4 | Mutually Beneficial
FIORELLA
Luca doesn’t show.
Not when I text him that I’m cooking his favorite—Pasta alla Norma with extra eggplant and burrata. Not when I text him I cashed my check. Not after I call him four times and they all go straight to voicemail.
Mia is sprawled on the couch, jeans unbuttoned to make room for Luca’s untouched plate of pasta she happily devoured, while Lila sings off-key in the shower loud enough to shake the picture frames. The apartment feels too alive for how restless I am.
By eleven, I’m practically tearing my hair out.
“I’m just going to swing by the restaurant,” I announce, tugging the strap of my heel into place.
Mia doesn’t even look up. “I thought you were off tonight?”
“Just checking on my brother,” I mutter, grabbing my purse.
That gets her attention. She props herself on her elbows. “Ellie—he’s a grown man. Let him figure it out. You can’t baby him forever.”
“He’s twenty-one,” I snap, sharper than I mean to. “He asked for help, and I turned him down. He might be in trouble.”
Mia starts to protest, but I’m already out the door.
The night air bites colder than I expect. It sneaks under my blazer, billowing the silk of my blouse.
The Uber ride to the restaurant feels longer than usual. The streets are nearly empty, the city running on fumes this late. When I push through the door, Angelo is halfway through his mopping. He jumps, the mop handle slipping from his hand.
“Ella—Jesus.” He clutches his chest theatrically. “You scared the life outta me. What are you doing here?”
My eyes sweep the empty restaurant, searching for Luca’s familiar slouch. “Is he in the back?”
Angelo shakes his head. “Haven’t seen him since after lunch rush.”
Something cold opens up in my gut. “Thanks.”
“You okay?” he asks, eyes narrowing. “Need a ride home? I’m about done here—”
“I’m okay, thanks,” I cut in. “I’ll just swing by my parents’ place. Maybe he stopped there.”
I’m gone before he can offer again.
The street between the restaurant and my parents’ house is quiet—just the low hum of distant traffic and the occasional wet hiss of tires on asphalt when a car passes. I’m halfway down the block when I hear it:
“Miss Leoni?”
I turn, pulse skipping.
A sleek black car idles by the curb, tinted windows glinting under the lamplight. One is rolled down, just enough to reveal the driver’s face—sharp and expressionless.
I take a cautious step back from the curb, clutching my purse tighter.
“That’s her,” someone says from deeper in the car.
“You Luca Leoni’s sister?”
The air leaves my lungs. “Who’s asking?”
“That doesn’t matter,” the driver says smoothly. “We’re here to take you to him.”
A hollow laugh escapes me. “Forgive me if I don’t just climb into a car with two strangers because you know my brother’s name.”
The driver leans forward, holding out a phone. “Then maybe this will help.”
I shouldn’t look—but curiosity wins.
I glance at the screen, and my stomach turns.
Luca. Slumped in a chair, wrists bound behind his back. He looks unharmed—but there’s a gun pressed hard against his temple.
The ground seems to crumble beneath my feet.
The screen goes dark.
“Get in the car, Miss Leoni,” the driver says quietly. “He’s waiting for you.”
----
The car stops in front of a large, imposing villa. The door opens for me and the driver offers his hand. I don’t take it. I slide out on my own, hollow without my phone or purse—the men took them before I climbed in—so whatever this is, I’m on my own.
A second man rises and steps up to my side, wedging me between him and the other one. They steer me up a long, tree-lined driveway into a foyer gleaming with dark, polished marble. The scent of cigar smell hangs heavy in the air, cut by something sharp—cologne, maybe.
“Where is he?” I ask, trying to keep my voice steady.
One of the men only nods toward a set of double doors at the far end. They guide me there without a word. A hand catches the heavy mahogany and pushes it open.
The room beyond is dim and I have to blink a few times to let my eyes adjust after the blaring lights in the foyer.
Then I see him, and my stomach drops.
Luca sits bound to a chair in the center of the room, wrists tied behind him, two men flanking him with guns in their hands. For a second I don’t recognize him—pale and shaking—he looks almost broken.
His eyes find mine and he snarls, “What the fuck is she doing here?!”
I lurch toward him, instincts overpowering common sense, but a large hand clamps my arm and pins me against a broad chest. “Stay put,” the man says, voice flat.
My fingers fumble at the hem of my blouse as I choke back tears. “How much do you want?” I force the words out.
