Chapter 12 Zoë
Zoe
The air outside the library hits me like a slap—cold, sharp, carrying the bite of rain and exhaust. It’s a rude awakening after the climate-controlled hush of the stacks. My boots crunch on the gravel path, the sound too loud in the stretched space between Gio and me.
Silence.
He doesn’t look at me. He just walks—long stride, purpose-driven, tension rolling off him in a way that vibrates against my skin. The deal is done. The terms are set.
The quiet feels like we’re moving toward a cliff edge.
“Where are we going?” I ask, adjusting my bag on my shoulder. The strap digs in, a physical reminder of the weight I just agreed to carry.
“Penalty Box,” he says.
I stop. “Absolutely not.”
He takes two more steps before he registers I’m no longer beside him. Then he turns. The streetlamp catches the hard line of his jaw, the shadows under his eyes. He looks exhausted.
He also looks like he doesn’t care what I want.
“It’s a Wednesday,” I say, keeping my voice flat. “The team will be there. The gossip mill will be operating at maximum capacity. Walking in there with you right now isn’t a narrative, Gio. It’s a suicide pact.”
“Exactly.”
He walks back toward me, closing the distance until he’s crowding my space again. He does that—invades my perimeter like he owns the zoning rights.
“They’re expecting me to hide,” he says, voice low. “They’re expecting me to hole up in the townhouse with the blinds drawn. If we show up at the Box—if we get a table, eat food—it tells them I’m not scared.”
“It tells them you’re stupid,” I counter.
“It tells them the story is changing.”
His gaze drops to my mouth, then snaps back to my eyes.
“You wanted to see how this works, Zoe? This is how it works. We don’t run from the noise. We get louder than it.”
I stare at him.
He’s serious.
He’s proposing we walk straight into the lion’s den—the place where every rumor gets dissected over cheap wings and lukewarm beer—and perform the first act of our arrangement.
“You’re using me as bait,” I say.
“I’m using you as a shield,” he corrects. “And you’re using me for access. We both get what we want.”
I hate that the logic holds. If I want Elena Moretti—if I want the door that opens—I have to pay. The currency is my reputation. The venue is a sports bar.
“Fine,” I say. “But I’m driving.”
“No.”
“I’m not getting into your car, Gio. I don’t trust your temper behind the wheel right now, and I’m not letting you drive us to the Penalty Box.”
His jaw ticks. He looks like he wants to argue, then checks the impulse. “Fine. We walk.”
The Penalty Box is exactly what it sounds like. Dark wood. Neon signs advertising domestic beer. Walls plastered with framed jerseys—players who went pro, players who didn’t. The air inside is thick with fried food, yeast, and testosterone.
Loud in the specific way sports bars are loud. Televisions blare replays from two nights ago. Pool balls crack. Laughter roars.
The second we step inside, the noise shifts.
A ripple. Heads turn. Conversations dip, then surge back up—frantic, hushed. Eyes track us like radar.
The weight hits instantly. Dozens of gazes sliding over me, cataloging, judging.
There she is. The girl standing by the wreckage.
My spine tightens. Instinct snaps me into posture—shoulders back, chin lifted, face composed.
Strategic partner, I remind myself.
Gio moves closer. His arm brushes mine with every step, close enough to read the way he intends it to read. He doesn’t hide. He doesn’t slink toward a corner booth. He walks us toward the bar like he owns the mortgage.
“Rossi!”
The shout comes from a front table. Dante. He’s standing, beer in hand, a grin that doesn’t reach his eyes. Beside him, Adrian, Declan, and Cole are already watching—expressions neutral, alert.
“Look who decided to join the living,” Dante says.
“Couldn’t stay away,” Gio replies dryly. “You know how I love the ambiance.”
He pulls out a stool for me.
For me.
I sit. Gio takes the seat beside me, close enough to box me in.
The positioning is deliberate. Possession without words. His thigh presses against mine, the solid weight of his shoulder anchoring me. It’s grounding.
It’s also infuriating.
“You want the usual?” Adrian asks Gio.
“Heineken,” Gio says.
Then he turns to me. “You?”
“Water,” I say.
“Chardonnay,” Gio corrects, already looking at Adrian. “Get the bottle.”
