The bitter January wind sliced through my thin coat as I rushed through the doors of Bellisimo, the upscale Italian restaurant where I’d been working for exactly 3 months and two days. My fingers were numb, my nose red from the cold, and my hair, which I’d carefully styled that morning, now hung in limp strands around my face. I was already 10 minutes late for my shift.
Sophia, where have you been? Marco, the floor manager, hissed as I hurried through the kitchen, tying my black apron around my waist. His eyes were wide with panic, something I’d never seen in the usually composed man. Table 7, VIP, you’re serving them tonight. What? But that’s Jessica’s section, I protested, fumbling with the knot of my apron. Marco gripped my shoulders, his fingers digging in slightly. Jessica called in sick.
Listen to me carefully, Sophia. These people, they’re important. Very important. Don’t screw up. The intensity in his voice made my stomach clench. I nodded, smoothing down my black skirt and tucking a strand of hair behind my ear. I needed this job desperately. 6 months ago, I’d fled Boston with nothing but a suitcase, and my savings after my ex-boyfriend’s escalating control had turned into something more frightening.
New York was supposed to be my fresh start, but fresh starts were expensive, and my tiny apartment in Queens ate most of my paycheck. “Who are they?” I asked, grabbing my notepad. Marco’s eyes darted around the kitchen. “Business associates of Mr. Reichi?” My blood ran cold. Everyone who worked at Bissimo knew about Mr. Richi, the mysterious owner who rarely made appearances, but whose name was whispered with a mixture of fear and respect. I’d never seen him, but rumors circulated.
Some said he was just a wealthy businessman. Others claimed connections to more dangerous enterprises. They’re at the private room in the back. Remember Sophia? Professional, efficient, invisible, invisible. That had become my specialty lately. Keeping my head down, blending in, becoming background noise to the world around me. I took a deep breath and pushed through the kitchen doors.

The main dining room of Bissimo glowed with warm lighting, crystal glasses catching the light from chandeliers, white tablecloths pristine against dark wood floors. It exuded oldworld wealth, the kind that didn’t need to announce itself, I moved through the dining room, spine straight, chin up, the way I’d been trained.
past the main area down a short hallway to the private dining room reserved for special guests. I hesitated at the heavy wooden door, my heart pounding in my chest. Then I knocked once softly and entered. The private dining room was dimmer than the main area, the lighting golden and intimate. A large round table dominated the space, and around it sat six men in suits that probably cost more than my monthly rent.
Their conversation halted as I entered and six pairs of eyes turned to me, but only one gaze locked onto mine and held it. He sat at what was clearly the head of the round table, though I couldn’t explain how a round table even had a head. Dark hair, perfectly styled, sharp jawline shadowed with precisely maintained stubble. A suit that wasn’t just expensive, but seemed tailored to his broad shoulders as if it had never existed before him and never would after.
But it was his eyes that froze me in place, dark, intelligent, and utterly cold. He didn’t look much older than 35, younger than I’d expected for someone who commanded such obvious difference. I dropped my gaze immediately, feeling a flush creep up my neck. “Good evening, gentlemen. I’m Sophia, and I’ll be your server tonight.
May I start you with some drinks?” I moved around the table efficiently, taking drink orders, hyper aware of the headman’s eyes following my movements. When I reached him last, he didn’t immediately respond to my question about his drink preference. “You’re new,” he said instead, his voice low and smooth with just a hint of an accent I couldn’t place. “Not a question, but a statement.” “Yes, sir.
Three months, I replied, pen hovering over my pad. A ghost of a smile touched his lips. Scotch. Neat. I nodded and turned to leave when the door opened, and a man in a black suit entered, nodding respectfully to the table before approaching the headman. He bent down and whispered something in his ear.
The headman’s expression didn’t change, but something in his posture shifted, a new tension settling across his shoulders. I slipped out, releasing a breath I didn’t know I’d been holding once I was in the hallway. Something about that room, about him, made the air feel thinner, harder to breathe. I hurried to the bar to place the drink orders.

When I returned with a tray of drinks, the atmosphere in the room had changed, voices were lower, faces more serious. I distributed the drinks silently, trying to be as unobtrusive as possible. As I placed the scotch in front of the headman, my phone vibrated in my apron pocket. I never took personal calls during shifts, but with my grandmother in hospice care back in Italy.
I’d kept my phone on me constantly for the past week. After placing the last drink, I stepped back against the wall and discreetly checked the screen. It was her nurse’s number. My heart lurched. I’d been waiting for this call, dreading it. I glanced at the table. They were deep in conversation. Papers spread between them.
I took two steps back toward the door and answered quietly. “Pronto,” I whispered, the Italian slipping out automatically as it always did when speaking to anyone from home. The nurse’s voice came through soft and regretful. I closed my eyes, my free hand curling into a fist at my side. I ended the call, blinking back tears.
When I opened my eyes, I found the entire table silent, all eyes on me. But the headman’s gaze was different now, sharper, more focused. His head tilted slightly, as if seeing me for the first time. I realized with a sinking feeling that I’d spoken Italian in front of them. Fluent native Italian. I I apologize for the interruption, I stammered, slipping my phone back into my pocket.
Would you like to order your meals now? The dinner proceeded with excruciating slowness. I moved in and out of the room, bringing courses, refilling drinks, clearing plates. Each time I entered, I felt the headman’s eyes on me, following my movements with an interest that made my skin prickle. Once, when I leaned between two of the men to place a plate, I caught a drift of his cologne, something woody and expensive that somehow smelled like power. By the time dessert and coffee were served, my nerves were frayed.
The men had shifted from business to more casual conversation, some in English, some in Italian. I understood every word, but kept my expression carefully blank as I’d been taught. Invisible, professional, just part of the furniture. It was nearly midnight when they finally prepared to leave.
I presented the check in a leather folder, which the headman didn’t even glance at before handing me a black credit card. When I returned with the receipt, he signed it with a flourish I couldn’t read, and then held it out to me, his fingers lingering just a moment too long as I took it. Gratzy.
Sophia,” he said, my name rolling off his tongue in perfect Italian. I nodded, not trusting myself to speak, and stepped back as they gathered their things. They filed out of the room, the headman last. At the door, he paused and looked back at me, his expression unreadable. “Bonate,” he said, and then he was gone. I exhaled shakily and began clearing the table.

The tip was extravagant, more money than I’d make in a week. I pocketed it with trembling fingers, wondering why the encounter had left me so unsettled. An hour later, I was finally finished cleaning up. The restaurant had emptied, only a few staff members remaining to close. I untied my apron, exhausted to my bones, grief over my grandmother weighing heavily on my heart.
I needed to book a flight to Italy, to see her one last time, to say goodbye. But flights were expensive and even with tonight’s tip, I wasn’t sure I could afford it. Sophia. Marco appeared beside me as I collected my coat. Mr. Richi would like to speak with you before you leave. My stomach dropped. Mr. Richi, he’s here. Marco gave me a strange look. Of course, he was at table 7. The room spun slightly.
The headman, the one whose eyes had followed me all night, who had watched me with such intensity after my phone call, was Dante Richi, the owner, the man whose name everyone whispered. Marco led me to the small office at the back of the restaurant. He knocked once, then gestured for me to enter. With leen feet, I stepped inside.
The office was small but elegant with dark wood paneling and a desk that dominated the space. Dante Richi sat behind it, jacket removed, the sleeves of his white shirt rolled up to reveal strong forearms. A single desk lamp cast shadows across his face, emphasizing the sharp angles of his cheekbones. He wasn’t alone. A large man stood by the door, his stance wide, hands clasped in front of him.
A bodyguard. “Sit, Peravore,” Richi said, gesturing to the chair in front of his desk. I sat, my back rigid, hands folded in my lap to hide their trembling. Was I being fired for taking a personal call? For speaking Italian? For some mistake I hadn’t even realized I’d made. You speak Italian like a native, he said without preamble, his eyes never leaving my face. I swallowed. I am a native, sir.
I grew up in a small town near Florence. Yet your English has almost no accent. My mother was American. I grew up bilingual. He nodded slowly as if fitting pieces of a puzzle together. And the call you received tonight, bad news from home, I take it. My eyes widened slightly at his directness. My grandmother is very ill. The nurse said I should come as soon as possible if I if I want to see her before.
I couldn’t finish the sentence. To my horror, tears welled in my eyes. I blinked them back furiously, not wanting to show weakness in front of this man. Something flickered across Reachi’s face. Not quite sympathy, but perhaps understanding. He opened a drawer in his desk and removed a slim black folder, sliding it across the surface toward me.

“Open it,” he commanded softly. With hesitant fingers, I flipped it open. Inside was a first class plane ticket to Florence, departing tomorrow afternoon, and an envelope that, when I peeked inside, contained more cash than I’d ever seen at once. I looked up at him, confusion and suspicion warring within me. I don’t understand.
I need someone who speaks native Italian to accompany me on a business trip. My usual translator has fallen ill. The trip is for 2 weeks to Florence and Rome. The ticket is yours, as is the advanced payment if you agree to work for me during this time. My mind raced. It seemed too perfect, too convenient. What would this work entail exactly? The corner of his mouth curved upward.
“Translation during meetings, some light administrative work. Nothing beyond your capabilities, I assure you.” I stared at the ticket, at the lifeline it represented. “I could see my grandmother. I could say goodbye. But at what cost?” “Why me?” I asked, forcing myself to meet his gaze. “There must be professional translators you could hire.
” Something dangerous flickered in his eyes. I prefer someone authentic, someone who understands the nuances of both languages and cultures. And I find I prefer someone I’ve personally vetted. Vetted? The word sent a chill down my spine. How much did he know about me already? You don’t have to decide right now, he said, leaning back in his chair. The flight leaves at 3 tomorrow. If you accept, a car will pick you up at your apartment at noon.
