10
Luna
Option one—and the most probable: Rocky is lying.
I repeat this mantra as my Uber stops a quarter-mile from the Romano estate, but the words ring hollow in my head.
The entire trip has barely dulled the adrenaline coursing through my veins, and my heartbeat has now settled into something resembling normal.
I pride myself on holding my own in combat. What I lack in bulk, I make up for in speed and agility. But fuck, he’s strong. And hard. My core ripples again as the image surges back unbidden—the way his hand wrapped around my throat, the raw power in his grip somehow both terrifying and thrilling.
He was unyielding, too, until I touched him and something cracked in his perfect control, and for one breath, one heartbeat, he softened for me. I felt invincible in that moment.
Fuck, I want to touch him again. The thought snakes through my mind, dangerous and tempting .
Priorities, Luna. Now is not the time to dwell on a man who could snap you in half—or worse, be plotting to sell you to the highest bidder.
I give myself a firm mental shake. Okay, where was I? Right, Rocky has to be lying.
But what if he isn’t?
If what Rocky said is true, I’m screwed. I try to imagine Clemenza planning to sell me off like a used stereo. Sure, he’d make some money, but he’d never live to spend it. Papa would gut him. He wouldn’t dare.
But why would Rocky lie?
He seemed to have no ambition beyond sipping coffee and pointing me toward the door. Hell, he’d practically kicked me out of it—right after every inch of his body betrayed how much he wanted me to stay.
“Here we are, miss.” The Uber driver’s voice yanks me from my increasingly heated thoughts. “You wanted The Turning Point Chippy, right?” He grins at me through the rearview mirror, oblivious to the knot churning in my gut.
As he slows to a stop in front of the chicken-and-chips shop, I offer a half-hearted smile. “Thanks, Billy.”
Frequently sneaking off on my bodyguards means I’m on a first-name basis with almost every Uber driver within a five-mile radius, but I’m not about to let Billy know where I live. I wait for him to drive out of sight before turning toward the estate.
It’s not a long walk, but every step feels heavier than the last, every muscle screaming in protest—either from fighting Rocky or from the ebb of adrenaline . . .
In my brain is a catalog of excuses, each one perfected for why I stayed out all night. Which one I use depends on what story Diego, my bodyguard slash driver, has told Papa.
Mos t evenings, Diego drops me off at college for a sorely needed tutorial—believable considering the abysmal state of my grades—and then I disappear into an Uber to return at a carefully arranged time. No harm, no foul. But last night was the first time I didn’t return.
The Capitoline wolf atop the Romano estate glares down at me from its perch on the wrought iron gates, judging as I approach. I don’t blame it. I missed my ride last night and arrived on foot, no doubt looking like I’ve been thoroughly . . . handled.
I’m barely three steps from the gates when Pablo, the guard, materializes from the shadows like a ghost.
“Signorina?” he calls, brow arched in surprise and worry.
I hover on the verge of blurting it all out: I was drugged, Pablo. Some guy saved me, but I think the world’s about to implode around me.
I can almost see the estate erupting into chaos—gates slamming shut, men scrambling with guns, my father roaring for blood, tearing apart the city to find whoever dared touch his daughter.
But if Rocky’s right and the people I trust are actually plotting against me, I’d just be handing myself to the wolves on a silver platter.
“ Buongiorno , Pablo. I’m alright,“ I reply with a wave, forcing lightness into my voice as I step past him.
He says nothing, but I don’t miss the way his hand hovers near his radio. Great. They’ll know I’m back before I even reach the front door.
The estate looms ahead, cold stone and towering columns, a palace-turned-prison. The winding driveway stretches endlessly, each step in my heels bringing me closer to the inevitable.
As predicted, the heavy front doors swing open as I reach the top of the steps. There they are—of course. The welcoming committee.
Papa stands just inside the foyer in his thick terry robe, a cigar between his fingers, radiating controlled fury. Clemenza is beside him, fully dressed in his usual suit, arms crossed, expression unreadable. In the background, Diego hovers nervously, his gaze flicking between them and me.
Papa speaks first. “Where the hell have you been, Luna? I’ve combed the entire city for you!”
I study his face, searching for genuine concern beneath the anger. Would he look different if he knew what Clemenza was planning? Or would he dismiss my fears like he dismisses everything else?
“I wasn’t in the city, Papa. I was in Evanston,” the lie comes easily.
“What?” Papa’s voice rises, disbelief and fury blending into a familiar symphony. He whirls on my bodyguard. “Diego! How could you—”
“Diego had no idea, Papa,” I cut in. “He dropped me off at school and I told him to wait. I took the other exit and sneaked away.”
Diego, playing his part perfectly, bows his head in frustration. But Clemenza is standing too still. There’s a small lift at the corner of his mouth, enough to set my nerves on fire. Is that amusement at my lie or satisfaction that his plan is working?
Diego steps forward, head still bowed. “ Signor Romano, I can’t tell you how sorry I am—”
Papa slices the air with his hand, cutting Diego off. His eyes swing back to me, expression shifting to one of earnest frustration. “I thought you’d left the childish games behind, stellina. This is no Paris. Chicago is getting too dangerous for us Romanos.”
For once, Papa, I agree with you, though not for the reasons you think.
“Why did you go to Evanston?” His voice hardens again, and his cigar smoke curls around us, acrid and suffocating, like the lies I’m about to tell.
