Chapter 4 - Ana
The conference room door closes behind me with a soft click that echoes in my chest. My palm still burns from his handshake, and I hate that the heat spreads lower, pooling between my legs.
The phantom weight of his fingers wrapped around mine makes my skin tingle with something that isn’t fear. Should be fear. Must be fear.
I need to get out. Out of this building, out of this maze of identical hallways, out of the sphere where Dante Rosetti's presence still presses against me.
The corridor stretches endlessly in both directions, fluorescent lights humming overhead. Which way did I come from? Everything looks the same: beige walls, dark carpet, numbered doors that mean nothing to me. I turn left, hoping muscle memory will guide me back to the elevators.
My heels click against the floor, too loud in the silence.
Then I hear it: footsteps behind me, matching my pace.
Not trying to hide. Following. My fingers find Papa's knife through the lining of my purse, the familiar weight steadying me.
Ten years of training, and my body knows exactly where to strike: between the third and fourth rib, angled up. Quick thrust, twist, withdraw.
I don't turn around. In my world, you never let them know you've noticed. Instead, I catalog the sound: heavy tread, confident stride. One of Rosetti's men, making sure I leave the building. Or making sure I don't get lost and wander into something I shouldn't see.
Three turns and I'm lost. The footsteps behind me multiply.
Not one man following, but two. They're herding me, I realize, away from the elevators, deeper into Rosetti territory.
My hand tightens on the knife's outline.
Even forty floors up, even outnumbered, the weapon's presence steadies my breathing.
My mouth tastes like copper. Fear or arousal, maybe both. Because underneath the very real danger, my traitorous body remembers the size of him, how he could pin me against any surface. And instead of fear, heat floods my pussy. This is not the plan.
"You alright, miss?" The voice behind me is professionally concerned. American accent, neutral tone. When I turn, the man is standing exactly ten feet away. Close enough to help, far enough not to threaten. Professional. His jacket hangs wrong on the left side. Armed.
"I am… looking for elevators," I manage, the English words thick on my tongue.
He gestures back the way we came. "You went the wrong direction. This way."
Of course I did. In this maze of American efficiency, even my escape attempts fail.
Three more turns following my shadows, and I find myself at a dead-end, floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking Chicago's sprawl. The city stretches out below, all glass and steel and foreign ambition. Nothing like Rome's ancient stones that know how to keep secrets.
I press my forehead against the cool glass, trying to steady my breathing. In the window's reflection, I see what Dante saw: a warrior in a dress that doesn't quite fit, exhaustion making me sloppy. He saw my weakness and let me keep my weapon anyway. Arrogance or strategy?
The truth sits heavy in my chest. He knew. His note said he knew I was armed. Did he see it when I adjusted my purse? Feel it when we shook hands? Or have his men been close enough to search my room? The thought of Rosetti hands touching my things, my clothes, makes me want to scrub my skin raw.
He could have had me searched, could have demanded I disarm before entering his presence. Instead, he let me keep it. Let me sit across from him with a weapon that could have ended this before it began.
Why?
Respect for a fellow warrior? Amusement at my pathetic attempt at being dangerous? Or something else. Confidence that even armed, I pose no threat to him? The arrogance of it makes me wet, and I want to tear my skin off for responding to such presumption.
Behind me, my shadow clears his throat. "Elevators are this way, Miss Moretti."
Even he knows my name. In this city of strangers, I'm already marked as belonging to them.
The elevator doors are closing when a hand shoots out, stopping them.
My shadow steps aside as another man enters.
He's younger than Dante, maybe twenty-nine, with the kind of military bearing that never fully leaves a soldier—6'1" of disciplined muscle that even his expensive suit can't quite civilize.
His dark hair is cut buzz short, and when he turns to press the button, I catch sight of black ink on his wrist where his sleeve pulls back.
Military tattoos. His hazel eyes assess me in one quick sweep.
Even standing still, he looks ready for combat, his left hand hanging in a way that suggests easy access to a weapon.
I recognize him from my research: Nico Rosetti, the soldier of the family.
"Miss Moretti." He nods politely, pressing the lobby button though it's already lit. "Congratulations on your engagement, ma'am."
The English comes so fast I barely catch it. "Thank… yes… I am…" The words tangle on my tongue, frustration burning in my throat.
He must see my struggle because he switches to slower, clearer English, each word carefully pronounced. "My brother is a good man."
The laugh escapes before I can stop it, bitter and sharp. "Your brother is killer." The words come out harsh, my accent making them sound even more accusatory.
Nico's face hardens, but not with anger.
Something else. Understanding, maybe. Or pity.
His hand hovers near his hip. A gun, of course there's a gun.
"We're all killers, Miss Moretti. The difference is, Dante is the one who bleeds for it.
Question is, will you make him bleed more, or will you stop the bleeding? "
The elevator descends in silence while I try to parse his words. Bleeds for it. What does that mean? My English fails me, the phrase not matching anything in my textbooks. Does he mean Dante regrets? Suffers? Or something else entirely?
"I don't understand," I finally admit, hating how small my voice sounds.
Nico studies me for three more floors before responding. "After the wedding, you'll understand. Or you'll be dead. Either way, the bleeding stops."
The threat lands like ice water, clarifying and terrifying in equal measure. The elevator opens to the lobby, marble and glass and American excess. Nico gestures for me to exit first, ever the gentleman soldier with death on his hip.
