Chapter 7
Harlow
It feels like I just closed my eyes when the car slows, and the driver announces our arrival.
The Ricci estate is a vision of power and opulence. A sprawling palazzo sits atop rolling hills, its terracotta fa?ade glowing in the fading light. Wrought-iron balconies overlook vineyards stretching endlessly, their symmetry broken only by rows of olive and lemon trees. The air carries the tang of citrus and salt from the distant Mediterranean, a deceptive calm masking the danger lurking within these walls.
My grandfather and cousin exit the car first. Michael turns, extending a hand to me. I take it, slipping out with practiced grace.
The May evening is mild, the warmth of the season lingering in the air. The black dress clings to my figure, its off-shoulder neckline accentuated by the elegance of long, lacy gloves and diamond accessories. Louboutin heels click sharply against the stone path as I step forward, head high. My hair, pin-straight, cascades over my bare shoulders, catching the soft glow of the fading sunlight.
Bodyguards flank the entrance, a formidable mix of Camorra soldiers, Ricci enforcers, and men loyal to the Chicago Outfit. Their collective presence is a silent display of power, and a constant reminder of the fragile alliances holding everything together. My gaze lingers on one detail, they’re protecting me now, too. The thought grates, a bitter reminder that trust is a luxury I can’t afford. These men, these families, are still strangers to me. Blood ties and shared interests don’t erase twenty-five years of absence, or the doubts that come with them.
The grand doors creak open, revealing a man in his fifties, his suit immaculate and presence polished.
“Welcome to the Ricci estate.”
He says smoothly, introducing himself as the estate manager, Rocco. His smile is kind and genuine, but I know better than to be deceived by appearances in this world. Kindness is a mask, and everyone is a potential threat.
He leads us into a vast living room, and the moment we step inside, the low murmur of voices dies. Silence falls like a shroud, and every pair of eyes shifts to us—no, to me. The air feels charged, thick with unspoken questions and simmering tension. Their scrutiny is piercing, as if trying to unravel me on the spot. I meet their stares head-on, my chin lifting slightly, refusing to let them see even a hint of uncertainty.
Giovanni Ricci steps forward, his presence commanding. His salt-and-pepper hair is combed back, and his dark eyes, uncomfortably similar to mine, seem to drink me in.
“Welcome, Harlow.”
he says, his voice roughened with age and weighted with something that might be regret.
I nod, forcing my voice to remain steady.
“Giovanni.”
“Thank you for coming.”
He continues, his tone softer now.
“It’s good that we can finally meet under better circumstances.”
“Yes.”
I reply, my tone polite but guarded.
“Thank you for inviting us.”
As he holds my gaze for a moment longer, I feel the weight of the silence stretching between us. Despite the formalities, the whole situation feels unnatural, uncomfortable. I remind myself to breathe, to keep my head high.
Giovanni turns his attention to my grandfather and Michael, his tone shifting slightly.
“Vincenzo, Michael.”
he says with a nod, extending his hand.
“I trust your travel was smooth and that you’re finding Palermo agreeable? You are, after all, guests in my territory.”
My grandfather steps forward, accepting the handshake.
“Your hospitality is appreciated.”
He says, his voice even.
Michael follows suit, his handshake firm, his expression as cold as ever.
“It’s been a long journey.”
He states simply, then adds in a deadpan tone.
“And it’s too damn hot for May.”
He adjusts his cuffs, his gaze flicking around the room with a calculated air, as if assessing more than just the temperature.
“Palermo’s got a certain charm, though.” The way he says it, it’s impossible to tell if he means it or if he’s just being polite.
Giovanni acknowledges the response with a faint nod. He straightens, his gaze shifting back to me.
“Let me introduce you to my sons.”
His tone regaining a formal edge.
“Your brothers.”
He then adds, like he couldn’t stop himself from pointing that out.
Three men step forward, and my gaze locks on one of them.
Enzo.
I knew this moment was coming, but nothing could have prepared me for the reality of it. His expression is indiscernible, though a flicker of recognition, disbelief and anger, passes through his sharp eyes as they linger on me, studying, assessing.
“Harlow?”
he says, stepping closer, his voice carrying a mix of suspicion and something harder to define.
We worked side by side for three long months, unaware of the bond we shared. Strangers connected by blood, yet entirely oblivious. The thought churns within me, strange and unsettling. How can you have a brother, a person bound to you by something so intrinsic, and not even know they exist? The idea feels impossible to grasp.
I don’t like these feelings.
They’re overwhelming.
I’ve spent years training myself not to feel, to bury emotions before they have the chance to take root. Feelings were always linked to something bad, something dangerous. How could they not be when you grow up hearing over and over that you destroyed someone’s life by simply existing?
“Enzo.”
I say, nodding, my tone carefully neutral. My pulse races under his intense scrutiny, but I keep my expression calm.
