Twenty-two
Ciro
The jet door seals behind us with a hard click as I step inside, my hand bracing briefly against the frame before I move down the aisle.
“Everyone here?” I set my phone face down on the ledge as I pass.
“All twelve of us are here.” Jim’s hand grips the back of a seat as he scans the cabin. “The flight crew’s ready.”
“Hold them.” I lift a hand without slowing.
Chiara is already seated. Mid-cabin. Light angled down. Folder open. Pen moving.
Marcella Peterson Walker, a killer family lawyer, sits across from her, one leg crossed, flipping a page and pressing it flat with her palm before marking a line.
Chiara doesn’t look at me. She takes the page and draws a short line through a clause.
“We land and go straight in.” Chiara caps her pen and sets it parallel to the folder. “We can’t risk anyone seeing me and ruin the surprise.”
“Agreed.” Marci says, inserting a tab with a clean, practiced motion.
I lean back slightly, watching them move. “You’re walking in with a lot of people.”
Chiara lifts her eyes to mine, her hand still resting flat on the page.
“I’m walking in without warning,” she says.
“And our plan is to immediately return to the plane and fly back tonight,” I confirm. “No visit with old friends or stops.”
“That’s the plan. It’s all about timing,” she says, adjusting the cuff at her wrist with a controlled pull. “They aren’t expecting me. And when we take off the captain will have filed a flight plan to Los Angeles. They’ll spend time looking for me there.”
“They’ll see us coming,” Jim says, glancing toward the aisle. “Nine men in suits are hard to miss and don’t read subtle.”
“It’s not supposed to,” Marci says, turning a page without looking up.
I tilt my head slightly, looking at her.
“You’re setting tone before terms,” I say.
“I’m removing negotiation,” she replies, tapping the margin once. “They’ll either accept structure or reject it.”
“They reject it, we’re done,” I say, resting my hand flat on the table.
Chiara slides the document back toward Marci, her fingers lingering on the edge for a second before releasing it.
“Then we’re done,” she says.
Jim exhales quietly behind me, shifting his stance.
“That’s a short play,” he says.
“It’s a precise one,” Marci replies, aligning the stack with two sharp taps.
I glance between them, resting my elbows lightly on the table.
“You’re assuming they react,” I say. “If they stall, you lose the window.”
Marci doesn’t look at me.
“They won’t stall,” she says, turning another page.
“They will if they can,” I reply, tightening the clasp on my watch. “That’s how they control it.”
“Ultimately they need my signature,” Chiara reaches for her pen again, rolling it once between her fingers before setting it down. “I’ve heard stories where they forced signatures. That won’t happen with these guys around me.”
“And since we know who their lawyer is and the agreement is between her and Palo, I will send our agreement over directly if I have to.”
The engines begin to turn.
Jim leans forward slightly. “We’re ready,” he says.
I don’t look at him.
Marci slides one final page into place and then closes the folder with a soft, controlled press of her palm.
“We present first,” she says, lifting the folder and resting it against the table. “No deviation.”
“No hesitation,” Chiara adds, pulling the seatbelt across her lap and locking it in place with a firm click.
I sit back, as the plane begins to taxi to the private plane gates.
“You’ve got this,” I say, reaching for her hand and giving it a tight squeeze.
She gives me a small smile. “Thank you for all your support and help.”
“I’d do it all over again and again if you need me.”
“Thank you.” Her shoulders relax. “They won’t know what hit them.”
The engines deepen, the cabin shifting beneath us as we move.
Watching her, I’m awed and amazed at the difference between the woman at the farmer’s market to the woman in charge of an ambush.
We are met by three black Escalades, and we make our way into downtown. They drive us to the most impressive building downtown. Chiara leads the group and there is no missing that she’s in charge.
The elevator opens to a large desk with Kincade, Rourke, and Bellamy on the wall behind her.
“I’m here to see Patrick Rourke. You can tell him Chiara Bullucci is here.”
“Do you have an appointment?” She gives us her obviously practiced smile.
“Not today.”
She nods and calls him. In hushed tones, she speaks to someone. When she puts the phone down, she looks up and smiles. “He’ll be with you in a moment. Let me take you to a conference room. Will everyone need a chair?”
Jim steps forward. “We’ll leave two here to keep you company and two others to stand outside the conference room. The rest of us will be in the room.”
She nods. “Can I get anyone pop, water, coffee?”
“I’ll take a cup of black coffee,” Marci says. “And how about waters all around.”
“I’ll be right back.”