My blood ran cold. He knew where I lived. How do you employee records,” he said smoothly. But something in his expression told me there was more to it. I stood on shaky legs, the ticket folder clutched in my hand. “I’ll think about it,” he nodded. “But as I turned to leave,” he added. “Sophia, your grandmother doesn’t have much time. Neither do you.
” The implied threat hung in the air between us. I hurried out of the office, past the bodyguard whose eyes tracked my movements through the now empty restaurant and into the cold night air. I was halfway home in a taxi when I realized what had just happened. Dante Richi hadn’t asked if I had a passport.
He hadn’t asked if I could get time off work. He hadn’t asked anything about my life or circumstances. He’d already known everything he needed to know. And somehow, despite the alarm bells ringing in my head, I knew I would be in that car at noon tomorrow.
Not just for my grandmother, but because something in Dante Richie’s eyes told me that refusing wasn’t really an option. What I didn’t know then was that I would never return to my old life again. Sleep eluded me that night. I tossed in my narrow bed, my mind cycling between thoughts of my grandmother, her soft hands, the scent of rosemary that always clung to her clothes, the sound of her laughter, and the cold, calculating eyes of Dante Richi.
By dawn, dark circles shadowed my eyes, but my decision was made. I would go to Italy. I would see my nana one last time. Whatever came after, I would face it. I packed methodically, my hands moving on autopilot while my thoughts raced. Practical clothes for a business trip. A black dress for when I would inevitably need to say goodbye to Nona. Toiletries, passport. The envelope of cash I’d hidden in a hollowedout book.
Emergency money I’d been saving since I left Boston just in case I needed to run again. At 11:30, I stood by my apartment window watching the street below. The neighborhood wasn’t great, but it was what I could afford. Across the street, a man in a dark coat leaned against a lamp post, smoking. He’d been there since I’d woken up, watching my building, watching me.
At precisely noon, a sleek black escalade with tinted windows pulled up to the curb. The man across the street straightened, dropped his cigarette, and spoke into what I now realized was an earpiece. My stomach twisted. Richi had been having me watched all morning, making sure I didn’t run.
My phone buzzed with a text from an unknown number. “The car is waiting, Miss Russo,” I swallowed hard, grabbed my suitcase and purse, and took one last look at my tiny apartment. For a moment, I considered not going downstairs, pretending I wasn’t home. But the image of my grandmother’s face floated in my mind, and I knew I had no choice.
The January air bit through my coat as I stepped outside. The driver, a broad-shouldered man with a close-cropped haircut and impassive expression, took my suitcase without a word and opened the rear door. I slid into the back seat, half expecting to find Dante Reachi waiting inside. Instead, the car was empty, the black leather seats cool against my legs. “Where is Mr.
Richi?” I asked as the driver pulled away from the curb. “Meeting you at the airport, Miss Russo,” he replied, his eyes meeting mine briefly in the rearview mirror. I nodded and turned to watch the city slide by through the tinted windows. The man who had been watching my building now walked in the opposite direction, still speaking into his earpiece.
A chill ran down my spine as I realized just how coordinated this all was. At the airport, I was escorted past regular security through a private entrance I didn’t know existed. No lines, no waiting, no removing my shoes or taking out my laptop.
The driver handed me off to a petite woman in a crisp suit who introduced herself as Alisandra, Mr. Reachi’s assistant. “He’s waiting in the private lounge,” she said, her expression professionally neutral as she led me through corridors I’d never seen despite having flown from this airport before. “Your luggage will be handled separately.
” The private lounge was nothing like the crowded waiting areas of the main terminal. soft lighting, plush seating, a bar stocked with topshelf liquor, and floor to ceiling windows overlooking the tarmac. And there, standing by those windows with his back to me, was Dante Reachi. He turned as we entered, and once again, I was struck by the sheer presence of the man.
Today, he wore a charcoal suit that seemed to absorb and reflect light in equal measure. His dark hair was perfectly styled, his jaw freshly shaved. He looked like he’d stepped out of a luxury magazine, not a hint of the late night visible on his face. “Sophia,” he said, my name sounding different in his mouth than it ever had before.
“I’m pleased you decided to join me.” I clutched my purse strap tighter. “I need to see my grandmother.” Something that might have been respect flickered in his eyes. “Direct, I appreciate that.” He gestured to a seating area. Please sit. We have some time before boarding.
Alisandre disappeared and I found myself alone with him, perched on the edge of a leather sofa while he sat across from me, completely at ease. A server appeared with coffee. Espresso for him, a cappuccino for me. I hadn’t told anyone my coffee preference. I took the liberty of having some clothes sent to the plane for you, he said, watching me over the rim of his cup.
Business attire appropriate for the meetings we’ll be attending. My spine stiffened. I brought clothes. I’m sure you did, he replied, his tone making it clear what he thought of my wardrobe. These are simply additional options. Consider it part of your compensation. I wanted to refuse to tell him I didn’t need his charity. But something in his expression stopped me.
This wasn’t charity. This was control. When will I be able to see my grandmother? I asked, changing the subject. He set down his cup. We arrive in Florence tomorrow morning. You’ll have the afternoon free to visit her. After that, I’ll need you for a dinner meeting. I nodded, relief washing through me. At least he wasn’t going to keep me from her immediately.
Now, he continued, leaning forward slightly. Let’s discuss what I expect from you during this trip. For the next 20 minutes, he outlined my duties, translating during meetings with Italian business associates who preferred not to speak English, accompanying him to dinners and social functions, handling some correspondence.
Nothing that seemed outwardly inappropriate. Yet the undercurrent of his words, the way his eyes never left mine, the implicit understanding that I was now in his orbit, made my skin prickle with unease. Do you have any questions? he asked when he’d finished. A thousand, but only one that mattered.
“Why me? Really?” He studied me for a long moment, his expression unreadable. Then he reached into his jacket and pulled out a slim folder, placing it on the coffee table between us. “Open it.” With hesitant fingers, I flipped it open. Inside was a photograph of me taken 3 years ago at my college graduation. I was smiling, arm around my grandmother, who had flown in from Italy for the ceremony.
Next to it was a copy of my degree in international business and marketing from Boston University. Then came pages of what looked like a background check, previous addresses, employment history, even my credit score. The final page made my blood run cold.
A police report I’d filed against my ex-boyfriend in Boston with photographs of the bruises he’d left on my wrists and throat. My hands trembled as I closed the folder. How did you get this? I make it my business to know who works for me, Sophia. His voice was softer now, almost gentle, but his eyes remained sharp. Even those who serve drinks in my restaurants. This goes beyond knowing your employees, I said, anger momentarily overriding my fear. This is an invasion of privacy.
A ghost of a smile touched his lips. Privacy is a luxury few can truly afford. He took the folder back, tucking it into his jacket. To answer your question, I chose you because you’re qualified. You’re desperate and you have no connections that would make you a security risk. No connections? I have family. A dying grandmother. He cut in. No parents, both deceased. No siblings.
No serious relationship since you fled Boston. Few friends in New York. You keep to yourself, work hard, send money to your grandmother’s care facility every month, and try to be invisible. His eyes bored into mine, but you were never invisible to me, Sophia. A chill ran down my spine.
How long had he been watching me? Since I started at the restaurant before? The implications made me dizzy. Our flight is ready, he said, standing abruptly. Shall we? In a days, I followed him through another private exit, directly onto the tarmac, where a sleek private jet waited, its engines already humming. No commercial flight, despite the first class ticket he’d shown me. Of course not.
Men like Dante Richi didn’t wait in boarding lines or sit among strangers. The interior of the jet was all cream leather and polished wood with only eight seats that looked more like thrones, plus a lounge area and what appeared to be a private bedroom at the rear. Two flight attendants greeted us with differential smiles.
A man who could only be another bodyguard sat near the front, his bulk barely contained by his suit. And to my surprise, Alisandre was already seated, typing on a laptop. “Make yourself comfortable,” Dante said, gesturing to a seat. It’s a long flight. I sank into the buttery leather, acutely aware that I was now truly trapped, 30,000 ft in the air in a private jet with a man who had been investigating me for God knows how long.
A man who, if the rumors about him were true, was not just a restaurant owner, but someone with dangerous connections. Once we reached cruising altitude, a flight attendant brought champagne, which I declined, and then a garment bag, which she hung in a closet I hadn’t noticed.
“Your additional wardrobe, Miss Russo,” she said with a practiced smile. “Dante had moved to sit with Alisandre, their heads bent over documents, speaking too quietly for me to hear. I tried to distract myself with the book I’d brought, but the word swam before my eyes. Eventually, exhaustion from my sleepless night overtook me, and despite my anxiety, I drifted off. I woke to the gentle touch of a hand on my shoulder.
For a disoriented moment, I thought I was back in my apartment. Then, my eyes focused on Dante Richie’s face inches from mine, and reality crashed back. “We’re stopping to refuel,” he said, straightening. Stretch your legs if you’d like. We have about an hour. I blinked, looking out the window to see darkness had fallen.
A small private airfield stretched beyond the window. Nothing like the major airports I was used to. Where are we? I asked, my voice husky from sleep. Iceland, he replied, shrugging into a coat. There’s a lounge inside if you’d like to freshen up. Iceland. We weren’t even following a normal flight path.
I grabbed my purse and coat, following him down the steps of the plane into the frigid night air. My breath clouded in front of me as I hurried across the tarmac to a small modern building that served as the terminal for private flights. Inside, Dante spoke briefly to his bodyguard, then disappeared down a hallway with Alisandra, leaving me momentarily unwatched. The realization hit me like a thunderbolt. This could be my chance. I could ask for help trying to get away.
But then what? I was in Iceland without my passport, which was in my carry-on still on the plane. I had some cash, but no way to get home. And my grandmother was still waiting for me in Florence. I found the women’s restroom and locked myself in a stall, trying to breathe through the panic rising in my chest.