“My friend’s getting married. Last night was her hen party. I couldn’t exactly have Diego follow me there. It would be . . . too embarrassing.” I throw a quick apologetic glance at Diego, building the fiction.
Papa’s face flushes darker, his voice booming. “I’d rather have you embarrassed and alive!”
I fake a flinch, then soften my voice in contrition. “Alright, fine. I get it, Papa. It won’t happen again.” I glance meaningfully at Clemenza and Diego, trying to get Papa alone. “Look, are we about done here? I need to talk to you.”
Papa takes a long drag of his cigar and exhales roughly. My heart pounds against my ribs as I wait.
Please, just this once, choose me over—
“Clem and I have business to discuss now, but you can come by later.” His eyes flicker over me, taking in my disheveled state. “After you’ve cleaned yourself up.”
Of course. Clemenza comes first. He always has.
“Sure, Papa,” I scoff, keeping my voice steady.
I glance at Clemenza and hold his gaze just a little longer than necessary. He meets my stare head-on, then smiles—a smug, satisfied curving of his lips that makes my skin crawl.
Is he smiling because he knows I can’t tell Papa the truth? Or that Papa wouldn’t believe me if I did? My reputation for sneaking out and spinning elaborate cover stories doesn’t help my case.
Shi t. My habit of telling lies might just get me killed.
Feigning defeat, I slump my shoulders and head toward the kitchen. It’s not hunger driving me—my stomach’s a knot of nerves—but the hope that Clemenza would follow.
I grab a water bottle from the fridge, the cold draft calming as it hits my face. In less than a minute, the kitchen door opens, then closes with a thud that seems to echo in the silence.
There you are. I knew you’d come.
Forcing casualness, I lean against the cool metal of the fridge twist the cap off, and take a long drink.
“You’ll worry him into an early grave with your sneaking around, Luna,” Clemenza’s voice slides through the quiet, wrapping around me like icy fingers.
I keep my back to him for a beat, letting the tension build, and then I spin around and force a smile.
Injecting just enough insolence to bait him, I smirk. “We both know you worry about me more than him. Perhaps if I were a son, it’d be different. Although these days, it’s far more profitable to have a daughter, wouldn’t you say?”
He chuckles softly, then takes a step toward me.
“You didn’t go to Evanston, Luna.” His dark eyes glitter with something I’ve never noticed before—or maybe never wanted to see. “I could smell that lie from clear across the room.”
“You’re right, I wasn’t in Evanston.” I meet his gaze steadily.
“Tell me where you were and who you were with.” He looks around, and his voice lowers conspiratorially. “You know you can always trust me.”
My pulse spikes, but I keep my expression neutral and mirror his teasing smile. Time to test Rocky’s warning.
“I think you already know, Clemenza.”
There’s a flicker of something dark in his gaze. “One thing I know for sure is that you’re in trouble.”
I s wallow the lump in my throat and feign nonchalance. “Am I?”
“Look, if someone is threatening you . . . telling you to do things . . . to hide things from your family, you don’t have to do what they say, Luna. Let me help you.”
“There is one thing you could do, Clemenza.” I pause, watching his face carefully.
“Help me cook up a better story to sell Papa so he’ll beef up my protective detail.“ I step closer to him and get right in his face. “Maybe something about the gridlock on the way to College. Slow-moving traffick increases the chances of being kidnapped, right?
I deliberately emphasize the words: ‘sell,’ ‘traffick,’ and ‘kidnapped,’ Each one a bullet aimed at his facade.
He doesn’t say anything at first, and then there’s a shift in the air as he emits a dark chuckle. It’s like watching a mask slip just enough to glimpse the monster underneath.
“Cara, what would be the point of speaking to him? It’s bound to happen, gridlock or not. With the way you keep sneaking around, no one can protect you. Not your Papa, not Diego, not the Rocky place you were hiding all night, and clearly not me.”
Oh shit. Clemenza knows who I was with last night.
“So do us all a favor, and stop running, Luna.”
“Okay,” I say flippantly, despite the panic clawing up my throat. “I’ll stop sneaking around.”
I take a step forward, closing the distance between us, and before I can second-guess myself, I lean in to hug him.
He slips his arms around me, patting my back in that familiar, soothing way, and for a second I want to pretend this is all a horrible nightmare. But I know I’m no longer dealing with the Cl emenza who attended my recitals. This man is a stranger wearing his face.
I pull back, smiling up at him like nothing’s wrong. “Thank you, Clemenza. You’re always the best.” The words taste like acid.
I turn and walk out, my fingers crushing the water bottle, plastic crinkling as water sloshes over my whitened knuckles. My pulse drowns out my footsteps as I climb the stairs with my trembling legs. Inside my room, I lock the door and slump against it, exhaling shakily.
Holy fuck. I’m screwed.
I yank off my purse, fishing out my dead phone with shaky fingers. I plug it in and watch the black screen until it flickers to life.
Notifications flood in—a few from Diego and Clemenza and a barrage from Delilah.
My stomach knots as I scroll through Delilah’s increasingly frantic texts:
Luna, what’s the holdup?
Come out NOW, or I’m coming after you!
WHERE ARE YOU!!!
Please tell me you’re okay!
Luna?? Where are you???
My thumb hovers over the screen. She sounds . . . genuinely worried. Could she really be that good? That’s the thing about betrayal—it makes you question everything, even genuine concern.
Clemenza has just bared his teeth, confident I can’t escape. Is Delilah really involved?
There’s only one way to find out.