6. Kara
Kara
I park my sedan near the stone fountain as the gate of the Rossi estate closes behind my car, I kill the engine, and sit in silence for a long moment. Every time I come back to this house, my shoulders instinctively tense up.
I grab my leather tote from the passenger seat and step out onto the gravel.
"Welcome home, Miss Kara," Lorenzo greets, stepping off the front porch to take my bag. He's in his late fifties, wearing his usual charcoal vest, his hands calloused from thirty years of managing my father's property.
"Thanks, Lorenzo." I nod, giving him a quiet, genuine smile. "Is my father in his office?"
"He's in the courtyard," Lorenzo replies softly, keeping his voice down as if the walls themselves are listening.
I walk up the wide stone steps and push through the front doors. The entry hall is grand, double-height ceilings, marble tile, and oil paintings of European landscapes that my father bought to make the house look respectable.
I make a brief detour up the grand staircase to my old bedroom on the second floor.
The room is exactly as I left it when I moved out two years ago. A queen-sized bed with white linens, a desk near the window, and bookshelves filled with my old law textbooks. I set my keys on the desk and walk over to the window, looking out over the manicured back garden.
My reflection in the glass catches my eye. I look tired.
And my neck still tingles when I think about Thursday night.
I close my eyes for two seconds, letting my forehead rest against the cool glass.
I’ve tried to purge it from my brain for forty-eight hours, but it isn't working. The memory of Leander’s hands on my hips, the sound of his low, raspy breath against my ear, the way he looked at me when we were on his entryway table—it's stuck under my skin.
It was supposed to be a mistake, I remind myself. A stupid, adrenaline-fueled lapse in judgment because Callahan was an asshole and the music was slow.
Except it didn't feel like a mistake when we were in his bed at four in the morning, moving slowly in the dark while the city was asleep outside. It felt real, quiet. It felt like something I’ve spent my entire life looking for without realizing it: a man who didn't treat me like a piece of glass to be displayed or a contract to be negotiated.
And then we spent twelve hours pretending it never happened while saving a man’s life.
He’s just a doctor, I tell my reflection sharply. A grumpy, stubborn surgeon who thinks he owns every hallway he walks down. You have obligations to perform.
A knock on my open bedroom door cuts off my thoughts.
I turn around. Elena, the head housekeeper, is standing in the doorway holding a tray with a porcelain teapot and two cups.
"Your father is waiting for you in the glass garden, Kara," Elena smiles warmly, setting the tray down on my desk. "He said not to keep him long."
"Thanks, Elena. I'll be right down."
I smooth down the front of my cream trousers, straighten my black silk blouse, and head down the back stairs toward the glass conservatory attached to the south wing of the house.
The conservatory is warm, filled with tropical ferns, blooming orchids, and the sharp scent of damp soil. Sitting at a round iron table near the center fountain is my father, Antonio Rossi.
He's sixty-two, wearing a crisp white shirt with the sleeves rolled up to his forearms, a gold watch on his left wrist, and his silver hair combed back neatly. He has a stack of shipping manifests spread across the table and a cup of black coffee at his elbow.
"You're twenty minutes late, Kara," Antonio grunts out, marking a box on the paper with a red pen.
"Good afternoon to you too, Father." I reply, pulling out the chair opposite him and taking a seat.
Antonio sets his pen down, removes his reading glasses, and looks at me across the table. His dark eyes are cool, analytical, and devoid of paternal warmth. To Antonio Rossi, everything in this world is a transaction.
"How is the new job at Metro General?" he asks, leaning back in his chair.
"It's fine," I reply, keeping my tone strictly neutral. "Busy. I spent the last three days auditing the surgical consent forms and reviewing liability claims."
Antonio scoffs softly, taking a sip of his coffee. "You're wasting your degree sitting in a hospital basement reading charts for sixty thousand a year."
Here we go again.
"It's seventy-five thousand," I correct. "And I earned it myself. No favors, no family connections."
"You earned a piece of paper," Antonio counters, setting his cup down with a sharp click against the saucer. "A piece of paper that looks nice on a wall, but doesn't buy security. In six months, nobody at that hospital will remember your name if a board member wants to replace you."
"I don't need them to remember my name," I answer, crossing my arms. "I need them to pay my salary so I can pay my rent."