What had I gotten myself into? The man had compiled a dossier on me, had me watched, and now had me on his private plane headed to Italy. Yet, he hadn’t actually threatened me or harmed me in any way. His interest in me was unsettling. But was it dangerous? By the time I emerged, having splashed cold water on my face and reapplied some makeup, I had decided to continue the journey.
I would see my grandmother, fulfill whatever legitimate business duties Reichi required, and then reassess my situation. If things became threatening, I’d find a way out. Then I found a small cafe area and ordered a tea cradling the warm cup between my cold hands.
Through the glass walls, I could see the plane being refueled, its sleek body gleaming under the airfield lights. So absorbed was I in my thoughts that I didn’t notice Dante approach until he slid into the seat across from me. “Feeling better after your rest?” he asked, his own cup of what smelled like espresso in hand? I nodded, not trusting my voice.
Your grandmother’s condition has stabilized slightly, he said, watching my face carefully. I had my people check in with her facility. The doctor believes she’ll hold on until we arrive. I nearly dropped my cup. You checked on her? Why? It would be unfortunate if we arrived too late, he said simply. I dislike wasted journeys. His callousness should have angered me. but instead an odd relief washed over me.
Whatever his motives, his intervention meant I would likely see Nona one more time. “Thank you,” I said quietly. He inclined his head slightly, a gesture that managed to acknowledge my gratitude while making it clear he required none. “We should return to the plane. They finished refueling.
” The rest of the flight passed in a blur of fitful sleep and anxious wakefulness. Sometime during the night, I accepted a light meal, picked at it under Dante’s watchful eye, then retreated back to my book. Alisandre worked tirelessly, occasionally bringing documents for Dante to review or taking quiet phone calls in the rear of the plane.
The bodyguard remained alert, his gaze sweeping the cabin regularly. No one spoke to me directly, as if Dante had made it clear I was not to be engaged without his permission. Dawn was breaking as we began our descent into Florence. Golden light spilled across the familiar landscape, illuminating the terracotta rooftops and the winding ribbon of the Arno River.
Despite everything, my heart lifted at the sight of my homeland. As the plane touched down, Dante moved to sit across from me, his expression inscrable. “We’ll be staying at my villa in the hills,” he said, straightening his cuffs. “A car will take you to see your grandmother this afternoon, then bring you back for the dinner meeting at 8.
” Not I’ll take you, but a car will take you. The distinction was clear. I would be transported like a package where and when he wished me to go. I understand, I said, my voice steadier than I felt. His eyes narrowed slightly, as if he’d expected more resistance. Good, he handed me a small black phone. Keep this with you at all times. It’s secure and has my number programmed in.
If there’s an emergency or if you need anything, use it. I took the device, another tether binding me to him. Thank you. The plane taxied to a private hanger where two black SUVs waited on the tarmac. As we disembarked, Dante placed his hand lightly on the small of my back, guiding me down the stairs.
It was the first time he had touched me, and even through my coat, his hand burned like a brand. “Welcome to Florence, Sophia,” he murmured, his breath warm against my ear. or should I say, welcome home. The drive from the airport took us out of the city and into the rolling Tuscan hills, vineyards, and olive groves stretched on either side of the winding road, the landscape achingly familiar, yet now viewed through a lens of uncertainty.
I sat silently in the back seat beside Dante, acutely aware of his proximity, of the faint scent of his cologne, of the way his presence seemed to fill the vehicle despite his relaxed posture. The villa, when we arrived, stole what little breath I had left. It wasn’t just a house, but a small estate with a main building of honeyccoled stone and terracotta roof tiles surrounded by manicured gardens and olive trees. A circular driveway led to stone steps and massive wooden doors that opened as our vehicles approached.
“This is yours?” I asked, unable to keep the awe from my voice. Dante’s lips curved in what might have been a genuine smile. one of several properties in Italy. This one is special to me. As we exited the car, staff appeared to take our luggage. Dante spoke to them in rapid Italian, his accent flawless, but with a cadence that marked him as Americanborn.
I caught fragments. Instructions about my room, the dinner preparations, security protocols. He turned to me. Maria will show you to your room. Rest, shower, eat if you wish. The car will be ready at 2 to take you to your grandmother. With that, he disappeared into the villa, Alisandra and the bodyguard trailing in his wake, leaving me with an older woman whose kind face was at odds with the opulence surrounding us. “Come, Senorina,” she said in Italian, gesturing for me to follow. “You must be exhausted from your
journey.” I followed her through the villa, trying not to gape at the soaring ceilings, the antique furniture, the artwork that looked museum worthy. She led me up a grand staircase to the second floor, down a corridor, and finally to a set of double doors, which she opened with a flourish. You’re sweet, Senorina.
If you need anything, please use the house phone by the bed to call for me. I stepped inside and nearly gasped. The room was larger than my entire apartment in New York with a four-poster bed draped in creamy linens, a sitting area with a fireplace and floor to ceiling windows that opened onto a private balcony overlooking the Tuscan countryside, an onsuite bathroom gleamed with marble and contained a shower and a soaking tub big enough for two.
My suitcase had already been delivered and placed on a luggage rack. But what caught my eye were the garment bags hung carefully in the open closet. at least a dozen of them. I approached slowly and unzipped one to reveal a black cocktail dress that looked to be exactly my size.
Another contained a tailored blazer and pants in deep burgundy designer labels, probably tens of thousands of dollars worth of clothing. On the bed lay a small velvet box with a note card beside it. With trembling fingers, I opened it to find a delicate gold necklace with a single pearl pendant. The card read simply, “For tonight’s dinner, Dr. I sank onto the edge of the bed, the necklace clutched in my hand as the full weight of my situation crashed down on me.
I was in Dante Richi’s world now, surrounded by his wealth, dependent on his generosity, subject to his control, and with every passing hour, every gesture, every gift, the invisible chains around me tightened. Yet in just a few hours, I would see my grandmother one last time. And for that chance, I had sold myself to a man whose true nature and intentions remained a mystery.
A man whose dark eyes seemed to see straight through to my soul, whose very presence made my heart race with equal parts fear, and something else I refused to name. I didn’t know it then, but by the time I returned to this beautiful room tonight, nothing would ever be the same again. I slept fitfully for a few hours. Exhaustion finally overcoming my racing thoughts.
When I woke, sunlight streamed through the windows, casting golden patterns across the plush carpet. For a moment, I lay still, absorbing the surreal quality of my situation. 24 hours ago, I had been a waitress in New York, living paycheck to paycheck. Now I was in a Tuscan villa wearing silk pajamas I didn’t remember unpacking about to see my grandmother for what might be the last time.
I showered in the marble bathroom, the water pressure perfect, the scented toiletries arranged like offerings. After drying off, I discovered my own clothes had been laundered and pressed, hanging neatly alongside the new wardrobe Dante had provided. I deliberately chose my own jeans and sweater. A small act of defiance, reclaiming what little autonomy I could.
A light knock at the door announced Maria, bearing a tray of coffee, fresh fruit, and pastries. She smiled warmly as she set it down on a small table by the window. The car will be ready at 2, as Mr. Richi promised, she said in Italian. Is there anything else you need, Senorina? I shook my head, returning her smile.
No, thank you, Maria. She hesitated, her kind eyes studying me. If I may say so. It is nice to have a compatriate in the house. Mr. Richie’s guests are usually, she trailed off, perhaps remembering her place. Usually, I prompted gently. She pressed her lips together. Not as genuine as you seem to be.
With a small curtsy, she left, closing the door quietly behind her. I ate slowly, savoring the perfectly ripe berries and the flaky cornetto that transported me instantly back to my childhood. Through the open balcony doors, the Tuscan countryside stretched before me. Olive groves silvering in the breeze, cypress trees standing like sentinels against the blue sky.
In another lifetime, this would have been paradise. At precisely 2:00, I descended the grand staircase to find a driver waiting in the foyer. Not Dante, not Alisandre, not even the bodyguard whose name I still didn’t know. Just a professional driver in a dark suit who nodded respectfully. Miss Russo, the car is ready. Is Mr.
Richi not joining me? I asked, surprised at the disappointment that colored my tone. Mr. Richi has business in the city. He asked me to ensure you arrive safely and to take as much time as you need with your grandmother. The drive to the hospice facility took nearly 40 minutes, winding through the hills and then into the outskirts of Florence.
I watched the familiar landscape roll by. Memories flooding back with each landmark we passed. The small cafe where Nona used to buy me gelato after school. The church where my parents were married. The park where I’d had my first kiss. Fumbling and sweet at 15. The hospice was a modern building set in quiet gardens. its architecture at odds with the ancient city surrounding it.
The driver opened my door and handed me a bouquet of liies I hadn’t noticed he was carrying. “Mr. Reachi thought you might want to bring these,” he said. “I’ll wait for you. However long you need.” I swallowed the lump in my throat, nodding my thanks as I took the flowers. Their sweet scent filled my nostrils as I walked through the automatic doors, my heart pounding.
At the reception desk, I gave my grandmother’s name, and the nurse’s eyes widened slightly. Ah, Miss Russo. Yes, we’ve been expecting you. Your grandmother is having a good day today. She lowered her voice. The new medication Mr. Richi arranged has made her much more comfortable. I froze. Mr. Richi arranged medication. She nodded, looking slightly confused.
Yes, last night the specialist from Switzerland arrived this morning. Didn’t you know? I shook my head speechless. Dante had flown in a specialist. While I’d been sleeping on his private jet, the nurse led me down a corridor to a private room. Another of Dante’s arrangements, I assumed.
She opened the door, announcing softly, “Senor Russo, look who’s here.” The woman in the bed bore little resemblance to the vibrant grandmother of my childhood. Her once plump cheeks were hollow, her skin papery and translucent. But when she turned her head and saw me, her eyes, the same hazel as mine, lit up with recognition and joy. Sophia Mia Karanipote.