I stiffen. “I said water.”
“You’re at a bar, Zoe,” he says, still scanning the room. “Drink like it.”
“We walked here,” I snap. “I need a clear head.”
“I’ll make sure you get home.”
I turn toward him, ready to snap back for dictating my intake, but he’s already looking away—jaw tight, eyes tracking movement.
He’s here to wage war.
“Rough day?” Declan asks. He’s looking at Gio, but the question lands on me too.
“Rumors are getting creative,” Gio says. “You see the Whisperer post?”
“Hard to miss,” Declan replies.
“They paralyzed anyone yet?” Gio asks lightly, eyes dark. “Or are we still warming up?”
“Just that you’re a sociopath with a lead foot,” Dante says, sliding a coaster across the table. “Standard Tuesday.”
Gio huffs. “Good to know the bar is low.”
The waitress drops the wine bottle and two glasses. Gio pours without asking. Fills mine halfway. Slides it toward me.
I look at the pale liquid. Then at him.
He takes a sip of his beer, throat working as he swallows. Still doesn’t look at me. He leans back, one arm draped along the back of my chair, fingers brushing my shoulder.
A claim.
A brand.
I feel the eyes of the room burning into my back—waiting for the crack, the discomfort, the retreat.
I pick up the glass. Take a sip. Cold. Crisp. Expensive. I set it down with a deliberate clink.
Gio’s fingers tighten slightly against my shoulder. He feels it. He knows I’m playing along.
“Zoe,” Dante says, turning to me. “How’s the portfolio? You hear back from Milan yet?”
The table goes silent.
Adrian freezes mid-chew. Declan’s gaze sharpens. Even Dante looks like he realizes he stepped on a land mine. Cole goes still, the beer label hanging halfway off the bottle in his fingers.
I freeze.
The rejection is still raw—an open wound I haven’t figured out how to close. Talking about it in front of Gio, who already knows, who already saw me at my lowest, feels like standing naked in a blizzard.
I paste on a smile. It feels brittle. “They decided to go in a different direction.”
“Fuck that,” Gio says.
It isn’t a question. It’s a verdict. He sets his beer down hard, glass thudding against wood.
“Language,” Adrian mutters.
Gio ignores him.
“They picked someone else,” Gio continues, eyes locked on mine. “Someone with a famous last name. Someone who gets to work once and go twice as far.”
I stare at him.
He isn’t comforting me.
He’s angry on my behalf.
It’s a dangerous distinction.
“It is what it is,” I say, steady even as my stomach twists. “I’m moving on.”
“You shouldn’t have to,” he snaps.
“Rossi,” Declan warns.
“No,” Gio says, turning on him. “You don’t get it. She’s better than them. Better than the program they picked. They passed on her because she doesn’t fit their mold.”
The air is thick with his anger. Suffocating.
And validating.
“I appreciate the defense,” I cut in before it boils over. “But I don’t need a white knight.”
“I know,” Gio says, voice dropping, private despite the audience. “You need leverage.”
He takes a long pull of his beer, then looks back at me. The heat in his eyes burns brighter.
“You got the access. Now you get the revenge.”
I blink. “Revenge?”
“Success,” he corrects. “The kind that makes them regret every email they sent. The kind that makes them wish they’d picked you.”
He leans in, shoulder pressing mine, breath ghosting over my ear.
“We’re going to make them watch, Zoe. And we’re going to make sure they know exactly what they missed.”
I shiver.
Anticipation. Dark. Hungry. It matches his gaze.
“Is that part of the deal?” I murmur.
“That’s the bonus.”
His hand slides from my shoulder to the back of my neck, thumb stroking the sensitive skin there. Possessive. Grounding. Intimate in a way that has nothing to do with business.
“Drink your wine,” he says.
I do. One long swallow. The alcohol burns away the taste of rejection.
Gio watches me—heavy, unreadable. He doesn’t smile. He doesn’t soften. He catalogs the reaction, files it away.
Around us, the bar noise swells again—laughter, shouting, clinking glasses—but the bubble around our table holds.
We sit in the eye of it.
And for the first time all night, I can’t tell whether I’m the shield or the one holding the lightning rod.