Chapter 5
Chapter Five
Ezio
She stood in my office like a cornered animal.
Blonde hair tangled as hell, face washed out, that cheap jacket wrinkled to shit. She looked at me, and those green eyes were screaming—shock, rage, fear. All of it.
Fuck.
Something burned in my chest. Not anger. Something else. Something complicated I didn't want to name.
She was thinner than eight weeks ago. Collarbones jutting, cheekbones sharp enough to cut. Like life had run her through a meat grinder. But it was still that face. The same one from the stage that night, looking at me like a challenge. The same one in bed, biting her lip and saying, "I want you."
My body remembered.
My lower abdomen tightened. I grabbed the whiskey on my desk and knocked it back, letting the burn kill the rest.
No.
I couldn't let her face, those eyes, make me forget what she did. She torched my engagement. Dragged the entire Visconti name through the mud. Handed every old bastard in the family exactly what they needed to bury me. That was a fact.
And this pitiful look she was giving me now? Could be real. Could be theater.
They were all good at theater.
"Sit," I said, keeping my voice flat, and pointed to the chair across from me.
She didn't move.
"I said sit."
"Go fuck yourself." Her voice shook, but that profanity came out crystal clear. "I don't know you. I don't know why the hell you dragged me here, but if you don't let me leave right now, I'm calling the cops."
I went still for a second. Then I laughed.
Beautiful performance. That righteous tone, that tremor in her voice, even the fury in her eyes—it all looked so real. If I hadn't seen this play run a thousand times, I might've bought it.
"Call the cops?" I repeated, found the word amusing. "Yeah. Go ahead. I'll wait."
She dug her phone out of her bag, swiped at the screen a few times, then froze.
No signal.
"Signal jammer," I said, leaning back in my chair. "Security measure. You understand, right?"
She shoved the phone back in her bag and glared at me.
"What the hell do you want?" she asked, voice lower now, but something lit up in those eyes—not fear. Something stubborn. Like a string pulled so tight it was about to snap, but hadn't yet.
What the hell do I want?
I tilted my chair back and studied her.
I'd prepared a whole speech for this. Clean. Conditions, terms, quid pro quo, the whole transaction laid out neat. My lawyer had drafted it. Airtight logic. But looking at her standing there right now, that speech suddenly felt like a waste of breath.
"You're carrying my child," I said, my voice steadier than I expected. "I want the baby born."
The room went silent. Her face went corpse white.
I watched her try to breathe, try to pull herself together. Her fingers gripped the seam of her pants and shook.
My chest tightened.
Fuck. Not that. Don't let her get to you.
Then she laughed—not a real laugh, one of those involuntary things people do when they hear something absurd. Her mouth twisted for a second, then it was gone.
"How do you know it's yours?" she asked.
She lifted her head and looked at me. Those green eyes held something I didn't recognize—defiance, but more than that. That look you get when you're pushed to the edge, and suddenly nothing matters anymore.
"What?"
"The baby," she said, her mouth curving into something cold.
"How do you know it's yours? I worked at the club.
You think you were the only one? The night before could've been the bouncer.
The night after could've been the bartender.
" She kept going, that smile getting colder.
"Maybe I don't even remember who the father is. But I know—"
She paused. Her voice dropped.
"It's not you."
The air in the room crystallized.
I stared at her, and that fire in my chest burned hotter.
Not anger.
Something more primal. More violent.
I pulled a file from my desk drawer and threw it on the desk in front of her.
"Olivia Adrian," I said, leaning back. "Last six weeks.
Four jobs. Convenience store cashier, three AM to seven AM.
Coffee shop server, eight AM to two PM. Laundromat folder, four PM to nine PM.
Cleaning crew on weekends. Four to five hours of sleep a night.
Maybe half an hour stolen sleep on graveyard shifts at the convenience store. "
Her smile froze.
"So tell me," I continued, keeping my voice level, "when exactly did you have time to find another man?"
I stood and walked around the desk until I was standing in front of her.
"So yeah," I looked down at her. "I know this baby is mine."
She didn't speak. Lips pressed tight, jaw locked, something burning behind those eyes. Rage and something else—that shame that comes with being exposed.
"You investigated me," she finally said, voice low.
"Yes."
"What gives you the right?"
"You got in my bed," I said. "I woke up with a stranger whose name I didn't know. Someone took a photo of us and sent it to Colonna. My engagement dinner was canceled. You want to know what gives me the right?"
She went still.
"What engagement dinner?"
"You don't know?" I searched her eyes for a crack, any sign she was lying. "Someone photographed us. Sent it to my fiancée. One month before the wedding. Perfect timing. Perfect angle. Perfect setup. You're telling me you don't know about that."
She looked at me, something moving in those green eyes. Shock first, then something complicated I couldn't name. Finally, a cold smile.
"So you think I set it up?"
"Didn't you?"
"Ha." She laughed, and that laugh made me uncomfortable.
"You just told me I work four jobs a day, sleep four, five hours, I'm so broke I can't even afford prenatal vitamins—you really think I have money to hire someone to photograph you?
You think I know people who can sneak cameras into that kind of club?
You think I'm smart enough to plan some mafia family wedding scheme? "
She stood up, moved until we were face to face. Less than half a meter between us. I could smell cheap detergent on her skin, sweat underneath. She'd been snatched off the street—didn't even have time to change.
"That night," she said, voice low, "I just wanted to help you. You were drugged. You needed help. So I'm an idiot with a savior complex, I stay, and then what?"
Her eyes were getting red, but she wouldn't let the tears fall.
"Next morning, a stack of cash on the nightstand and a note. Good service. The extra's your tip." She repeated the words like she was tasting something rotten. "Now you're telling me you thought that was my setup?"
I didn't answer.