Her voice was weak but clear. I rushed to her bedside, setting the liies aside to take her frail hands in mine. Nona,” I whispered, tears spilling down my cheeks. “I’m here.” The nurse discreetly left us alone, closing the door softly. For the next hour, I sat beside my grandmother, holding her hands, listening to her speak in her native Italian about neighbors and friends, about the nurses who cared for her, about how beautiful I looked.
She seemed unconcerned by her condition, floating in and out of the present, sometimes mistaking me for my mother, sometimes perfectly lucid. “Tell me about America,” she said during a clear moment. “Are you happy there, Mia?” I manufactured a smile. “Yes, Nana.” “I have a good job at an Italian restaurant. The people are kind.
The lies tasted bitter on my tongue. But I couldn’t burden her with the truth. not about my struggles in New York, and certainly not about the circumstances of my return to Italy. She studied my face with surprising sharpness. And this man who brought you home, who is he to you? I blinked, startled.
What man, Nona? The one who sent the doctor. The important man. She waved a frail hand. The nurses whisper about him. They say he’s powerful. Dangerous perhaps. My blood ran cold. He’s my employer. Just my employer. She squeezed my hand with surprising strength. Be careful, Sophia. Men like that, they take what they want.
Before I could respond, she drifted again, her eyes growing distant. Your grandfather was like that, you know, so handsome, so determined. When he decided he wanted me, there was no escape. A dreamy smile touched her lips. Not that I wanted to escape. I sat with her until she fell asleep. Her breathing shallow but steady. The specialist must have been good. She seemed comfortable in no pain.
I kissed her forehead and slipped out, finding the doctor at the nurse’s station. “How long does she have?” I asked bluntly. The doctor, young Swiss with kind eyes, hesitated. “With the new medication? Perhaps a week. Perhaps two. It’s hard to say. The cancer has spread significantly, but we can keep her comfortable now. I nodded, tears threatening again.
Thank you for coming all this way. He looked slightly uncomfortable. Mr. Richi was very persuasive and generous. He hesitated. Your grandmother is receiving the best possible care, Miss Russo. I’ve left detailed instructions, and I’ll be staying in Florence to monitor her condition.
I thanked him again and made my way outside, where the driver still waited patiently. The sun was beginning to set, painting the sky in shades of pink and gold. As we drove back to the villa, my emotions were a tangled mess. Grief for my grandmother, gratitude toward Dante for arranging her care, and underlying everything, a persistent unease about his motives and the extent of his control over my life.
When we arrived at the villa, Maria was waiting in the foyer. Mr. Richi asked me to help you prepare for dinner, Senorina. The guests will be arriving at 8. I checked my watch. Barely an hour to get ready. I followed her upstairs where a hot bath had already been drawn, scented with jasmine and rose petals.
On the bed lay one of the garment bags, unzipped to reveal a midnight blue cocktail dress with a modest neckline but a daringly low back. Beside it were matching heels, the pearl necklace Dante had gifted me and a small clutch. “Mr. Richi was very specific about the ensemble,” Maria said, noting my expression. He has an eye for these things. An eye and an unnerving knowledge of my measurements.
I thanked Maria and assured her I could manage on my own. Once she’d gone, I sank into the bath, letting the hot water soothe my tense muscles and jumbled thoughts. By the time I emerged, skin flushed and hair wrapped in a towel, I had come to a decision. I would play along with whatever game Dante was playing, translate at his meetings, attend his dinners, wear his clothes until I could determine his true intentions. I owed him that much for what he’d done for Nona.
But I would remain vigilant, guarded, ready to run if necessary. The dress fit perfectly, the fabric skimming over my curves as if made specifically for my body. It probably had been. I dried and styled my hair into loose waves, applied makeup with a careful hand, and clasped the pearl necklace around my throat.
The woman who stared back from the mirror was a stranger, polished, elegant, the perfect accessory for a powerful man. I was fastening the straps of the heels when a knock sounded at my door. Expecting Maria, I called, “Come in.” The door opened to reveal Dante himself, dressed in a perfectly tailored black suit, crisp white shirt, and midnight blue tie that exactly matched my dress. He stood in the doorway, one hand in his pocket, his dark eyes sweeping over me with an intensity that made my skin flush.
“Perfect,” he said simply, the single word sending an involuntary shiver down my spine. I stood, smoothing down the dress. Thank you for the clothes and for the specialist for my grandmother. That was unexpected. He stepped into the room, closing the door behind him. How is she? Better than I expected. Comfortable. I swallowed. They say she has a week or two. He nodded, his expression unreadable.
The dinner tonight is important. Four businessmen from Florence. Old money, old connections. They prefer to speak Italian even though they’re fluent in English. It makes them feel they have an advantage, and you’re letting them think they do, I guessed. A ghost of a smile touched his lips. Precisely. You’ll translate everything accurately for me, but with one exception.
He moved closer, his cologne enveloping me, subtle and masculine. If they say anything particularly revealing or unguarded, you’ll give me a signal. Touch your pearl. His fingers brushed my collarbone where the necklace lay, the contact brief, but electric. Then I’ll know to pay special attention. I nodded, not trusting my voice with him standing so close. “One more thing,” he said, reaching into his pocket.
He withdrew a small velvet box, the second in as many days. To complete the look, inside lay a pair of pearl earrings, clearly designed to match the necklace. “Simple, elegant, and undoubtedly expensive. I can’t accept these, I said, finding my voice. The clothes, the necklace. It’s already too much. His expression hardened slightly.
You can, and you will. Tonight, you represent me. Everything must be perfect. I held his gaze. A small act of defiance. And after tonight, after these two weeks, what then? Something dangerous flickered in his eyes. Let’s focus on tonight, shall we? He took the earrings from the box and held them out to me, not putting them on me himself, but making it clear refusal wasn’t an option.
I took them, our fingers brushing, and put them on, feeling their weight against my neck. Another gift. Another invisible chain. The guests are arriving, he said, checking his watch. Shall we? He offered his arm, and after a moment’s hesitation, I took it. His forearm was solid muscle beneath the expensive fabric of his suit.
We descended the staircase together, and I could feel the eyes of the staff on us, curious, speculative. In the grand dining room, a table had been set for six with fine china, crystal, and silver. “Alisandre was already there, speaking quietly with the staff. She looked up as we entered, her eyes flickering over me with professional assessment.
” “The Bianke brothers have just arrived,” she informed Dante. “They’re in the drawing room with Mr. Cavalo and Ferrero? Dante asked. On route 5 minutes. Dante nodded and guided me toward the drawing room, his hand on the small of my back, proprietary and warm. Remember? He murmured in my ear as we approached the door. You’re not just a translator tonight. You’re an extension of me. My eyes and ears.
The drawing room was a masculine space of leather and wood with a crackling fire and the scent of expensive cigars already hanging in the air. Three men turned as we entered. Two who bore the similar features of brothers, perhaps in their 60s, and a younger man with sharp eyes and a sharper suit.
“Gentlemen,” Dante said in English, his hand still firm on my back. “Allow me to introduce Sophia Russo, my associate.” “Sophia, meet Antonio and Marco Bianke, and Vincent Cavalo.” I smiled politely as the men’s eyes assessed me with varying degrees of subtlety. Antonio Bianke, the elder brother, kissed my hand with oldworld charm. Marco merely nodded.
Vincent Cavalo’s gaze lingered a beat too long, his handshake a fraction too familiar. The conversation shifted immediately to Italian, rapid and colloquial. “You didn’t tell us you’d found such a beautiful assistant, Richi,” Antonio said, his eyes still on me. “Where have you been hiding her? Miss Russo recently joined my organization.” Dante replied in perfect Italian.
She’ll be assisting with our discussions tonight. And she speaks Italian? Marco asked skeptically. I smiled. I was born in Florence, Senor. I replied in flawless Tuscan Italian. I lived here until I was 18. The men exchanged glances, clearly reassessing me. Before they could ask more questions, a staff member announced the arrival of the final guest, and Alio Ferrero entered the room.
Unlike the others, he was younger, perhaps 40, and carried himself with the easy confidence of old money. His eyes found me immediately, his smile predatory. “Dante,” he said, embracing my captor with the familiarity of an old friend. “You’ve outdone yourself this time.” Dante’s hand tightened almost imperceptibly on my waist.
“Elio, allow me to introduce Sophia Russo, my associate.” Ferrerero took my hand, holding it longer than necessary. Enchanted, he said in Italian. Truly enchanted. Dinner was announced, and we moved to the dining room. Dante seated me at his right hand, Ferrero directly across from me. Wine was poured, appetizers served, and the conversation flowed. Business mixed with personal reminiscences, politics, sports.
I translated discreetly when needed, leaning close to Dante’s ear, feeling his warmth, breathing in his scent. By the main course, the wine had loosened tongues, and the conversation turned to the true purpose of the meeting, a shipping company Dante wanted to acquire, which had ties to all four men.
“The price you’re offering is insultingly low,” Marco Bianke said bluntly in Italian. “The company is hemorrhaging money,” Dante replied smoothly in the same language. I’m doing you a favor by taking it off your hands. Antonio leaned forward. The company may not be profitable now, but the assets alone are overvalued on your books. Dante cut in. We both know that. The conversation grew more heated, more technical.
I translated faithfully, impressed despite myself at Dante’s command of the business details and his negotiating skills. He was ruthless but fair, pressing advantages without being greedy. Then, as the dessert was being served, Ferrero leaned toward his companions and said in rapid Italian, assuming Dante wouldn’t catch it, “Let him have the company. The real value is in the warehouse contents in Levoro. He doesn’t know about those yet.
” My fingers instinctively touched the pearl at my throat. Dante’s eyes flicked to my hand. Then back to Ferrero, his expression never changing. “Gentlemen,” he said in English. I believe we’re making progress. Let me propose a revised offer.