Antonio stares at me for a long beat. "You still live in that cramped apartment in the city because you want to play independent woman."
"I live there because it's mine," I tell him, meeting his gaze head-on. "I pay for the lease, I turn the keys, and nobody comes through the front door unless I invite them."
Antonio waves a dismissive hand. "We aren't here to discuss your apartment, Kara. The hospital job was a temporary distraction to keep you quiet while we finalized the negotiations with the Moretti family."
My posture stiffens instantly. The faint, lingering warmth in my chest from thinking about Leander completely vanishes, replaced by a cold, familiar knot in my stomach.
"Negotiations," I repeat quietly.
"Arthur Bellini was at the estate on Thursday," Antonio continues, gathering his papers into a neat stack. "The final contracts for the eastern transit lines have been drafted. Don Roberto signed his portion of the agreement on Friday morning."
"And what did you sign, Father?" I ask, my voice dropping an octave, razor-sharp.
Antonio's jaw tightens slightly. "Don't use that tone with me, Kara. You know how this business works. You've known since you were twelve years old."
"I was twelve when you told me I was going to marry Vincenzo Moretti," I say, leaning forward, resting my forearms on the metal table. "I'm twenty-seven now. I have a law degree, a job, and my own life. I am not a line item on a transit manifest."
"You are a Rossi," Antonio quips, his voice quiet, hard, and absolute. "And your name carries responsibilities whether you like it or not."
"Vincenzo Moretti is an arrogant, unstable sociopath," I snap. "I've seen him at events. I've heard how he talks to people. He treats everyone around him like dirt under his shoe, and he thinks having Don Roberto's name makes him untouchable."
"Vincenzo is the heir to the largest distribution network on the East Coast," Antonio fires back, his knuckles turning white as he grips his pen. "When Roberto steps down or dies, Vincenzo takes the seat. Being his wife makes you the most powerful woman in this city."
Of course. That’s what this is all about.
"I don't want power in your world!" I snap, my voice echoing off the glass panels of the conservatory.
Silence settles over the room for three seconds. The trickle of the fountain near the orchids sounds loud in the quiet air.
I take a slow, deep breath through my nose, forcing my composure back into place.
Never lose your temper in a negotiation. It gives the other side leverage. This doesn’t feel like a negotiation though.
"I don't want his money, Father," I reply, keeping my voice level and cold. "And I don't want his ring. If you need transit rights through the north harbor, find another way to trade for them. Offer Roberto a higher percentage on the commercial clearance fees. Use your capital."
Antonio lets out a short, cynical breath through his nose. He stands up from his chair, walking around the table until he's standing right beside me, looking down at me with cold authority.
"You think this is about money?" Antonio asks deceptively soft.
"You think three percent on harbor fees stops a war if the Morettis decide to push south?
The betrothal isn't a trade, Kara. It's an anchor.
It guarantees that as long as you are carrying Vincenzo's children, Roberto Moretti will never touch my docks or my family. "
"Then buy better security," I hiss, looking up into his eyes without flinching. "Because I am not marrying him."
"You will marry him," Antonio declares, his voice dropping into a low, dangerous register. "The formal announcement will be made at the charity gala next month. You will wear the dress I buy for you, you will stand beside Vincenzo on that stage, and you will smile for the cameras."
"And if I refuse?" I ask, my chin going up.
Antonio looks at me with a cold, terrifying stillness that reminds me exactly whose blood runs in my veins.
"If you try to run from this, Kara," Antonio whispers softly, "I will make sure Metro General cancels your employment contract by tomorrow morning.
I will call the managing partners at every law firm in the state and make sure you can't get a job writing parking tickets.
And then I will send men to your apartment, pack your things, and bring you back here and lock you up until the wedding day. "
My chest heaves slightly, my breath catching in my throat.
He would do it. I know he would.
He's done worse to people who stood between him and a multi-million-dollar distribution deal. To my father, family loyalty isn't earned; it's enforced.
"You're a monster," I whisper.
Antonio doesn't even blink. "I'm a man who keeps his family alive in a city full of wolves. You've had five years to play attorney and pretend you're regular folk. That time is over."
He turns on his heel, picks up his stack of shipping manifests from the table, and walks toward the double doors leading back into the main house.