Giovanni’s brow furrows, his gaze darting between us.
“You know each other?”
Enzo’s voice is even, but there’s no mistaking the sharpness in his tone.
“We’ve been working together at my gym for the past few months.”
The room stiffens instantly, the weight of the revelation crashing over everyone like a thunderclap. Suspicion blooms thick in the air, as palpable as the tension radiating from the men around me.
Michael’s eyes narrow dangerously.
Enzo steps closer as he fixes me with an intense glare.
“Did you know?”
The question hits like a blow, his tone cold and ruthless. A million emotions flit across his face, anger, disbelief, confusion, and something softer, something almost vulnerable. As if he’s replaying every interaction we’ve ever had in his mind, trying to reconcile the woman standing before him with the one he thought he knew.
“If you’re insinuating that I knew who you were to me, let me correct you, I didn’t,”
I reply coolly.
“And let’s get one thing straight, Enzo, I never begged you for a job. You offered. The fact that your gym was the closest to my apartment, or that I chose Palermo at all was purely happenstance.”
His gaze sharpens, suspicion carved into every hard line of his expression.
“Still,”
I continue, lifting my chin just slightly, refusing to let his scrutiny unsettle me.
“The moment you said your name, I knew exactly who you were—who your father is, the power behind it. Your family is no mystery to me, just as countless others aren’t. I was raised in this world too.”
Enzo doesn’t look convinced. His jaw tenses, his sharp eyes locked onto mine with a calculating intensity.
“Convenient.”
He murmurs darkly, scepticism lacing his tone.
“I don’t believe in coincidences, Harlow.”
Michael steps forward, his posture rigid, his cold, unrelenting gaze boring into Enzo.
“What the fuck are you implying? That I sent my cousin to spy on you?”
His voice drops to a dangerous growl, each word laced with venom.
“Be very fucking careful about the next words out of your mouth. You don’t get to throw around accusations like that, not unless you’re ready to deal with the kind of hell I’ll bring down on you.”
The men in the room shift uneasily, the atmosphere thickening further. I catch the movement of hands drifting closer to weapons, shoulders squaring as if ready for a fight.
“Enough,”
Giovanni says sharply, his voice slicing through the tension like a blade. He steps between them, his commanding presence halting the spiral before it gets out of control.
“We are not implying anything.”
Giovanni says firmly, casting a pointed look in Enzo’s direction. His tone is steady, but there’s no mistaking the warning in his gaze.
Enzo’s jaw clenches, but he steps back.
“Fuck this.”
He says bitterly, his tone biting.
“I just find out my employee, my coworker, the woman I’ve spent months training, is my fucking sister.”
He spits the word like it burns. Then turns and leaves the room, the door snaps closed behind him with a thud that almost makes me flinch of how loud it is.
Before either of us can say a word, Giovanni clears his throat.
“Harlow, meet Darion and Niccolò, your other brothers.”
The eldest, Darion, steps forward first. I already know exactly who he is, who all of them are. It’s a lesson my grandfather instilled in us from a young age, always be prepared. He made sure we memorized every face in our world, ingraining them in our minds until recognition became second nature.
Darion’s presence is commanding, his stance cold. His dark brown hair is neatly combed back, and his deep brown eyes are sharp, intense, demanding respect with a single look. Tall and powerfully built, his imposing frame is accentuated by a tailored suit that fits him with absolute precision, undoubtedly made just for him. He studies me for a moment, his gaze narrowing as if trying to see straight through me. When he extends his hand, his grip is firm, almost testing.
“So,”
he says, his voice smooth yet sceptical.
“you’ve been working with Enzo. Now, that’s an interesting alignment of circumstances.”
I exhale slowly, weary of the constant accusations.
“It wasn’t intentional,”
I reply evenly, holding his piercing gaze.
“I had no idea your family had any connection to mine.”
Darion leans in slightly, his voice dropping to a quiet menace.
“I don’t believe in chance, Harlow. Not in our world. Everyone has motives, whether they choose to admit them or not.”
I feel Michael stiffen behind me, his presence radiating barely contained rage, ready to rip my now brother’s head clean off. But Darion doesn’t flinch. Instead, he meets Michael’s murderous stare head-on, his lips curling into the faintest shadow of a taunt.
“Maybe you don’t believe in coincidences.”
I reply, lifting my chin.
“But they do happen. I didn’t choose to leave Chicago, that decision was forced on me by the circumstances.”
For a moment, his eyes search mine, as if looking for cracks in my resolve. The silence stretches, thick and uncomfortable, until he finally straightens, giving a curt nod.
“Very well.”
Niccolò steps forward next, his presence a stark contrast to the strain hanging in the air. Like Darion, his dark brown hair is similar in shade, but his is tousled, falling into his eyes with a carelessness that gives him a deceptively unkempt look. Though slightly shorter than his brothers, he still towers over most, his presence commanding in a way that is uniquely his own.
