7 | Settling in
FIORELLA
Packing takes a lot longer than it should.
Maybe it’s the pounding in my skull, or Mia and Lila draped across my bed like two Victorian children dying of tuberculosis. Or maybe it’s the creeping dread coiling low in my gut, whispering that this—whatever this is—is more dangerous than I can even imagine.
I’ve only managed to fill one suitcase by the time the buzzer goes off. The sharp sound slices through the apartment, and all three of us groan in unison, clutching our heads like it might keep our brains from splitting in half.
I stumble to the door and pull it open with the grace of a corpse.
There’s a man on the other side—not Marco. Someone new. Dark suit, crisp shirt, green eyes that seem to see straight through me.
“Ms. Leoni?” His voice is clear, smooth.
“That’s me,” I croak.
“I’m here to take you to the Valenti residence. Any luggage?”
I point vaguely toward my bedroom and instantly regret the motion when my brain threatens to liquify and seep out of my ears.
He arches a brow. “Need help carrying it?”
I hesitate. Every instinct screams ‘don’t let a strange man in your bedroom’, but my limbs feel like wet sandbags, and there’s no way I can drag a suitcase down the stairs myself right now.
“That’d be… great,” I manage, stepping aside.
He moves through the apartment like he’s been here a million times before. He pauses in the doorway of my room when he spots Mia and Lila sprawled on my bed.
Both girls shoot upright like they’ve been electrocuted, hangover suddenly forgotten.
“Oh my god,” Mia hisses, pushing her hair out of her face as she glares at me. “You could’ve warned us.” She sticks out a hand, all smiles. “You must be Ella’s boyfriend. I’m Mia.”
The man’s mouth twitches. “I’m not. Matteo,” he says, smooth as silk. “I’m his driver, among other things.”
Mia’s jaw drops. “He has a driver? Ella, is he famous? Is that why you’ve been all secretive?”
Matteo’s lips part like he’s about to answer, but I cut in fast. “He’s just rich,” I blurt. “Got a big inheritance when a family member passed.”
Matteo glances at me, eyes sharp, reading me faster than I’d like. I shoot him the tiniest pleading look.
He hums, apparently deciding to play along. “Just this one?” He nods toward my suitcase.
I nod. “Yeah. Thanks.”
He lifts it like it weighs nothing, pausing in the doorway. “I’m parked downstairs. Don’t take long.”
When he’s gone, Mia lets out a low whistle. “I don’t know who you bagged, Ella, but if his driver looks like that…” She shakes her head. “The man himself must be carved out of sin itself.”
I roll my eyes, steadying myself against the frame. “Yeah, he’s… something.” Then I plaster on a smile. “Anyway—you heard Matteo. Can’t keep him waiting.”
I hug them both tight, then drag myself downstairs, where Matteo is waiting—engine idling, sunglasses on, ready to drive me straight into my new life.
----
The car ride is quiet, except for the hum of the engine and the occasional turn signal clicking. Matteo drives like a man who’s been doing it all his life—one hand on the wheel, the other resting casually on the gearshift.
“You don’t talk much, huh?” I say, trying to fill the silence before it swallows me whole.
He glances at me from behind his sunglasses. “Depends on the company.”
I huff a soft laugh, pressing my forehead against the cool window. “Right. I’m guessing your boss doesn’t like chatter.”
“Depends on the chatter,” he says. “You’ll learn soon enough.”
When we pull up to the gates, my stomach does a slow somersault. The iron scrollwork rises high above us, flanked by stone lions. Matteo leans out the window, murmurs something to the intercom, and the gates slide open soundlessly, like they’ve been waiting for us.
The drive up feels endless—white gravel crunching beneath the tires, the villa looming over us like it’s alive, somehow.
Matteo parks in the circular driveway, kills the engine, and steps out first to grab my suitcase. I climb out slower, blinking against the brightness. My head is still pounding, and now my heart is too.
“Welcome to Casa Valenti,” Matteo says dryly, shutting the trunk.
“Is that what it’s called?”
“Unofficially.” His mouth quirks. “It’s just home, to him. And now you, too.”
He leads me through the doors, and when I step into the foyer, the feeling of dread intensifies. I still can’t look at the double doors without picturing my brother tied to a chair behind them.
A housekeeper passes us with a polite nod, and Matteo gestures toward the grand staircase. “You’ll be upstairs. Second door on the right. Santo had it set up this morning.”
“He had it set up?” I echo. “Like, he just—decorated a room for me overnight?”
Matteo shrugs. “It’s not really… decorated. It’s just a guest room, but now it’s yours.”
The room he shows me to is bigger than my entire apartment. The walls are painted a soft cream, a bay window overlooks the garden, and the bed—good god, the bed—is an ocean of white sheets and pillows.
“This is mine?” I whisper.
“Unless you plan on sleeping with the boss.”
I shoot him a look, but he only chuckles, setting my suitcase down near the foot of the bed.
“There’s a gym downstairs, pool out back, and a terrace if you want fresh air. Kitchen staff usually leave something out by six. Enzo handles security—maybe you’ve met him. Don’t go poking into locked rooms unless you want him breathing down your neck.”
“Got it.”
He lingers a second, studying me. “You’ll be fine, you know.”
“Will I?”
“Sure.” He smirks. “You don’t look like the type who scares easy.”
I scoff, but I don’t say anything. Appearing brave probably works in my favor around men like these.
When he’s gone, I sit on the edge of the bed, running my fingers over the fine linen. Everything feels too still. Too clean. I already miss the liveliness of living with Mia and Lila.
After a while, I shower, dress in something simple, and explore. The gym is sleek and modern, the pool glitters behind tall glass doors, and the kitchen smells faintly of basil, coming from the tiny indoor herb garden growing at the far end of the counter.
A bowl of fruit sits on the island; I take an apple, feeling vaguely like I’m stealing. But this is my house too now, isn’t it? If I can sell myself to that man, he can spare me a damn apple. Still, it tastes sour in my mouth—and it’s not the apple’s fault.
Santo doesn’t come home until after dark. I hear the engine first—a low growl outside—then the heavy click of the front door, followed by two sets of footsteps and hushed, Italian murmuring. My pulse spikes before I even see him.
When he appears in the doorway of the kitchen, it’s like the house itself exhales. He’s in black slacks, tie loosened, shirt sleeves rolled up to his forearms. He looks tired—and dangerous. His eyes are even darker than usual, his brow low.
I straighten. “Hi.”
He looks me over once, expression unreadable. “You all settled in?”
“I think so.”
“Good.” He crosses to the counter, pours himself a glass of water, drinks it all in one go. “Dinner’s in twenty. Don’t be late.”
Then he’s gone again, and I’m left staring at his empty glass, wondering—again—what the hell I’ve gotten myself into.
----
What DID she get herself into? ????