"Dinner is at seven," Antonio calls out over his shoulder, not looking back. "Wear something appropriate."
The glass doors click shut behind him.
I sit alone in the warm, humid silence of the conservatory for five minutes. The smell of damp earth and orchids feels suffocating now.
I reach down, pick up my phone from my lap, and stare at the dark screen.
My thumb hovers over my contacts list. I scroll down past my colleagues, past Marcus Henderson, past my old law school friends, until my finger stops on a newly saved number at the bottom of the screen.
Dr. Leander Sartori.
I stare at his name for a long beat.
He's a trauma surgeon, I think bitterly, my thumb tightening against the glass edge of the phone. He works eighty hours a week trying to patch people together. He lives in a quiet condo, drinks expensive espresso, and spends his mornings saving lives in Trauma Bay 1.
He has nothing to do with this world. He has no idea what kind of dark, twisted political game is happening behind the scenes of this city. If I bring my baggage to his doorstep, if I let him get close to me while all of this is going on, I will drag him straight into the mud with me.
Vincenzo Moretti would destroy a man like Leander just to prove he could.
You can't have him, a cold, quiet voice inside my head whispers. You can't have a normal life; you can't have a real job, and you certainly can't have a certain quiet, grumpy doctor who you’ve thought about since that night.
I slip the phone back into my pocket, stand up from the table, and walk out of the conservatory.
As I climb the stairs back to my old bedroom, the reality of my situation settles heavy on my chest. The betrothal isn't just an inconvenience anymore, It's a massive, concrete wall standing between me and any chance at a real future.
I stand in the middle of my childhood room, looking at the neatly made bed and the empty desk.
If I want to be free, I can't just run away from my father. I have to break the contract myself.
And until I do, I have to keep Leander as far away from me as possible.
I spend the rest of the evening sitting through an agonizing, three-course dinner in the main dining room.
My father sits at the head of the long mahogany table, cutting his steak with precise, rhythmic movements, talking to his underboss, Gianni, about harbor security and shipping routes.
I sit three chairs down, picking at my salad, answering in short, one-word sentences whenever Antonio asks a direct question.
By nine-thirty, the house is quiet.
I pack back up my small overnight bag, slip down the back stairs without saying goodbye to anyone, and walk out to my car. Lorenzo is standing near the fountain, holding the gate remote in his hand.
"Heading back to the city, Miss Kara?" he asks softly, stepping up to my driver's side window.
"I have an early shift tomorrow, Lorenzo," I answer, rolling down the window half an inch.
Lorenzo looks at me with a gentle, sympathetic expression, his old eyes crinkling at the corners. "Be careful out there, Kara.."
"I always am, Lorenzo," I reply. "Goodnight."
He presses the remote, and the gates swing open, releasing my car onto the dark, winding road leading down from the hills.
I drive fast, keeping my hands tight on the steering wheel, watching the dark trees give way to the bright, artificial glow of the city skyline in the distance.
When I reach my apartment building, I park in my assigned space, carry my bag up the three flights of stairs, and unlock my front door.
The apartment is cold and dark. I set my bag by the couch, walk over to the kitchen counter, and pour myself a glass of cold water from the pitcher in the fridge.
I lean my hips against the counter, taking a slow sip, looking out the floor-to-ceiling window at the city streets below. Two miles away, the dark blue glass tower of Metro General stands against the night sky, its surgical wing lit up like a beacon.
He's probably still there, I think, my gaze fixing on the red light atop the hospital's helipad. Probably scrubbing in for a late-night intake or reviewing chart handoffs in his office.
I picture his sharp jawline, the cold, intense focus in his dark eyes, the way his voice dropped into that deep, raspy tone when he was inside me.
An ache forms in my chest.
I can't let him touch me again, I tell myself firmly.
Tomorrow morning at seven-forty-five, I will walk into Trauma Bay 2. I will hold my clipboard, I will review his consent waivers, and I will be the cold, professional medico-legal liaison he expects me to be.
No smiles. No glances. No lingering touches near the scrub sinks.
I drain the rest of the water, set the glass in the sink, and walk down the dark hallway toward my bedroom.
It's safer for both of us this way, I think, closing my bedroom door and turning the lock.
Much safer.