The resemblance between him and Darion is undeniable, there’s no mistaking their shared blood, but Niccolò’s striking light green eyes set him apart. His boyish charm and easy smile might seem disarming at first glance, but there’s a dangerous glint behind his gaze, a silent warning of the sharp edges honed by the world we were born into. Out of all of them, he is the closest to me in age.
“So, here’s dad’s long-lost daughter,”
Niccolò remarks, his voice smooth yet edged with something sharper. He takes my hand, his grip firm though not as harsh as Darion’s.
“It’s nice to finally meet you. I’ve heard so much.”
A faint smirk plays at his lips as his gaze flickers over me, his words laced with a subtle challenge.
“I’d say welcome to the family, but I think we’re all still trying to figure out what that even means.”
“Likewise.”
I reply.
“Your reputation precedes you.”
His brow lifts, amusement glinting in his eyes as his smirk deepens.
“Is that so? And what, pray tell, have you heard?”
“You know,”
I say, a touch of humour slipping into my voice.
“Just the usual gossip that floats around about Niccolò Ricci. Nothing good.”
He chuckles, low and quiet.
“Ah. Well, don’t believe everything you hear.”
As Niccolò steps aside, my gaze collides with Dante’s, and for a moment, the rest of the room fades into insignificance. I’d almost forgotten he was here, standing like he doesn’t have a single care in the world, a smirk tugging lazily at the corner of his mouth.
He’s enjoying this.
Thoroughly.
That smirk, though, should be illegal. And the way it sends a slow, twisting heat through my stomach?
Even more so.
For the briefest of moments, his dark eyes catch mine, and something shifts between us, subtle but undeniable. The air grows heavier, charged with something I can’t, or won’t name.
I rein it in quickly, shutting it down before it can take root. Because there’s no way in hell I’m falling for that.
I don’t do feelings, and I’m certainly not about to start with him.
Besides, I’m supposedly engaged to his nephew.
Which makes this so much worse.
So much more dangerous.
My gaze shifts to Leonardo next, where he stands beside his uncle. He’s undeniably handsome, the kind of man women likely trip over themselves to get close to. With effortlessly tousled hair and a smile that seems crafted to disarm, he exudes an easy confidence, the type that suggests he knows exactly how to wield his charm to his advantage.
But as I take him in, waiting for some kind of reaction, I feel… nothing. No spark. No pull. No lingering heat drawing me closer. Just an empty void where attraction should be.
And that’s for the best.
Relief settles in my chest.
This is business, nothing more.
No emotions, no complications. That’s how it should be. Hopefully, he won’t expect anything beyond that, because the idea of pretending, of forcing a connection that simply isn’t there, feels more exhausting than the marriage itself.
When my eyes find Dante’s again, it’s as if he knows exactly what’s running through my mind. That smirk deepens, his gaze flickering to my lips for the briefest moment before locking back onto mine. The sheer audacity of it sends a slow, unwelcome heat creeping up my neck.
Then he speaks, low and smooth, his voice slicing through the room with command.
“I see the introductions are going well.”
He muses, amusement laced into every syllable.
“I wasn’t sure how this would unfold, but now I’m glad I didn’t miss it.”
“Happy to know we could provide you with some entertainment.”
I retort, my tone sharper than intended. I hate the way my breath catches, how easily he unsettles me, like he’s found a way under my skin without even trying.
His smile doesn’t falter. If anything, it deepens, a slow, knowing curve of his lips.
“Oh, you’ve done more than that.”
And then, just like that, the moment vanishes. His expression shifts in an instant, as if the weight of the conversation was nothing more than a fleeting amusement.
“Meet your fiancé.”
Dante says, his voice deep, rich, and threaded with undeniable authority.
“Leonardo Salvatore.”
I don’t miss the subtle clench of his jaw at the word fiancé, a reaction that shouldn’t be there, considering he was the one who insisted on this arrangement in the first place.
Tilting my head slightly, I meet his gaze.
“Leonardo.”
I acknowledge, my tone cool and devoid of warmth.
He nods. “Harlow.”
The atmosphere is suffocating, thick enough to steal the air from my lungs. Dante’s gaze feels like a weight pressing against my shoulders, heavy, unwavering. His dark eyes linger on me, assessing, challenging. It’s infuriating.
An uneasy silence settles over before Giovanni clears his throat, subtly redirecting the room’s attention.
Dinner is served. Plates are filled, wine is poured, and conversation flows, but a quiet weight lingers, threading through every interaction like an invisible thread.
Later, papers are laid out, signatures exchanged, and the night unfolds with contracts signed and alliances cemented.
My life, signed away.
As the full weight of what has just transpired settles over me, Dante’s voice cuts through the room, demanding attention once more.
“Tomorrow,”
he announces, his tone absolute, brooking no argument.