He outlined new terms that included, to my surprise, full inventory rights to all properties, including the Levo warehouses. The four Italians froze, exchanging alarmed glances. Ferrero’s eyes narrowed as they fell on me. “You said she was just an assistant,” he said in Italian, voice cold. “I said she was my associate,” Dante corrected. also in Italian and a very valuable one. The atmosphere in the room shifted, tension crackling beneath the veneer of civility.
I kept my expression neutral, but my heart hammered in my chest. I had just exposed something these men had tried to hide, something potentially worth millions based on their reactions. Negotiations continued for another hour, growing increasingly complex.
By the time the men finally left, close to midnight, a deal had been reached, one that clearly favored Dante. though the others seemed grudgingly satisfied. I stood beside him in the foyer as he bid them farewell, his hand possessively at my waist. Ferrero was the last to leave, his eyes cold as they moved between us.
“You should be more careful about who you trust, Dante,” he said in Italian, his gaze lingering on me. “Beautiful women have a way of complicating matters.” “I trust Miss Russo implicitly,” Dante replied, his tone leaving no room for argument. Good night, Alio. When the door closed behind them, I exhaled a breath I hadn’t realized I was holding.
Dante turned to me and for the first time that evening, he smiled, a genuine smile that transformed his face and sent an unwelcome flutter through my stomach. You were perfect, he said, leading me toward his study. Come, we should talk. His study was warm, lit by a fire and several lamps that cast a golden glow over the leatherbound books lining the walls.
He poured two glasses of amber liquid from a crystal decanter and handed one to me. Two successful negotiations, he said, raising his glass. I sipped the whiskey, letting it burn a path down my throat. Those warehouses, they’re important. Very. He loosened his tie, the gesture strangely intimate.
What they’re storing there could cause significant legal issues for all four men if discovered by the wrong people. Illegal goods. His eyes met mine over his glass. Let’s just say customs officials are easily distracted by the right incentives. I set my glass down, suddenly exhausted. Why are you telling me this? Why involve me in something potentially illegal? He moved closer, his presence overwhelming in the confined space.
Because you’ve proven your value tonight, and because I want you to understand what you’re part of now. Part of, I echoed, taking an instinctive step back. I’m here to translate for 2 weeks to see my grandmother. That’s our arrangement. Something darkened in his eyes. Arrangements can change, Sophia. Not this one, I said firmly, finding courage and desperation.
I fulfilled my end tonight. I expect you to honor yours. For a long moment, he studied me, his expression unreadable. Then, to my surprise, he nodded. Of course, you’ll see your grandmother whenever you wish. The car and driver are at your disposal. Relief washed through me. Thank you. But, he continued, taking another step toward me, closing the distance I’d created.
I think we both know this arrangement has evolved beyond what we initially discussed. My back hit the bookshelf as I retreated. He placed a hand on the shelf beside my head, effectively caging me in. His face was inches from mine, his cologne enveloping me, his eyes dark and intent. You felt it tonight, he said, his voice low.
How well we work together, how perfectly you fit into my world. I don’t belong in your world, I whispered, my voice betraying me with its tremor. Don’t you? His free hand came up to touch the pearl at my throat, his fingers brushing my skin. You wear it as if you were born to it. I couldn’t deny the electricity between us, the way my body responded to his proximity despite all my mental warnings.
It terrified me, this unwanted attraction to a man who collected people as casually as he collected businesses, who’d had me investigated, who’d orchestrated this entire situation. I should go, I said, trying to step sideways away from his intoxicating presence. It’s late. His hand moved from the pearl to cut my cheek, gentle but firm. Sophia, he said, my name almost a caress. Don’t run from this, from me.
I don’t even know who you really are, I protested weakly. What you really do? A shadow crossed his face. Perhaps that’s for the best for now. Before I could respond, his lips were on mine, surprisingly gentle for a man who took what he wanted without asking. The kiss was brief, questioning rather than demanding, and he pulled back before I could decide whether to respond or resist.
Good night, Sophia,” he said, stepping away, releasing me from the cage of his presence. “Sleep well.” I fled, my heart pounding, my lips burning from his kiss, my mind a chaos of conflicting emotions. In my room, I stripped off the beautiful dress and the pearls, scrubbed the makeup from my face, and stood under the shower until my skin was raw and pink, trying to wash away the feel of him.
But as I slipped between the silk sheets of the enormous bed, I knew with sinking certainty that no amount of water could cleanse me of Dante Richi. For better or worse, I was marked by him now, branded by his kiss, chained by his gifts, bound by whatever dangerous game he was playing. And the most terrifying part wasn’t that I didn’t know the rules of his game.
It was that despite everything, a part of me wanted to play. Sleep came in fitful bursts. My dreams a chaotic blend of my grandmother’s frail face, Ferrerero’s cold eyes, and Dante’s lips on mine. I woke just after dawn, tangled in silk sheets, my heart racing. For a moment, I stared at the ornate ceiling, trying to gather my scattered thoughts.
Then, with sudden clarity, I reached for the phone Dante had given me. No missed calls, no messages. I hadn’t really expected any. It was barely 6:00 in the morning, but the sight of the blank screen brought both relief and disappointment. After last night’s kiss, I half expected, “What? A summons? An apology? I wasn’t sure which would be worse.
” I pulled myself from bed and padded to the balcony, wrapping a plush robe around me against the early morning chill. The Tuscan countryside spread before me, bathed in the golden light of dawn, mist clinging to the valleys between rolling hills. In the distance, a farmhouse stood sentinel among vineyards. Smoke curling from its chimney. So peaceful, so normal, a stark contrast to the turmoil within me.
My own phone, my real one, not the one Dante had given me, lay on the nightstand. I picked it up, hesitating only a moment before dialing the hospice. A nurse answered, her voice hushed. She had a comfortable night, she assured me when I asked about Nana. The new medication is working well. She’s sleeping now, but you’re welcome to visit later this morning.
I thanked her and hung up, relief washing through me, another day at least, another chance to sit with Nona, to hold her hand, to say the things that needed saying. A soft knock at the door announced Maria with a breakfast tray, fresh fruit, yogurt, pastries still warm from the oven, and strong Italian coffee that smelled like home. home. Bonjouro Senorina, she said cheerfully, setting the tray on the small table by the window.
Did you sleep well? Well enough, I lied, accepting the cup of coffee she poured for me. Thank you, Maria. She busied herself opening the curtains wider to let in more light, straightening items on the dresser that didn’t need straightening. I recognized the behavior. She wanted to talk, but was hesitating. “Is there something else, Maria?” I asked gently.
She turned, her kind face troubled. The dinner last night, it went well. I nodded, sipping my coffee. I believe so. Mr. Richi seemed satisfied with the outcome. Maria glanced toward the door as if checking we were truly alone, then lowered her voice. Be careful, Senorina. Those men, especially Ferrero, they are not good men. My hand stilled halfway to a pastry. You know them.
I have worked in this house for 15 years. I have seen many such dinners, many such men. She twisted her hands in her apron. And many young women brought here by Mr. Reachi. My stomach clenched. Many women. She nodded, her eyes sad. Some stay a few days, some a few weeks. They wear beautiful clothes, attend his meetings and parties, and then they disappear.
Disappear? My voice was barely a whisper. Maria’s eyes widened. Oh, not like that, Senorina. They go home, back to their lives, but changed somehow. Sadder, perhaps, or harder. She shook her head. Mr. Richi is not cruel, not like some, but he takes what he wants, and when he is finished, she trailed off, but her meaning was clear.
I was not the first woman Dante had brought to this villa, dressed up like a doll and used for his purposes. Whatever his interest in me, my language skills, my vulnerability, or something else entirely, it would be temporary, and when it ended, I would be discarded like the others. Why are you telling me this? I asked.
Maria’s weathered hand covered mine briefly. Because you have kind eyes. Because you speak to me as a person, not a servant. and because I saw how he looked at you last night. She straightened, reverting to her professional demeanor. The car will be ready whenever you wish to visit your grandmother. Just call down when you’re ready.
She left me with my cooling coffee and tumultuous thoughts. I ate mechanically, barely tasting the exquisite pastries, my mind racing. If Maria was right, I was just the latest in a string of women Dante had collected, used, and discarded. The knowledge should have strengthened my resolve to keep my distance, to fulfill my obligation, and nothing more.
So why did it hurt? I dressed in my own clothes again. Jeans, a sweater, boots, pulled my hair into a simple ponytail, and applied minimal makeup. If I was going to be discarded anyway, I might as well be myself while it happened. The villa was quiet as I descended the grand staircase.
No sign of Dante or Alisandre or the everpresent bodyguard. Just a staff member who appeared from nowhere to ask if I needed the car brought around. At the hospice, Nona was awake and more lucid than the day before. Her eyes brightened when I entered, and she patted the bed beside her with a frail hand.
“There you are, Mia,” she said, her voice stronger than yesterday. “I was dreaming of you.” I sat beside her, taking her hand in mine, marveling at the paper thin skin, the blue veins visible beneath. Good dreams, I hope. You were a little girl again, running through the olive groves, laughing. Her smile was wistful. You were always such a happy child. Before Before Papa and Mama died, I finished softly.
She nodded, her eyes filling with tears. Life was not kind to you, Piccolola. Too much loss for one so young. I squeezed her hand gently. I had you, Nana. You were enough. We sat in comfortable silence for a while. The only sounds the beeping of monitors and the distant murmur of hospital activity.
Then Nana fixed me with a surprisingly sharp gaze. Tell me about this man, Dante Richi. I hesitated, uncertain how much to reveal. He’s complicated, Nona. Powerful, used to getting what he wants. And what does he want with my Sophia? The question hung in the air between us. What did Dante want with me? My language skills, my body, my complicity, and whatever shadowy businesses he conducted. I don’t know, I admitted finally.