"Friday," he says as I pass. "Don't be late."
As if I have a choice. As if any of us have choices anymore.
The taxi driver's face lights up with recognition. "Hey! Wedding girl! I knew it was you. How'd the meeting go?"
I slide into the backseat, my body suddenly too heavy to hold upright.
His cologne lingers in my nose. That subtle expensive scent that surrounded me when he stood to shake hands, sandalwood and something darker that clung to the air between us.
I want to scrub my skin raw, wash away his scent, but I know it's already under my skin, mixing with my hatred until I can't separate one from the other.
"You okay back there?" The driver watches me in the mirror. "You look a little shell-shocked."
Shell-shocked. I don't know this phrase, but it sounds right. Like something exploded and I'm still waiting for the ringing in my ears to stop.
"He is… different than expected," I manage, the understatement of the century in any language.
The driver laughs, pulling into traffic. "They always are, sweetheart. The ones we build up in our heads, they're never quite what we imagined when we meet them in person."
If only he knew. I built my enemy into a monster for ten years. A silent demon who killed without conscience, who destroyed my family for sport. Instead, I met a man with sad eyes who knew I was armed and let me keep my weapon anyway. A man whose brother says he bleeds for his kills.
Even forty floors down, I swear I can still feel him, like his darkness left fingerprints on my skin.
At the hotel, I barely manage to tip the driver before stumbling through the lobby. The elevator ride feels endless. When my door finally closes behind me, I collapse against it, letting my body slide down until I'm sitting on the floor.
I imagine those hands that signed the new contract wrapping around my throat. Whether to strangle or caress, I'm no longer sure. The uncertainty makes my pussy clench, and I hate myself for it.
I'm terrified of the way my palm still burns from his touch. Terrified of how small I felt standing next to him, but not unsafe. Terrified that when he signed back to me, his hands were beautiful in their fluency, like he'd been waiting years for someone to talk to.
I slam my fist against the mirror. This is not the plan.
The hotel's emergency exit map mocks me from behind cracked plastic. I memorize it anyway—old habits from Uncle Roberto's training. Always know your exits, piccola. Even in places you think are safe.
The stairwell door opens with barely a whisper.
Seventeen floors down, but I need to know if it's alarmed, if it locks from inside, if Dante's men watch it.
My bare feet make no sound on the concrete as I descend.
Floor fifteen: another door, another potential route.
Floor fourteen: a service elevator I hadn't noticed before.
By floor twelve, I realize I'm not alone. Someone's following three flights up, matching my pace with professional precision. Not trying to hide—wanting me to know they're there.
I test them, speeding up, then stopping abruptly. They adjust perfectly. When I peer up through the stair railings, a man in a dark suit looks down at me. He actually waves.
The humiliation burns. I'm not exploring escape routes. I'm being given a supervised tour of my limitations. Every exit is covered, every route monitored. This isn't reconnaissance—it's theater.
I return to my room and find a note slipped under the door: The service elevator requires a key. The stairwell locks automatically after 10 PM. The roof access has been welded shut. But please, keep exploring. -—D.R.
Room service arrives. I point at the menu again, too exhausted for words, and the waiter nods with the patience of someone used to foreign guests. When he leaves, I pull out my origami paper, needing the familiar comfort of folding, of creating something precise and controlled.
My fingers work automatically, creasing and folding while my mind replays every moment of that meeting. The way the room shifted when they entered. His thumb finding my pulse like he was marking the spot to cut later. Or kiss. The fact that I can't decide which he intended makes me want to scream.
That almost-smile when I threatened to study him. Like I'd offered him something he'd been craving.
I reach for another paper and freeze. This isn't origami paper.
It's the contract copy from my portfolio.
But it's the old one, with his father's signature.
Rosetti. His son's signature sits fresh beside mine on the new pages, but it's the father's name that haunts me.
The ghost who bound us together twenty years ago.
But my hands need to move, need to create, so I fold it anyway.
The paper is too thick, fighting against the creases, but I force it into shape.
A crane emerges, Antonio Rosetti's signature now fractured across its wings, broken into geometric patterns that somehow make it more present, not less.
The sins of the father, carried on paper wings.
I set it on the nightstand next to Papa's photo. The crane sits crooked, one wing higher than the other, because my hands won't stop shaking. No matter how many times I smooth the paper, it lists to one side like it's trying to fly away but can't quite remember how.
My body is a traitor. Every cell remembers the heat of Dante's palm, the way his thumb found my pulse like he was marking what's his. The memory sends heat pooling between my legs, and I press my thighs together, trying to stop the ache.
I fold another crane, this time from the room service menu. Each crease is a promise. I will not break, I will not bend, I will not spread my legs for the enemy. But my hands shake because my body has already betrayed the last promise, growing wet just from the memory of his touch.
The crooked crane with his father's signature watches me from the nightstand, a reminder that some things, once folded, can never be made smooth again. The Rosetti legacy is part of my origami collection now, twisted into something I created with my own shaking hands.
Three days. The words echo in my head in English, Italian, and the silent language of signs. Three days to remember why I came here.
To forget the way he looked at me like I was something precious and dangerous all at once.
To prepare for a marriage that will either destroy him or destroy me.
But as I stare at Antonio Rosetti's fractured signature on the paper crane's wings, a terrible truth settles in my bones. Destruction might feel exactly like desire, and I'm no longer sure I'll recognize the difference.