he adds, glancing down at his tablet before looking back up.
Everything in me tightens. “Who?”
“Massimo Bullucci,” Jim says. “Son of Enzo Bullucci. He runs the Bullucci Syndicate in Chicago.”
I don’t look away from him as he says it.
“And his daughter,” Jim continues, holding my gaze, “is Chiara.”
I didn’t go looking for this. I stepped into it without knowing what it was, and now, I understand exactly where I’m standing.
I reach for the edge of the desk. “Wipe the phone. New number. Clean.”
“It’s already done,” Jim says, setting a new iPhone on the table in front of me. “This one’s secure. You can track her.”
I nod once, not reaching for it yet. “Good.”
When Jim leaves, I move to the window. The city looks quiet from here, contained. I stay there a moment longer than necessary, letting the pieces settle into something usable.
When I eventually wander into the living room, she’s at the window, watching a barge clear the Golden Gate when I walk in. She’s wrapped in one of my blankets.
“I heard your conversation,” she says without turning. “I’ll go.”
I slow as I cross the room, watching the set of her spine before I answer. “Go where?”
“Somewhere else.” She doesn’t look at me. “Not here.”
“We had this conversation yesterday.” I stop a few feet behind her, close enough that she knows I’m there without forcing her to turn. “You think distance equals safety.”
“Yes. Don’t you? They found me, and I need to move for my safety and everyone around me.”
I shift slightly to the side, enough to catch her profile in the reflection. “They escalated because you ran. Running isn’t strategy.”
Her chin lifts, and she turns, not backing away, just meeting it. “You don’t know that.”
“I do.”
“If I leave, they don’t have a reason to come back.”
I hold her gaze, not letting her slip past it. “That assumes you’re the only variable.”
“And I’m not?”
“You’re the visible one,” I say. “That’s different.”
She folds her arms, the blanket pulling tighter across her chest. “I know the picture they’re talking about,” she says, her tone more measured now. “Alyssa sent me one of her and some of our friends.”
I track her face as she says it. “Do you think she sent it on purpose, or she didn’t know it had tracking software?”
She hesitates, small but real, her eyes dropping back to the glass. “I’d like to think she didn’t know. But I can’t be sure.” Her fingers tighten briefly in the fabric. “I can disappear again. And I’ll stop talking to her.”
“I’m sure you can,” I say, keeping my voice even. “That isn’t the point. What happens after that?”
I let the silence stretch, watching her in the reflection until the edge in it thins enough to move through.
“They didn’t break in to negotiate,” I say, stepping closer, bringing her fully into my line of sight. “They came to take you.” I hold there a beat. “Do you know why?”
She studies me, weighing what I’ll understand against what I won’t, and then answers carefully.
“You know my last name.”
“Does this have something to do with your father?”
“No.” Her eyes don’t meet mine. “Yes.”
She turns back to the window, but slower this time, like she knows I’m still there, still watching.
“I grew up in a house like this. My father isn’t simply wealthy,” she says. “He builds alliances. He trades in leverage. Marriage is one of his currencies.”
I shift my stance, angling slightly closer without touching her. “That’s not unusual.”
“No,” she says, tightening the blanket around her shoulders. “It isn’t.”
Her fingers move under the fabric, adjusting it with more precision than necessary.
“When I was twelve, he arranged my engagement,” she continues, still facing the glass. “It was meant to secure something larger than me.”
“Larger?” I ask, watching the reflection of her face more than the skyline.
“The son of another family.”
“And you refused.”
She doesn’t answer that directly. Instead, she pulls her arm free of the blanket and turns it slightly, enough for me to see the mark at her wrist.
“There was never any choice. I was twelve. I did as I was told,” she says. “Then I was given time—school, an MBA, a life that felt like mine. I thought he forgot about me but when he was ready, he called in the promise. So I ran away.”
She lets her arm fall, the blanket closing over it again.
“And now?” I ask.
“Now, my father is under pressure to correct my mistake.” Her gaze stays fixed on the skyline. “A broken engagement suggests instability. Instability invites challenges.”
“Who is the guy?”
She hesitates again, shorter this time, and then answers. “It’s another family in Chicago—the Gamblé’s. It’s the son of the man who runs the family—Palo Ammazzalamorte.”
I let the name sit between us. “His last name translates to ‘kill death.’”
“Yes.” She doesn’t look away.
“That’s dramatic.” I hold her gaze, waiting for something to crack.
“They want the alliance between our families. A wedding provides that. Palo’s not a good man.”
There’s no edge in it. No exaggeration. Just fact.
I watch her a moment longer, and then ask, quieter, “Do you believe he would hurt you?”
She turns then, fully this time, and I watch the shift as whatever calculation she was holding onto drops away. “I believe he has hurt other women.”
I hold her gaze, not letting her look past me. “And your father approved this.”
“We’ve fought about it. Ultimately, my father approves of outcomes,” she says, her chin lifting slightly as she steadies it.
“And you’re an outcome.” I don’t move.
“I’m leverage,” she says, her fingers tightening in the blanket at her sides.
I step closer, closing the space she’s been holding open, not touching her but removing the distance she could retreat into. “What happens to leverage that refuses to cooperate?”
Her throat moves once before she answers, her gaze slipping briefly past my shoulder before returning. “My mother refused once.”