But he arranged for me to be here with you. And for that, I’m grateful. Nana’s eyes narrowed. At what price, Mia? Before I could answer, the door opened and a nurse entered, followed by the Swiss specialist. They needed to examine Nana, change her dressings, adjust her medication. I stepped into the hallway to give them privacy, leaning against the wall, eyes closed, suddenly exhausted. She looks better today. The deep voice jolted me upright.
Dante stood a few feet away, impeccable in a charcoal suit despite the early hour, hands in his pockets, watching me with those dark, unfathomable eyes. “What are you doing here?” I asked, too surprised to be diplomatic. I came to check on her progress and to see you. I wrapped my arms around myself, suddenly defensive.
“Why?” He took a step closer, his expression softening almost imperceptibly because I wanted to apologize for last night. I overstepped. Of all the things I expected him to say, an apology wasn’t among them. I stared at him, searching his face for signs of manipulation or deceit, but found only what appeared to be genuine regret. “Yes, you did.” I agreed finally.
The ghost of a smile touched his lips. You’re not going to make this easy, are you? Should I? No, he admitted, the smile growing more pronounced. That’s what makes you different. Different? The word echoed Maria’s earlier warning about the other women he’d brought to the villa. I looked away, unwilling to let him see the hurt in my eyes.
The doctors say she’s responding well to the new treatment, he said after a moment, changing the subject. She’s more comfortable, more alert. That’s good news. I nodded, grateful despite myself. Thank you again for arranging it. I know it must have been expensive getting the specialist here so quickly.
He waved away my thanks. It was nothing. But it wasn’t nothing. Not to me, not to Nana. Whatever his motives, he’d given me these precious final days with her. That debt couldn’t be easily dismissed. The door opened and the doctor emerged. He nodded respectfully to Dante, then turned to me. She’s doing well, all things considered. The treatment is giving her more good days, more clarity.
It’s the best we can hope for at this stage. Can I go back in? I asked. Of course, she’s asking for you, he hesitated. She’s tired, though. Try not to stay too long. I nodded and moved toward the door, then paused, looking back at Dante. Are you coming in? Something like surprise flickered across his face before he schooled it back to impassivity.
Would you like me to? The question was genuine, I realized with a start. He was actually asking my preference, not assuming or commanding. It was such a small thing, but it felt significant. Yes, I said quietly. I would. Inside, Nona’s eyes widened as Dante followed me into the room. I made the introductions, watching as he approached her bedside with unexpected gentleness, taking her frail hand in his strong one, speaking to her in fluent Italian about Florence, about the weather, about how brave her granddaughter was.
Nona, never one to be intimidated even by powerful men, fixed him with a penetrating stare. You are the one who brought my Sophia back to me. It wasn’t a question, but Dante answered anyway, “Yes.” Why? He glanced at me, then back to her. Because she deserved the chance to say goodbye and because I needed her help.
Nona nodded slowly as if he’d confirmed something she already suspected. And when you no longer need her help. What then? I felt my cheeks flush with embarrassment. Nona, please. But Dante held up a hand, silencing me gently. A fair question. He looked directly into my grandmother’s eyes. I don’t know yet. That will depend on Sophia. An honest answer. Or at least it sounded like one.
Nona studied him for a long moment, then nodded again, apparently satisfied. “You have your father’s eyes,” she said unexpectedly. Dante stiffened, his expression suddenly guarded. “You knew my father?” Nana’s eyes took on the slightly distant look they sometimes did when she was drifting between past and present. many years ago before he left Italy for America. She patted his hand.
He was a good man beneath it all. I hope you are the same. The atmosphere in the room had shifted, tension radiating from Dante like heat from a furnace. I stepped in, changing the subject, asking Nana about her breakfast, about whether she’d slept well. The moment passed, but I caught Dante watching my grandmother with new interest, as if reassessing her.
We stayed another hour, the conversation flowing surprisingly easily between the three of us. Nona told stories from my childhood. Some I remembered, some I didn’t. Dante listened intently, asking questions, laughing at the appropriate moments. By the time Nana’s eyelids began to droop with fatigue, a strange camaraderie had formed in the small hospital room.
“We should let you rest,” I said, kissing her forehead. She caught my hand. Come back tomorrow, Mia. Bring him if you like. Her eyes twinkled with something like mischief. He’s more handsome than your grandfather was. I’ll give him that. Nona, I exclaimed, mortified. Dante chuckled, the sound rich and genuine. It would be my pleasure, Senora Russo.
He bent and kissed her hand with old world courtesy. Until tomorrow. in the corridor outside. I turned to him, curious. What did she mean about your father? Did they really know each other? His expression closed off immediately. Your grandmother is confused. My father never lived in Italy. The lie was so obvious it took me a back.
Why deny something so inconsequential? Unless it wasn’t inconsequential at all. We have a meeting in Milan this afternoon, he said, changing the subject abruptly. The car will take us to the airfield in an hour. You should wear something from the wardrobe I provided. Something professional. Just like that, he was back to issuing commands. The momentary vulnerability gone.
I bristled at his tone, but held my tongue. If Nona had indeed known his father, it might explain his interest in me. A connection I hadn’t considered. It wasn’t much, but it was a thread to pull. A potential insight into the enigma that was Dante Richi. I’ll be ready, I said simply. The drive back to the villa was silent.
Dante absorbed in his phone, responding to emails and messages with rapid keystrokes. I stared out the window, my mind racing with new questions. Who was Dante’s father? How did Nona know him? And why did the mention of him cause such tension? At the villa, I hurried to my room to change.
In the closet, I found a tailored navy pants suit that I had to admit was both beautiful and practical. I paired it with a simple white blouse and low heels, applied minimal makeup, and pulled my hair into a sleek shin. Professional, polished, but still me. When I descended to the foyer, Dante was waiting, speaking in low tones with Alisandra. He looked up as I approached, his eyes sweeping over me with approval.
Perfect, he said, echoing his assessment from the previous night. The helicopter is ready. Helicopter? Of course. Why drive when you could fly? The journey to Milan took less than an hour in Dante’s private helicopter. We landed on the roof of a gleaming skyscraper in the financial district where another car waited to take us to our meeting.
This one was with executives from a shipping company, the same one he’d negotiated for at the dinner. The formalities were already complete. This was simply to finalize details and sign documents. I translated when necessary, though most of the Italians spoke excellent English.
My role seemed more symbolic than practical. A show of Dante’s cultural sensitivity perhaps, or simply a display of his resources, the beautiful bilingual assistant at his side, a living accessory to his power. Throughout the meeting, I felt Dante’s eyes on me, not constantly, but in brief, intense glances when he thought I wouldn’t notice.
Something had shifted between us since our visit to Nona, though I couldn’t quite define what. There was a new awareness, a new tension, electric and unsettling. After the meeting, we had lunch at a rooftop restaurant with panoramic views of Milan. Just the two of us, Alisandre and the bodyguard at a discreet distance.
You did well today, Dante said, pouring wine into my glass without asking if I wanted it. The CFO was impressed with your financial vocabulary. I took a small sip of the wine. Exquisite, of course. I did minor in finance before I switched to international business. I know. At my raised eyebrow, he added, the background check, remember? How could I forget? He probably knew more about my academic history than I did at this point. “Your grandmother,” he said after a moment.
“She’s a remarkable woman.” I smiled despite myself. “Yes, she is. She raised me after my parents died. Worked two jobs to put me through school. Never complained.” My smile faded. She deserves better than this end. Death comes for us all, Sophia. The manner of it is less important than what we leave behind.
I looked at him, surprised by the philosophical turn. And what do you hope to leave behind, Dante? He considered the question, swirling the wine in his glass. An empire that won’t crumble when I’m gone. A legacy that means something. Children? I asked, the question slipping out before I could stop it. His expression darkened.
Perhaps someday with the right person. The implication hung in the air between us, unspoken, but impossible to ignore. I changed the subject quickly. What’s our schedule for the rest of the day? Back to Florence. There’s a gallery opening tonight I’d like to attend. He watched my reaction carefully. Unless you’d prefer to rest. It’s been an eventful couple of days.
Again, the unexpected consideration. asking rather than commanding. I found myself wanting to go, wanting to see more of this world he inhabited. More of him. I’d like to go, I said, surprising myself as much as him. He nodded, satisfaction evident in his slight smile. Good. There’s a dress. Let me guess. Already selected and waiting in my room.
I couldn’t help the teasing note that crept into my voice. He had the grace to look slightly abashed. I have particular tastes, but if you’d prefer to choose something yourself. No, I said, finding I meant it. I trust your taste. The words hung between us, laden with meaning beyond clothing choices. Trust.
Such a small word for such a monumental concept. Did I trust Dante Richi? With my wardrobe, perhaps with my safety, possibly with my heart? Never. We returned to Florence by helicopter. The landscape below us bathed in the golden light of late afternoon. This time Dante sat beside me rather than across, his thigh occasionally brushing mine with the movement of the aircraft.
Each contact sent a jolt of awareness through me. Unwelcome, but undeniable. At the villa, Maria was waiting with news. My grandmother’s doctor had called. Her condition was stable. No better but no worse. I thanked her, relief evident in my voice. Another day, at least, another chance to unravel the mystery of Nona’s connection to Dante’s father.
The dress waiting in my room for the gallery opening was a deep emerald silk that brought out the green flex in my hazel eyes, simpler than the blue cocktail dress from the night before, but no less elegant. Beside it lay a small velvet box, this time containing an antique gold bracelet set with tiny emeralds.
I traced the delicate metal work with a fingertip, marveling at its craftsmanship. Not a new purchase, this one. Something with history, with meaning. Another chain, another beautiful tether binding me to Dante. I showered and dressed, arranging my hair in loose waves over one shoulder. The dress fit perfectly, as I knew it would.
