Sixteen
Chiara
I wake before the alarm, my eyes opening into the soft gray of early morning.
For a moment, I stay still, listening for what pulled me out of sleep.
The dinner with the Marino family last night was nothing like the family meals I had growing up.
It had been indulgent—wine poured, excellent food, and the banter and teasing was fun—but the weight in my stomach isn’t from the food.
I turn onto my back and stare at the ceiling. My mind is already moving. Today is my first day at Luster. They’ll expect me to answer to Cara Davis. The version of me that walks through those doors and doesn’t hide.
I push the covers back and cross to the mirror.
The wig sits on the marble counter where I left it. Dark brown. Sleek. I lift it, settle it into place, and adjust the part until it falls naturally.
The contacts go in next. Deep brown. They swallow the blue from my eyes and leave them almost black. I blink once and then again. I slip on the platform stilettos that adjust my height, and no Italian designers to be found.
The woman in the mirror is smart and efficient. She looks capable. Contained. Unremarkable in a way that feels intentional.
I smooth my blouse over my waist and study myself one last time. I chose this. That matters.
When I walk down the stairs, Ciro is waiting near the kitchen island with a cup of espresso in his hand. He takes one look at me and lets out a low whistle that cuts through the quiet.
“Well, that’s unfair,” he says.
Heat climbs up my neck before I can stop it. I haven’t blushed like this in years, not for anyone. He sets the cup down and comes toward me slowly, his gaze unhurried, as if he’s assessing a rare stone he’s considering for acquisition.
He circles once, not touching, just looking. “The hair,” he murmurs. “And your eyes.” His thumb tilts my chin slightly so the light catches them. “They’re almost black.”
“They are mysterious,” I say, though my voice betrays the smile trying to surface.
He studies me another second, something shifting in his expression. He likes it. I can see that clearly enough. But there’s a flicker of something else there too, an awareness that this version of me is less familiar, less easy to read.
“You look like trouble,” he says finally.
“I thought that was the point.”
He huffs a quiet laugh and steps back, the warmth in his eyes cooling into something more measured. “All right. Let’s go over this once.”
He walks through it again, not because I’ve forgotten, but because repetition removes error.
He’ll leave with Victor and come into the office at the front entrance of the building like he always does.
I won’t follow.
Katie will drive me in her car with a fake rideshare sticker in the window. She’ll take me to the office parking garage, and I’ll arrive through the internal entrance.
No overlap, shared exit. And most importantly, no straight line between us.
He lays it out step by step—lobby, garage, separate cars, no overlap—until it sounds like routine instead of precaution.
I nod once, repeating it back in my head as he speaks.
When he steps closer, the shift is immediate. The distance he kept while he was talking disappears. His hand settles at my waist and draws me in.
The kiss isn’t rushed. His mouth moves over mine with steady pressure, controlled in the same way everything else about him is. I taste espresso and something warmer underneath it, familiar enough to quiet the edge that hadn’t settled since I woke.
“I’ll see you at the office,” he says against my lips.
The words are simple, but the shift is clear. In a few minutes, he will be my boss’s boss. I will be an employee. We both know the lines, but only his brothers will know.
Ciro steps out without looking back, and I meet Katie in the garage where the Toyota Prius is waiting.
Katie eases out of the garage. I angle myself toward the center, instinctively making my silhouette smaller.
I put on my sunglasses and pull my phone from my bag. It’s easier to look down than out. Headlines are safer than reflections.
The Chicago Daily loads. The top story isn’t about my family, but it doesn’t take long to find what is. A brief column tucked beneath the fold references “ongoing negotiations” between the Gamblé Family and O’Malley Clan.
One sentence stands out. Sources suggest that Stefano Gamblé may be negotiating from a diminished position. Without the merger with the Bullucci family, he’s seen as weak. That isn’t good for me.
I read it twice. They never use words like that casually.
A flicker of guilt moves through me before I can stop it. I picture my father at the long dining table at home, hands folded, expression unreadable while other men measure him. I know how this works. Perception becomes currency.
Outside the window, San Francisco moves past in early light, the air clear and bright. My mind drifts, uninvited, to Chicago in November.