“the engagement party will take place.”
No one questions the urgency.
No one hesitates.
Maybe I’m the only one who feels just how rushed this is. His words land like a gavel, sealing my fate in a way that feels unsettlingly final.
Dante’s relentless gaze fixed on me like a silent demand. Every time I glance up, I find him watching, as if I’m a puzzle he’s determined to unravel.
Later, I find myself seated in the living room with Giovanni and my brothers, the silence between us thick with unspoken words. Their intentions are unmistakable, evident in the way they watch me, in the reluctance that keeps them from voicing their thoughts. They expect me to stay, yet none of them seem to know how to ask.
Enzo, who had disappeared earlier, has returned, slipping back into the version of himself I had come to know over the past three months, almost. There’s a difference now, something more guarded in his composure, a shift too subtle to name but impossible to ignore.
My grandfather and cousin departed reluctantly, though not without a pointed look and a firm reminder to spend time with my new family, to at least give them a chance.
Dante and Leonardo had also taken their leave, and with their absence, the air felt noticeably lighter, no longer stifling. Yet, the weight of the night remained, pressing in from all sides, as if the very walls bore witness to the seismic shift in my world.
“You should stay here.”
Darion says at last, his tone matter-of-fact, though beneath the calm, there’s an unmistakable edge of protectiveness.
Which I don’t fully understand. He only just met me, and he’s made it clear he’s suspicious of the circumstances that led me here.
Niccolò leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees, his sharp green eyes narrowing slightly.
“He’s right. This house is secure. You’ll be safer here.”
I straighten, my resolve unwavering.
“I’m going back to my apartment.”
I state, my tone leaving no room for argument.
Giovanni shifts, his dark gaze locking onto mine with a gravity that makes it impossible to look away.
“It’s not safe.”
His voice firm.
“Things have changed, Harlow. You need to understand that. Word travels fast. People will already know who you are to us.”
I meet his gaze, unflinching.
“I’ve been on my own my entire life, Giovanni. Just because things have changed doesn’t mean I’ve suddenly lost the ability to take care of myself. I’ve done just fine without anyone looking over my shoulder.”
Niccolò sits back, a faint smirk curving his lips, one devoid of humour.
“That was before you had a target on your back.”
Darion’s voice is precise.
“You’re not just a Moretti anymore, you’re a Ricci now. And if that wasn’t enough, soon you’ll be a Salvatore as well, now that you’re officially engaged to their heir.”
His expression darkens.
“That makes you invaluable to three of the most powerful families in our world.”
The weight of their gazes presses down on me, but I refuse to yield.
“I appreciate the concern, truly, but I’m not staying,”
I say, my voice unwavering.
“I can handle myself. I promise.”
Giovanni exhales slowly, his jaw tightening. For all his glacial poise, there’s a flicker of something else beneath the surface, something almost paternal in the way he studies me. “Harlow.”
He says.
“You’re part of this family. Whether you like it or not, that means you’re under our protection.”
I don’t miss the steel in his words, but I won’t back down.
“I appreciate it,”
I repeat, softer this time.
“but I’m going back to my place. Please, don’t insist on this.”
I push to my feet, ending the discussion.
Enzo rises with me. He’s been silent through most of the conversation, just watching. Now, his expression remains impassive as he states firmly.
“If that’s what you want.”
His tone is clipped.
“I’ll drive you.”
I bid the others a brief goodbye before stepping outside, making my way toward Enzo’s car parked in the driveway.
The ride to my apartment is quiet, the tension thick in the confined space of the car. Neither of us speaks.
When we arrive, Enzo steps out first. I follow, my movement halted by the broad line of his shoulders as he scans the area, his instincts unerring. It’s only then that I notice men already stationed outside my building, standing like sentinels.
Enzo turns to them, his voice clipped.
“You don’t leave this post. I don’t care if your shift ends or if the world is burning. If anyone so much as looks at her the wrong way, you handle it.”
His tone drops.
“And if you screw it up, you’ll answer to me.”
The men stiffen instantly, their expressions shifting to something between fear and unwavering obedience. Enzo steps closer to one of them, his voice dipping into an icy growl.
“And if I find out anyone’s been slacking? You’ll wish you hadn’t.”
One of them nods quickly, his voice tight.
“Yes, sir. Understood.”
Satisfied, Enzo turns back to me, his expression softening, if only slightly.
“Security remains. No arguments. If you refuse to stay at our house, you’ll have guards on you twenty-four-seven.”
I study him, wary.
“I don’t think all of this is necessary.”
He tilts his head, considering me for a long moment before his lips press into a thin line.
“We’re family, Harlow. Whether you like it or not.”
I say nothing, stepping past him and into the solitude of my apartment.
Family.
The word still feels foreign.
Heavy.
Loaded with expectations I’ve never cared to carry.