The bracelet caught the light as I moved, glinting like captured stars. A knock at the door announced Dante, impeccable in a black suit with a tie that matched my dress exactly. His eyes darkened as they swept over me, appreciation evident in their depths. “You look beautiful,” he said simply. “Thank you.
” I touched the bracelet self-consciously. “This is exquisite, vintage.” “It belonged to my mother.” His voice was carefully neutral. “It suits you.” The revelation stunned me into silence. his mother’s bracelet. Not something purchased for a temporary companion, surely. The gesture felt weightier than all the other gifts combined. Before I could respond, his phone buzzed. He checked it, frowning slightly.
There’s been a change of plans. The gallery opening has been moved to a private viewing at the owner’s villa. More exclusive, fewer people, he looked at me. Is that still acceptable? Again, asking rather than telling. I nodded. curious about this new venue, this new side of Dante that seemed to be emerging, the one that sought my consent, that shared family heirlooms, that looked at me as if I were something precious rather than just convenient.
The drive to the gallery owner’s villa took us higher into the hills along winding roads bordered by cypress trees. Night had fallen and the car’s headlights cut through the darkness, occasionally illuminating ancient stone walls or glimpses of sprawling estates set back from the road. The owner, Martelli, is a collector of modern Italian art, Dante explained as we drove.
He holds these private viewings for serious buyers before opening exhibitions to the public. And you’re a serious buyer? I asked. A smile played at the corners of his mouth. On occasion, I appreciate beauty in all its forms. His eyes met mine in the dim light of the car, and the double meaning was impossible to miss. Heat bloomed in my cheeks, and I looked away, grateful for the darkness.
The Martelli Villa was smaller than Dante’s, but no less impressive. A modernist structure of glass and stone set into the hillside, overlooking Florence. Lights from the city twinkled below like earthbound stars. The dome of the Duomo illuminated against the night sky. Inside, perhaps 30 people mingled among striking artworks displayed on stark white walls.
Waiters circulated with champagne and canopes. A string quartet played softly in one corner. It was exactly the kind of sophisticated gathering I’d imagined Dante would frequent. He kept his hand at the small of my back as we moved through the space, introducing me to people whose names I immediately forgot, stopping occasionally to examine a painting or sculpture. His knowledge of art surprised me.
He spoke intelligently about techniques and influences clearly familiar with the artists represented. “You actually enjoy this,” I said during a quiet moment. “It’s not just for show,” he raised an eyebrow. “Did you think it would be?” I shrugged. Men in your position often collect art as status symbols, not because they appreciate it. Men in my position. There was amusement in his voice.
And what position is that exactly? I hesitated, unsure how to define him. Businessman, criminal, something in between. Powerful, I said finally. Wealthy. Used to displaying your success? He nodded, conceding the point. True, but I found that life offers few genuine pleasures. Art is one of them. Before I could respond, a tall, elegant man with silver hair approached us, arms outstretched.
Dante, finally, you grace us with your presence. Carlo. Dante embraced the man briefly. The exhibition is spectacular. Carlo beamed, then turned curious eyes on me. And who is this vision? Sophia Russo, a colleague and friend, Dante said, surprising me with the designation. Sophia Carlo Martelli, our host and the finest curator in Florence.
I shook the older man’s hand, noting the way his eyes moved between Dante and me, clearly seeing more than colleague and friend in our body language. A pleasure, Miss Russo. Any friend of Dante’s is a friend of mine. He leaned closer. Conspiratorial. He’s been alone too long. It’s good to see him with someone worthy of his attention.
Before I could correct his assumption, Carlo was pulled away by another guest, leaving me with Dante, who looked both amused and slightly embarrassed by his friend’s forwardness. “Sorry about that,” he said. Carlo has been trying to marry me off for years. “He thinks I work too much.” “Do you?” I asked, genuinely curious. He considered the question. probably, but my work is complicated.
It doesn’t leave much room for conventional relationships. Because of the hours or because of the nature of the work, his eyes sharpened, assessing me. Both. We moved on to examine a striking abstract canvas, but the conversation lingered in my mind. What exactly did Dante do that made relationships so difficult? the dinner with the Italian businessmen, the shipping company acquisition.
These seemed like legitimate business dealings, if aggressive ones, but there had been undercurrents, references to warehouses and customs officials that hinted at something less than legal. As we circulated through the gallery, I noticed a familiar face, Alio Ferrero, one of the men from last night’s dinner. He was speaking intensely with a younger man in a corner.
Not yet aware of our presence, I touched Dante’s arm, nodding discreetly in Ferrero’s direction. Dante’s expression hardened almost imperceptibly. Interesting. He wasn’t on the guest list. He guided me smoothly in the opposite direction. Let’s avoid him for now. I’d rather not mix business and pleasure tonight. But it was too late.
Ferrero had spotted us and was making his way through the crowd, a predatory smile on his face. Reachi, he said, extending his hand. What a pleasant surprise. Dante shook his hand, his expression pleasant but guarded. Emlio, I didn’t expect to see you here. Martelli and I go way back.
Ferrero’s eyes moved to me, lingering on the emerald bracelet at my wrist. Miss Russo, lovely to see you again. That’s a beautiful piece. I nodded my thanks, uncomfortable under his scrutiny. There was something cold in his eyes, something calculating that made my skin crawl. “If you’ll excuse us,” Dante said, his hand returning to my back. Sophia was just admiring the Bianke sculpture.
We moved away, but I could feel Ferrero’s eyes following us. Once we were out of earshot, Dante leaned close, his breath warm against my ear. “He’s not here by accident,” he murmured. “And he recognized my mother’s bracelet. A chill ran down my spine. Is that significant? Dante’s expression was grim. Very. It means he knows who you are to me.
And what am I to you? I asked, the question slipping out before I could stop it. His eyes met mine. Dark and intense. More than you should be, he said softly. More than is safe for either of us. Before I could process what he meant, a commotion near the entrance drew everyone’s attention. Three men in dark suits had entered. their stance and demeanor screaming security or perhaps something more official.
They scanned the room with practice deficiency, then moved toward our host, Carlo, who looked surprised and concerned. Dante’s posture changed instantly, tension radiating from him. He took my elbow, steering me toward a side exit. We need to leave now. Why? Who are they? Guardia Definanza,” he said grimly.
“Financial police, not people I want to speak with tonight.” My heart rate accelerated. Financial police meant investigations, possibly arrests. And Dante was clearly anxious to avoid them, which told me more about his business dealings than any direct explanation could have. We slipped through the side exit and down a service corridor.
Dante moving with the confidence of someone who had mapped escape routes in advance. A different car waited at a service entrance with a different driver. not the one who had brought us. As we pulled away from the villa, I saw Ferrero watching from a window, his expression satisfied. Triumphant even. He set us up, I said, realization dawning. Ferrero. He knew the police would be there.
Dante nodded, his expression hard as granite. Yes, he did. But why? What does he gain? Dante was silent for a long moment, his eyes on the road ahead. When he finally spoke, his voice was low, controlled, but with an underlying fury that sent a shiver through me.
Because he wants what I have, what I’ve built, and he thinks you’re my weakness, I stared at him, processing his words, the implications. Am I? His eyes met mine in the darkness of the car, fierce and possessive. Yes, he said simply. You are. Silence enveloped us as the car sped through the tusk and night. Dante’s admission hanging in the air between us. I was his weakness.
The thought was both terrifying and intoxicating. This powerful, dangerous man had allowed me, a simple waitress he’d known for mere days, to become his vulnerability. What happens now? I asked finally, my voice barely audible over the purr of the engine. Dante’s jaw was tight, his eyes fixed on the dark road ahead.
Now we adapt. Plans change. We leave Florence tomorrow. My heart lurched. But my grandmother will come with us, he said, his tone brooking no argument. I’ve already made arrangements. A private medical transport to my property in Switzerland. The Swiss doctor will accompany her. She’ll receive the best possible care, Sophia. I promise you that. The decisiveness of it stunned me.
In the space of minutes, he had completely rearranged our lives, mine and Nona’s, without consultation, without hesitation. Part of me wanted to rebel against such high-handedness. But another part, the part that had seen Ferrero’s triumphant smile, that had felt the urgency of our escape, understood the necessity.
Switzerland, I repeated, trying to wrap my mind around it. For how long? As long as necessary. His hand found mine in the darkness, his grip firm and warm. I won’t let them use you to get to me, Sophia. I won’t let them hurt you. Who is them? Ferrero, the financial police? I turned to face him fully.
Dante, I need to understand what I’m caught in the middle of. He was silent for so long, I thought he wouldn’t answer. Then he sighed, a sound heavy with resignation. You deserve the truth. At least part of it. He squeezed my hand once, then released it to run his fingers through his hair. The shipping company we acquired yesterday. It’s a front. Has been for decades.
Drugs, weapons, counterfeit goods, all moving through their ports, through those warehouses in Lavo. And you knew this when you bought it. A grim smile touched his lips. It wasn’t a bug, Sophia. It was a feature. The legitimate business loses money. The illegitimate one makes millions. I swallowed hard. The reality of who he was, what he was, suddenly impossible to ignore. You’re not just a businessman. No.
He agreed quietly. Not just a businessman. And the others, Ferrero, the Bianke brothers, competitors, partners, sometimes enemies when it suits them. His voice hardened. Ferrero wants what I’ve built. He thought setting the guardia on me would weaken my position, force me to sell my interest to him at a discount to avoid prosecution.
Would it have worked if we hadn’t left? Dante’s laugh was without humor. I have arrangements with certain officials, but it would have been inconvenient. Questions asked, records examined. Better to avoid it altogether. My mind raced, connecting dots, seeing the larger picture. And me? Where do I fit into all this? He turned to me then, his expression softer than I’d ever seen it. You were meant to be temporary, Sophia.