I won’t miss it. Winter is miserable in Chicago the way the cold seeps into everything—stone buildings, car doors, conversation. I won’t miss the heaviness of it pressing against my chest as if the city itself is reminding you where you belong.
The Prius turns, and I feel the subtle shift in direction that tells me we’re nearing Luster’s offices. I glance at the headline one last time, committing the tone to memory rather than the details. Then I lock the screen and slip the phone back into my bag.
When the building comes into view, all glass and steel and measured lines, I straighten in my seat. The sunglasses stay on until we pull into the structure. I let the city I left recede into a contained space in the back of my mind, the way I was just contained in the back of this vehicle.
Today belongs to the woman with dark hair and darker eyes.
And she has work to do.
The Prius pulls into the lower level of the building without drawing attention. Katie walks me through a side entrance that opens into a quiet corridor lined with framed campaign photography—clean lines, polished gemstones, restrained luxury. Luster doesn’t shout. It implies.
The private elevator opens with a soft chime and carries us upward. When the doors part, a receptionist is there to greet me.
My answer sits on my tongue for a fraction longer than it should.
“Hi, I’m Cara Davis. Today’s my first day.”
She lights up. “Welcome.” She stands and I follow her. The space feels deliberate. Glass walls. Muted carpet. Light that doesn’t glare.
“We’ve got you set up in the conference room for your onboarding. David Craig from our HR team will be in once he gets here.” She stops in front of a small room with a large window, a round table, and two chairs. “Coffee? Water?”
“I’m good, thank you.” I take a seat and look around. A neat stack of paperwork sits at one end of the table beside a closed laptop and a slim box with the company logo stamped in silver. A pen rests precisely on top of the forms. The arrangement is so orderly it almost feels ceremonial.
David arrives a few minutes later, polite and efficient.
We move through the paperwork in measured steps—confidentiality agreements, compliance policies, benefit elections, internal codes of conduct.
He mentions all the government paperwork is already done.
He speaks in clear terms about expectations and reporting structures.
There is no hint of curiosity about how I came to be here, only the steady rhythm of process.
When they hand me a laptop, it feels heavier than I expect. “Your credentials are in this envelope,” the woman from IT says. “Your email is active. Someone from my team will swing by later to make sure everything is configured properly.”
I open the envelope after they leave and stare at the address printed on the card. My first name dot my last name, followed by @. It appears without history attached to it. Just an address in a system.
David looks through my paperwork. “Ready to see your desk?”
I follow him back to the elevator, this time heading down instead of up.
The fourth floor hums with quiet conversation and the soft click of keyboards.
It’s less polished than the human resources floor, more lived in.
Jackets hang on chair backs. A half-empty coffee mug sits beside a stack of reports.
Someone laughs at something low and private.
He leads me to a cluster of four cubicles arranged in a square, partitions high enough for privacy but not isolation. One desk sits empty, a small nameplate already in place.
“You’ll be here,” David says. “Finance operations. Heather Summers is your direct supervisor.”
I take in the space without flinching. The desk is functional, not impressive. A standard monitor, a desk chair and a filing drawer that sticks slightly when I test it. No window but there is plenty of light.
“Perfect,” I say and mean it.
David turns just as a woman arrives.
“You must be Cara.” She’s a small woman with a no nonsense bob, and dressed in a shirt dress with ballet flats.
“Yes.” I smile hoping I’m projecting a friendly face.
She doesn’t offer her hand. Her gaze moves over me instead, cataloging my shoes, posture, and confidence. “Walk with me.”
I follow her toward a smaller conference room tucked near the center of the floor. She closes the door behind us and gestures for me to take a seat opposite her.
“I’ll be direct,” she says, folding her hands on the table. “I wasn’t consulted in this hire.”
There’s no accusation in her tone, only fact.
“I understand,” I reply.
“Do you?” Her eyes sharpen slightly. “Because I run this department. I’m responsible for performance and output. When someone appears on my team without me meeting or interviewing them, I like to know why.” She dramatically clasps her hands in front of her and leans in. “Who do you know?”
I hold her gaze. “I was working for a temp agency,” I say evenly. “I’d been doing some interim work. Ciro Marino reviewed a reconciliation I’d completed and asked to meet. That led to this.”