She took a sharp breath, stepped back, and grabbed her bag.
"Listen," she said. "That night was an accident. I thought you needed help, so I stayed, and then we—" She stopped. "Never mind. Doesn't matter. What matters is I regret it now. I really regret it. I regret not letting you burn to death in that room."
She turned toward the door.
I reached out and grabbed her wrist.
Her skin was cold, her wrist so thin I could circle it with one hand. The moment I touched her, that tightness hit my lower abdomen again.
Fuck. What the hell is this?
"Let go," she said, and didn't look back.
"You owe me."
She spun around, looked at me like I was insane. "What the fuck do I owe you?"
"An engagement. An explanation. A child." I pulled her back. She stumbled, turned to face me. Close enough now that I could see the curve of her lashes, the dry cracks in her lips, that flicker of vulnerability she hadn't had time to hide.
"Here's the deal," I said, dropping my voice. "We make a trade."
She looked at me, confused. "What?"
"You owe Vito Castro one hundred fifty-three thousand," I said. "His people are watching your sister, right? School, apartment, where you work. How long do you think before he makes a move?"
Her pupils contracted.
"Those debts," I continued, "you owe Castro one hundred fifty-three grand, plus interest. Two hundred thirty thousand total. I bought all your debt."
She went rigid.
"You—what?"
"From today on, you don't owe Vito. You owe me," I said, pulled a document from the drawer, and slid it across to her. "Debt transfer agreement. Legal and binding."
She stared at it, face getting whiter.
"You're a real son of a bitch," she said, voice shaking. "Complete bastard."
"Maybe." I shrugged. "Castro, I can make him disappear from your life forever. Your sister, Sophie, right? Seventeen, excellent grades, wants to be a doctor. You think she can afford college on what you're making?"
Her lips started to tremble.
"I'll set up an education fund for her," I said. "Whatever school she wants, she goes. Whatever she wants to study, she studies. No working. No loans. No worrying about getting cornered in an alley."
"What do you want?" Her voice was hoarse.
"Marry me. Have the baby."
She stared like I'd just spoken an alien language.
"Marry you?"
"Contract marriage," I said. "You have the baby. I provide everything you and your sister need. After birth, you get a settlement and get your freedom back. Kid stays with me, but you can visit whenever. Fair."
She looked at me for a long time. Too much was happening in those green eyes—anger, struggle, something else. A tiredness so deep I couldn't measure it.
"What if I refuse?"
"Then you and your sister," I said, my voice soft, "don't get protected anymore. Castro keeps coming for his money. You keep paying, if you can find work. Colonna might want to have a chat about that night. And me, I'm done. I'm out."
Her eyes went red.
"You're threatening me."
"I'm giving you a choice."
She looked down. Didn't speak for a long time. I watched her shoulders shake, barely, but she bit her lip to keep from making a sound. I had this sudden urge to touch her, pull her against me. The thought came out of nowhere and made no sense. I clenched my fists and didn't move.
"Sophie," she finally spoke, voice hoarse. "You promise she's safe?"
"I promise."
"She can keep going to school? She doesn't have to hide?"
"She can."
"Those people collecting debts—they won't come near her again?"
"Never."
She looked up. Tears were swimming in her eyes but she wouldn't let them fall. Those eyes were red, looking at me like she was searching for something—I didn't know what, and I didn't know if I had it.
"Okay," she said.
That word came out quiet, almost didn't hear it.
"What?"
"Okay." Louder this time, but still hoarse. "I'll do it."
I watched her. Her jaw locked, spine rigid, like a string pulled to the breaking point. Already defeated but refusing to show it any other way. That image did something to my throat.
"But," she continued, "I have conditions."
"Say them."
"Before the baby comes, I need a room with a window. Somewhere I can see sunlight."
"Done."
"Every week I call Sophie. She can come see me."
I raised an eyebrow, surprised. "Of course."
She nodded, looked down at her hands. They were thin, knuckles prominent, fingers callused thick.
"And," she said suddenly, her voice even quieter, "that night..."
She didn't finish.
I waited a few seconds.
"That night what?"
She shook her head, didn't look up.
"Nothing. Doesn't matter."
She walked toward the door. This time, I didn't stop her.
Her hand was on the doorknob when she paused. Back to me, I could only see it—thin shoulder blades, spine pulled straight, that wrinkled jacket hanging off her frame.
"What's your name?" she asked.
"Ezio. Ezio Visconti."
She nodded, didn't turn around.
"Someone will come get you tomorrow," I said. "We're moving you to the manor. South-facing room. Windows."
Her hand stilled on the doorknob. Then she pushed the door open and walked out.
The door closed behind her.
I stood there, staring at that closed door for a long time. Her smell lingered in the room—soap, detergent, a hint of sweat. That smell mixed together took me back to that night, her curled up in my arms, asleep.
Fuck.
I walked back to my desk and pulled out the file, opened the first page. Her photo was there. ID photo. White background. Hair in a ponytail. Expression neutral. Same woman who'd just been standing in front of me with red eyes, biting her lip so hard she wouldn't let the tears fall.
Olivia Adrian.
I stared at that photo and remembered how she'd looked when she said it. That night, I just wanted to help you.
Just wanted to help me.
I closed the file and tossed it in the drawer. Hit the intercom.
"Carlo, get someone to drive her back. Tomorrow morning, pick her up. Move her to the manor, east wing, south-facing room."
"Yes, sir."
"And," I paused, "her sister. Get people on her. Keep Castro's men away."
"Understood."
I hung up and walked to the floor-to-ceiling window. Manhattan's skyline was glinting in the afternoon sun, traffic crawling over the elevated highways. Everything was the same as always.
I closed my eyes.
That image came back.
Dim light, blonde hair moving, those green eyes, wet, burning as they looked at me.
Fuck.