A translator, nothing more. A beautiful, intelligent woman who could help me navigate a few meetings, then return to her life. His eyes held mine. But then I heard you answer that phone call in perfect Italian. I saw the grief in your eyes when you spoke about your grandmother.
I saw your courage when you walked into my office, terrified, but determined. He shook his head slightly. And suddenly, temporary wasn’t enough. My heart pounded against my ribs. What are you saying? I’m saying I want you with me, Sophia. Not just for these two weeks. Not just as a translator or an assistant. His voice dropped lower. I’m saying I haven’t felt this way about anyone in a very long time, perhaps ever. I stared at him, speechless.
This couldn’t be real. Men like Dante Richi didn’t fall for women like me. They used them, perhaps enjoyed them for a while, then moved on. Maria’s words echoed in my mind. When he is finished, “Your mother’s bracelet,” I said suddenly. “You gave me your mother’s bracelet.
” Something like vulnerability flickered across his face. “Yes.” “Why?” He looked away, his profile sharp against the passing lights outside. “Because it suited you. because I wanted to see it on your wrist. Because he hesitated, then finished softly. Because she would have liked you. The simple statement hit me with unexpected force.
This wasn’t just about desire or convenience. This was deeper, more significant. I thought of how he’d spoken with my grandmother, the genuine connection they’d formed. I thought of how he’d arranged for her medical care, not just once, but twice. Now, your father, I said, pieces clicking into place.
Nona did know him, didn’t she? That’s why you were interested in me from the beginning. You saw my name on the employee records and recognized it. Dante nodded slowly. Antonio Russo. He worked for my father in the early days before I was born. They were close, more than colleagues. He glanced at me. When I saw your name, I was curious.
When I had you investigated and discovered you were his granddaughter, I was intrigued. My grandfather died before I was born, I said quietly. Nona never spoke much about him. He died in service to my father, Dante said, his voice solemn. A debt my family has never properly repaid. The revelation stunned me.
All this time, all these inexplicable connections, they had roots decades deep in relationships I’d never known about. in a world I’d never been part of. Is that why you helped me? Guilt? A debt? At first, perhaps, he admitted. But not anymore. His eyes found mine again, intense, even in the dim light. Not since I met you. Not since I kissed you. We arrived at the villa to find it in a state of controlled chaos.
Staff moved efficiently, packing essentials, securing the house for an extended absence. Alisandra met us at the door. tablet in hand, already briefing Dante on arrangements, the private jet fueled and waiting, the Swiss property prepared, the medical transport for Nona scheduled for dawn.
Your things have been packed, Miss Russo, she informed me with her usual efficiency. Is there anything specific you require for the journey? I shook my head, still trying to absorb everything that was happening. No, thank you. Dante issued instructions, his voice calm but authoritative, the natural leader in a crisis. Within an hour, the villa was secured, essential items packed, and we were ready to leave.
I sat in the back of yet another unmarked car, watching the lights of Florence recede in the distance, wondering if I would ever see my homeland again. The private airfield was deserted, save for Dante’s jet and a handful of ground crew.
As we boarded, I noticed the bodyguard, whose name I now knew was Marco, speaking intensely with the pilot, likely reviewing security protocols. Dante guided me to a seat, his hand warm at the small of my back. “Try to rest,” he said gently. “It’s been a long day.” “What about Nona?” I asked, still worried despite his assurances. “The medical transport leaves at dawn. She’ll arrive at the Swiss property just a few hours after we do. He squeezed my shoulder. The doctor says she’s stable.
The move won’t harm her. I nodded, too exhausted to argue. As the jet engines roared to life, I leaned back in my seat, closing my eyes. Despite everything, despite the danger and the uncertainty in the revelations, a strange peace settled over me. Whatever happened next, I wasn’t alone.
I must have dozed because the next thing I knew, Dante was gently shaking me awake. “We’re landing,” he said softly. Outside the window, snowcapped mountains loomed against a pre-dawn sky. We descended into a valley dotted with lights, landing on another private airirstrip, a vehicle waited on the tarmac, larger than a car, more like a small armored personnel carrier.
“Welcome to Switzerland,” Dante said as we deplaned, the crisp mountain air filling my lungs. His property turned out to be a fortress disguised as a chalet. Stone and timber on the outside, state-of-the-art security, and luxury on the inside. Staff greeted us with the same difference I’d seen at the Tuscan Villa.
I was shown to a suite that rivaled the one in Florence with breathtaking views of the Alps. “Nona will arrive in approximately 3 hours,” Dante informed me as a staff member unpacked my things. She’ll be in the medical suite on the ground floor. The doctor will stay on site, I nodded, gratitude washing through me. Whatever else Dante might be, whatever darkness existed in his world, he had kept his word about caring for my grandmother.
After showering and changing into clothes more appropriate for the alpine climate, I found Dante in his study, speaking on the phone in rapid Italian. He ended the call as I entered, his expression troubled. Problems? I asked. Complications, he corrected, gesturing for me to sit. Ferrero is making moves faster than anticipated.
He’s allied himself with the Bianke brothers. They’re trying to convince my other partners that I’ve become a liability. Because of me, I said, the realization bitter on my tongue. Dante’s eyes softened. Not because of you, Sophia. Because of my feelings for you. He moved to kneel before my chair, taking my hands in his. I have no regrets. None.
Do you understand? I nodded, my throat tight with emotion. This powerful, dangerous man was on his knees before me, vulnerability naked in his eyes. Whatever he had done, whatever darkness existed in his soul, his feelings for me were genuine. Of that, I was certain. Nonas arrived, a staff member announced from the doorway, breaking the moment.
I spent the morning with my grandmother, who took the change in location with remarkable equinimity. The mountains are good for the soul, she said, looking out at the snow-covered peaks from her comfortable medical bed. And this one, she added, nodding toward Dante, who stood at a respectful distance. He takes care of his own, like his father before him. I glanced at Dante, noting the flash of surprise in his eyes.
You remember his father well? Nona’s smile was sad but fond. Antonio loved him like a brother. Died for him in the end. She reached for my hand. Family isn’t always blood. Mia. Sometimes it’s who stands beside you when the world falls apart. Her words stayed with me as the day progressed. As I watched Dante manage his empire from afar through phone calls and video conferences.
as I observed the respect bordering on fear that his staff showed him. This was a man who had built something formidable, something that existed in shadows as much as in light. And somehow, inexplicably, he had chosen me to stand beside him.
That evening, after Nona had fallen asleep, and the chalet had grown quiet, I found Dante on the terrace, a tumbler of whiskey in his hand, his gaze fixed on the moonlit mountains. You should be resting, he said without turning. So should you. I moved to stand beside him, pulling my cardigan tighter against the chill. How bad is it? The situation with Ferrero, he sipped his whiskey, considering manageable for now.
I’ve called in some favors, reminded certain people of their obligations. His mouth curved in a grim smile. The problem with men like Ferrero is they forget that loyalty cuts both ways. and your business, your empire will survive. May need restructuring. Some interests sold, others consolidated. He turned to me then, his eyes serious.
But that’s not what’s troubling you, is it? I shook my head, gathering my courage. What happens when this is over? When Ferrero is dealt with? When my grandmother I couldn’t finish the sentence. When she’s gone, he supplied gently. I nodded, tears pricking my eyes. Dante set down his glass and took my hands in his, his touch warm against my cold fingers.
What do you want to happen, Sophia? The question was so direct, so stripped of manipulation or presumption that it took me a back. For days, I had been swept along by Dante’s decisions, Dante’s world, Dante’s desires. Now he was asking for mine. I want, I began, then stopped, uncertain.
What did I want? To return to my lonely apartment in New York? To my underpaid job at the restaurant? To the life I’d been living, safe perhaps, but empty? Or did I want this? The danger? Yes. But also the passion, the purpose, the feeling of belonging to something larger than myself, of belonging to someone who looked at me as Dante did now with such naked longing it made my heart stutter. I want to stay, I whispered finally.
with you for as long as you want me. Something like relief washed over his face. I will always want you, Sophia. Always. He pulled me close, his arms encircling me, his heart beating strong and steady against mine. But you should know what that means. My world is not safe, not simple.
There will always be men like Ferrero. Threats to navigate, compromises to make. I pulled back slightly to look into his eyes. Is that a warning or an apology? A smile touched his lips. Both. Neither. His hand came up to cut my cheek. I am who I am, Sophia. I can’t change that. Not even for you. But I can promise you this. You will never be alone again. You will never want for anything.
And I will protect you with my life. It wasn’t a conventional declaration of love. It wasn’t roses and sonnets and happily ever after. It was something more real, more tangible. A promise from a man who kept his promises no matter the cost. That’s enough, I said, and meant it. That’s enough for me.
When he kissed me there on the moonlit terrace with the Alps rising like sentinels around us, I felt something settle in my soul. A recognition, a homecoming. This was where I belonged. Not in the safe, predictable life I’d constructed after fleeing Boston, but here, in the arms of a dangerous man who looked at me as if I were precious beyond measure.
6 months later, Nana passed peacefully in her sleep, her hand in mine. Dante standing vigil beside us. We buried her in the small cemetery of the Alpine Village, snow falling gently on fresh flowers. One year later, Ferrero’s body was found in the Arno River. His empire dismantled, his allies scattered or absorbed into Dante’s growing organization. I never asked for details. Some questions are better left unasked.
Two years later, Dante placed a ring on my finger, a family heirloom, he said, that had belonged to his grandmother. We were married in a private ceremony, just us and a handful of trusted associates. No white dress, no church, no promises of conventional happiness. Instead, there was truth. There was passion.
There was a bond forged in danger and strengthened by choice. Every night, I fall asleep in his arms, feeling the steady rhythm of his heart against my back. Every morning, I wake to find him watching me as if he can’t quite believe I’m real, that I’ve chosen him, his world, his life. It began with a phone call in Italian, answered in front of the wrong man at the wrong time.