She leaves, and Jim’s men station themselves in the corners of the room and Jim sits next to Marci and I sit next to Chiara. The conference room is empty, but the Chicago skyline is pressed flat against the glass behind it.
The room holds a strange stillness, too quiet for the number of people filing into it. Chairs sit untouched around the table. No one reaches for them.
We know by just showing up, they’re scrambling and no doubt trying to get someone from Chiara’s family here. It won’t matter.
Two attorneys enter. The door opens without urgency, both men stepping in, as if they expect the room to adjust to them.
The older one smiles. “Chiara, so wonderful to see you. We weren’t expecting you to come in today.”
His eyes move past her for a fraction of a second, taking in the numbers, the positioning, the men along the walls, before settling back into place. The smile stays.
Chiara extends her hand. “Patrick. It’s been a long time.” She turns to Marci. “This is Marcella Peterson Walker, my attorney. And with me is Jim Adelson and Ciro Marino.” She looks at Marci. “And this is my father’s attorney, Patrick Rourke and you are?”
“Grant Sloane. I’m an associate on your account. It’s great to meet you.” He adjusts his stance slightly.
A woman I didn’t see steps forward and extends her hand. “And I’m Elena Voss, a partner here at Kincade Rourke.” Her gaze lingers on Marci a moment longer than necessary before she steps back.
Everyone exchanges business cards, but I conveniently didn’t bring any.
“I hope Cindy offered you beverages,” Patrick says. He remains standing. No one moves to sit. He opens his arm to the table. “Let’s sit.”
Our team fills one side of the table with Marci and Chiara in the middle, and they sit across from us. The assistant arrives.
“We won’t need much time,” Marci says, placing her documents on the table without sitting and sliding them into the center. “Let’s begin.”
“You brought a team,” he says, nodding toward Jim and the others without breaking eye contact. “You already have us representing you and your interests. Why so many people?”
No one behind us moves. The room absorbs the comment and gives nothing back.
Marci doesn’t follow his line of sight. She squares the stack with two sharp taps. The sound carries in the room. “I’m actually the person representing her interests.”
Patrick looks at Chiara and then back to Marci.
“That’s fine. We only need a signature, and the prenup will be settled.
Here is the agreed draft,” he says, opening his folio and turning it outward.
“Reviewed on both sides. There’s no need to—” He pauses just slightly, like he expects agreement before continuing.
“Actually, there is,” Marci cuts in, sliding her document directly over his, covering it cleanly. “We received a copy of the draft and have made some changes.” She pushes copies across the table to the three lawyers.
His document disappears beneath hers. His hand stays where it was, now resting lightly against the edge of her pages.
Elena picks it up and leafs through it. One page. Then another. Slower than necessary.
Patrick and Grant don’t touch it. They look at it without moving.
“We’re not revisiting structure,” Patrick says, pressing his palm lightly against the edge of his own draft. “If there are minor revisions, they can be addressed within—” His thumb presses once against the paper, a small, contained movement.
“Walk me through the benefits to your client,” Marci says. She doesn’t look up.
I feel the shift immediately. She’s not responding. She’s dictating the terms of it. He pauses. A beat stretches. No one fills it.
“My client?” he repeats. His gaze flicks to Chiara, and then back.
Marci looks at him for the first time. “Yes.”
She holds the eye contact just long enough to make him answer.
Grant pulls the document toward him, flipping it open. “This agreement was already negotiated between families.” The paper snaps under his thumb.
He’s moving faster now. Not controlled. Trying to get ahead of it.
Marci doesn’t look at him. “That’s not what I asked.” Her hand rests lightly on the table, still.
Silence stretches again.
I watch Grant’s jaw tighten, just slightly.
Patrick shifts his stance. “Representation runs through her father.” His voice is controlled, but the certainty has thinned.
“On whose authority?” Marci asks. She tilts her head a fraction, waiting.
His jaw tightens. “Excuse me?”
“She’s over the age of consent, and you’re advising her to sign this,” she says, tapping his draft once without looking at it. “On whose authority?”
Grant glances at Chiara, and then back to Marci. “We represent the family.”
“But not Chiara?” Marci says.
“That’s not accurate.” His voice tightens.
“Then say it clearly,” she replies.
He doesn’t and instead looks back down.
Elena turns a page, slower now. Her pen taps once against the margin before going still.
Grant looks down at the document again, scanning.
One page. Then another.
Stops. His finger holds his place, and he looks up.
“No,” he says, flattening the paper with his palm. “This isn’t anything that both sides would agree to.”