The man next to me snorts. “Take her to the boss.”
Another firm hand catches my arm and they drag me through a second door on the other side of the room. Luca calls after me, voice breaking, “Ella!”
I hiss back a retort, sharp and final: “Don’t say anything.”
The second door opens into an office that smells of leather and cigars, quiet enough to hear the blood roaring in my ears. A long desk faces the door; two heavy chairs sit opposite it. Behind the desk a man leans forward, forearms braced on the polished walnut, fingers threaded together.
My throat goes dry.
It’s him.
The man from the party. The one who made my heart stutter with a single glance.
He doesn’t stand. He only lifts his head, lips quirking like he’s amused, but his eyes are icy.
“Ciao, bellezza,” he says, and his low voice cuts right through my chest.
I force out a breath. “What do you want?”
He inclines his head once and lets his gaze travel lazily over me, assessing. I tighten my blazer around myself, suddenly feeling very small.
“That’s no way to speak to a gentleman,” he says, smile slow and dangerous.
“Gentlemen don’t kidnap people,” I snap.
The smile deepens into something that fills the pit of my stomach with ice. “Do you know what your brother did, amore?”
My hands ball into fists. “I’ll pay you back. I have some money saved—” I start.
“You have two hundred grand in savings?” he asks, incredulous.
“Two hundred grand?!” I repeat, horrified.
“That’s what your brother owes me.” He says it like a fact, not a threat.
My world tips sideways. “What did he do?”
He waves a hand, casual. “That’s not for you to worry about, bella.” He leans forward a fraction. “What’s your name?”
I bristle. “Sara.” My voice comes out thin and ridiculous; a reflexive, stupid lie.
He chuckles low and dark. “Don’t lie to me, piccola fiore.”
Heat lurches through me. “Why would you ask if you already know?”
“Because I like to hear it from you.” His voice drops, rough like gravel. It slides down my spine and sets fire to something I don’t want lit.
I swallow. “Ella.”
“Your whole name.”
“Fiorella Leoni,” I say, the syllables tasting foreign and strangely intimate in my mouth.
He rolls my name around like a coin. “Fiorella.” His gaze finds mine and something flickers—curiosity, amusement—ownership. “So what are we going to do about your brother’s little mistake?”
“I’ll take out a loan,” I say too quickly. “I’ll work more shifts and extra gigs—give me time and I’ll get you the money. I promise.”
He leans back, the shadow of his brow making his eyes deeper. “This isn’t just about money, fiore.”
I try to laugh it off, brittle. “Look, if he hurt your feelings—”
The smile that answers is all teeth and danger. “Do you know who I am?”
I look at him—at the unfairly handsome cut of his face, the broad shoulders, the black ink curling from beneath his shirt at the neck and hands. He looks like a villain from an action film, but the kind of villain who takes his time with things—toys with his prey.
“I’m sorry if you’re… famous,” I say, the words stupid and clumsy.
He doesn’t bother to correct me. One of the men behind me says, neutral, “He’s Santo Valenti.”
I meet Santo’s eyes. “Is that supposed to mean something?”
He doesn’t blink. “Sit, Fiorella.” The command is absolute.
I obey.
“Così, brava,” he says with a small, pleased smirk. Good girl.
My fingers dig into the leather of the armrests because I don’t trust my hands not to shake. “No need for praise, Mr. Valenti,” I say harshly, “just tell me how I get my brother out of here.”
He studies me as if he’s committing every detail to memory, then tilts his head. “My world runs on lessons as much as transactions. He stole from me. What message do you think it sends if I simply let it slide?”
“I’m not asking you to let it slide—I’ll pay. I can—” My voice cracks and there’s a stinging behind my eyes.
He leans forward over the desk until the space between us grows taut with toxic tension. The cedar-and-leather scent of him presses against my face.
“If one errand boy steals from me and pays me back a little at a time,” he says softly, dangerously, “the others start to think they can do the same. Then the suppliers do it. Then the allies test the borders. I can’t have that.”
My hands clench at my knees. “So what then? What do you plan to do—kill him?” Tears spill down my face before I can stop them, the last shred of my composure faltering.
Santo tilts his head, almost curious. “Don’t cry, bella.” There is no gentleness in it. Only cold, efficient observation. “There is another option.”
My throat goes tight. “What?”
He smiles—the kind of smile that rearranges the air. “I could make you a deal.”
----
OOOOOH. What do we think of that? ???? How did you like it in there? ??