Chapter Thirty-Eight Ella
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Ella
We’re on our way back from the airport, Tiero’s black SUV bumping along the busy streets of Palermo. A middle-aged man named Fabio is driving. Apparently, he’s Tiero’s regular driver, though I haven’t seen him on the job before.
The passenger seat is taken by a muscled man who introduced himself as Alonso. He looks unmistakably Italian, with tanned olive skin, dark eyes, and black hair cropped short. I assume he’s one of Tiero’s bodyguards. I’m just not sure why he’s with me instead of Tiero.
From the back seat, I watch the scenery shift from city chaos to rolling green countryside.
I’m sad Rhia had to cut our trip short. After Zoe left, I’d been looking forward to having her to myself for a while. But it wasn’t meant to be.
At least we got a little over a week together. That’s better than nothing, right?
And I can’t fault her for flying home. This account is a huge opportunity.
As unfortunate as her leaving is, now that Tiero is in the picture, being here alone makes it easier to spend time with him without that nagging guilt that I’m abandoning my best friend.
In that sense, the timing couldn’t be better.
Lost in thought, the hour-long drive to Catania passes faster than it should.
We pull up to Tiero’s office building, and Fabio steers the SUV through enormous iron gates guarded by two men on each side.
Everything around Tiero is heavily protected. When I’m with him, I probably couldn’t be safer.
Fabio drops me in the courtyard near the entrance. As I step out, I take in the De Marco headquarters.
It’s not what I expected.
The building is an old Catanian palazzo, likely centuries old, two stories high in a wide U-shape with columns and arches lining each level. Potted trees and climbing greenery soften the stone courtyard, making it feel more like a private residence than a place where serious business is conducted.
I climb the shallow steps and tilt my head back, taking in the full expanse. In the right-hand corner, a tower rises above the roofline. It looks like something out of Rapunzel. I half expect a girl with impossibly long blonde hair to lean out and let down her braid for a waiting lover.
The walls are cream with the faintest blush of pink. Warm. Almost welcoming.
A stark contrast to what I imagine Tiero’s business dealings are actually like.
I’d pictured something modern. Sharp lines. Dark glass. Steel and intimidation. A building that warns you not to cross the man inside.
Then again, maybe this is deliberate. Maybe he prefers to disarm before he strikes.
I shake my head lightly.
I’m totally overthinking it.
Alonso appears at my side and gestures toward the open front door.
Actually, front door is an understatement.
What I step through feels more like a medieval fortification. The door is massive, thick wood reinforced with iron, studded with bolts and heavy locks.
Butterflies dance in my stomach as I cross into the foyer. I’m excited to see Tiero again.
I look around, and my eyes widen.
This is not what I expected.
The exterior promised old-world charm. Inside is another universe entirely. The twenty-first century has taken over.
The entrance is a vast open space with soaring ceilings.
They must have knocked down walls to create it.
Everything is crisp white and sleek, not remotely homey.
An elevator gleams in the right-hand corner, likely running all the way up to the tower.
To the left, a grand staircase curves upward with quiet authority.
Corridors branch off in both directions, lined with evenly spaced windows that flood the space with light.
A pretty brunette in her thirties looks up from the reception desk and smiles. “Miss O’Neil?”
“Yes. Buongiorno.” I return the smile as I approach.
“Signor De Marco is expecting you. Marcelo will take you up.”
She gestures toward a large, broad-shouldered man standing a few feet away, who has been observing our exchange without blinking. His head is shaved clean, and a dark tattoo disappears beneath the collar of his shirt. He looks carved from stone.
No one gets past him without permission.
Marcelo nods once and motions toward an elevator I hadn’t noticed before. I thank the receptionist and walk over to him. Up close, he’s even more imposing. There’s not a hint of a smile. I’m not convinced he knows how.
Alonso slips down a corridor and disappears as Mr. Stoneface and I wait.
The elevator doors slide open. An elderly gentleman steps out and pauses.
His gaze travels slowly over me.
The fine hairs at the back of my neck rise.
Who is he? And why does he make my skin prickle?
I step aside to let him pass. He gives me a curt nod and murmurs, “Arrivederci,” to Marcelo before heading for the exit.
Marcelo steps in behind me and presses the button for the second floor.
We probably could have taken the stairs faster. I almost wish we had. In the confined space, his size feels magnified, and I’m acutely aware of how small I am next to him.
Marcelo.
I wonder what his name means.
I pull out my phone and Google it. Even before the results load, I’m fairly sure it’s connected to Mars, the god of war.
When the definition appears, I bite my lip to stop myself from smiling.
Marcelo means little warrior.
Little.
I glance sideways at him. He’s the opposite of little. The warrior part, though, feels accurate. At least judging by the exterior.
Maybe he’s secretly a giant teddy bear.
Yeah. Right.
The thought almost makes me laugh. Internally, of course. I have no intention of explaining to Mr. Stoneface why I’m amused.
The elevator dings.
We step out onto the second floor. Marcelo leads me down a long corridor lined with windows and glass doors that open onto a balcony running the length of the building.
On the opposite side are spacious offices, some large enough to house multiple partitioned workstations.
People work quietly and efficiently, barely glancing up as we pass.
At the end of the corridor, a desk marks the entrance to what must be Tiero’s private office. Behind it sits a well-dressed, middle-aged woman with kind eyes and a professional smile.
Santino stands guard by a closed door, and Marcelo moves to join him. They could be brothers. Same build. Same intensity. Same commitment to whatever brutal gym routine keeps them that size. They’re both enormous.
Although Santino might outweigh Marcelo by a few pounds.
“Buongiorno,” I greet them.
“Buongiorno, Miss O’Neil. I’m Marta, Signor De Marco’s personal assistant.” She gestures toward the guarded door. “He’s expecting you. You can go right in.”
The words send a small tremor through me.
Nerves flutter in my stomach, equal parts excitement and anticipation.
I’m about to see him again.
And I can’t help wondering what he has planned for me today.