Chapter 3: Into the Wolf's Den
Aria:
Isabella's arm tightened on mine. "My sister has family obligations. If the Don wishes to speak with her, he can arrange a proper meeting through our—"
"It wasn't a request, Miss Rossi." Matteo's tone stayed polite, but his eyes were flat. Dead. "The Don is waiting."
Shit.
I saw them then—three black Cadillacs idling at the curb, engines purring like predators. More suits flanking the vehicles, hands resting too casually near their jackets.
My purse. I'd left my purse in the exhibition hall—wallet, keys, everything.
"I forgot my purse inside," I said quickly, already turning. "My wallet, my ID—I need them to get home. Just give me two minutes—"
"Aria—" Isabella started.
"Go ahead, Bella. Father will lose his mind if you're late." I forced a smile, backing toward the entrance. "I'll be right back. I promise."
Isabella hesitated, glancing between me and Matteo. Finally, she nodded and headed to the family car.
The second it pulled away, I bolted.
Only an idiot would walk into that psycho's car willingly. I've got a brain, and I'm using it.
My heels hit linoleum in a frantic staccato. I kicked them off mid-stride, bare feet slapping concrete as I tore through the employee corridor.
Three years. The families will tear each other apart in three years—everyone knows the balance is cracking. When the war starts, when they're all too busy killing each other to notice one missing bastard daughter, that's when I disappear. Switzerland. Neutral ground. No Dons, no bullets, no—
My dress snagged on a pipe bracket—riiip—the whole side giving way.
—no chance of any of that if I'm dead before then.
I burst through the exit into humid night air and froze.
Three Cadillacs. Perfect formation. Blocking every angle like pieces on a chessboard.
Fuck.
The center window descended with mechanical precision. Those ice-blue eyes locked onto mine, and every muscle in my body went rigid.
"Miss Rossi." Vito Castellano stepped out, all tailored perfection and lethal grace. "Going somewhere?"
My throat closed. He was standing there in a three-piece suit without a single wrinkle, not a hair out of place, like he hadn't been hallucinating with a gun three hours ago.
Alright, fine. You caught me. Congratulations on having enough money to buy half of Manhattan and station cars at every exit. Must be real nice being able to corner people like this, you smug bastard.
"I need to get home," I managed. "My father—he has rules about curfew—"
"This morning." He took a step closer, and I pressed back against the wall. "You were very... enthusiastic. Strong grip." A slight pause, his gaze dropping for just a second before meeting my eyes again. "And that ass of yours is quite memorable. The kiss wasn't bad either."
Heat exploded across my face, down my neck, probably to my toes.
Oh my God. Oh my GOD. He did NOT just—
"I'll be honest with you, Miss Rossi." Another step closer. His voice stayed level, almost conversational. "You're beautiful. Attractive. But what really caught my attention tonight was your nose. Your talent with those compounds." His head tilted slightly. "That's what interests me."
His hand came up, fingers closing around the back of my neck. Firm. Warm.
If our positions were reversed, I'd make your life hell. See how you like being the one with no choices.
"Get in the car," he said quietly. "We need to talk."
"I can't just—I have commitments—"
"The Velvet Room is always accepting new talent." His thumb pressed against my pulse point. "Your choice."
The Velvet Room.
I'd heard the whispers in the Rossi estate's dark corners. No one—man or woman—came out of there the same. Most didn't come out at all. The ones who did were... broken. Fundamentally destroyed in ways that made death look merciful.
My legs went weak.
"I'll come," I whispered.
The leather interior smelled like expensive cologne and barely concealed violence. I pressed myself against the far door, watching the city lights blur past as the car pulled smoothly into traffic.
Vito sat across from me, perfectly still, those ice-blue eyes watching me in a way that made my skin prickle.
His phone buzzed. He glanced at the screen, then tapped speaker without looking away from me.
"Don." Matteo's voice filled the car, crisp and professional. "The investigation is complete. Chiara Benedetti. Confirmed."
"Old rules," Vito said flatly.
"Understood. Fifty tonight. After services are complete, we'll send her cousin one of her fingers with your regards."
The call ended.
My stomach lurched violently.
Fifty. Fifty in one night. And then they'll cut off her finger and—
The car swerved suddenly—some taxi cutting across lanes without signaling. I pitched sideways hard, my shoulder slamming into his chest, my hand grabbing his thigh for balance. Way too high on his thigh.
I froze.
His hand caught my waist, steadying me, but the momentum had me pressed against him for three long seconds. I could smell his cologne, feel the solid warmth of him, feel exactly where my hand was resting.
"I—" My voice came out strangled. "The driver—"
"I noticed." His voice stayed level. His hand released my waist as the car straightened, and I scrambled back to my side, face burning.
The cleanliness thing. Oh God, the stories—three fingers for brushing against his jacket. That capo who sneezed near him. Found in the river.
My hands. I need my hands. Can't make perfume without them. Can't make money. Can't escape.
"I'm sorry!" The words tumbled out as I pressed myself into the corner. "I didn't mean—the driver swerved—please, I need my hands, I didn't—"
He laughed.
It was barely a sound, more exhale than actual mirth, but it stopped my spiraling panic completely.
"Traffic accidents don't cost fingers." He leaned forward slightly, reaching for something beside me. "Relax, Miss Rossi. You forgot your seatbelt."
He pulled the belt across my body, his arm brushing against me as he clicked it into place. His knuckles grazed my ribs, then the buckle snapped at my hip.
"Stay put," he said, settling back into his seat. "We're almost there."
I nodded mutely, not trusting myself to speak.
At least I still have all ten fingers. Small victories.
We descended into an underground garage beneath a building that screamed old money—the kind of place where doormen wore white gloves and knew better than to ask questions. The elevator was all mirrors and gold trim, making it impossible to avoid my own reflection.
Barefoot. Dress torn up one side, exposing most of my thigh. Mascara smudged. Hair a mess.
Matteo stood by the buttons. Vito was behind me, and in the mirrored walls I could see him watching me—his expression unreadable, eyes tracking the torn fabric of my dress.
The elevator lurched as it started moving. My bare feet slipped on the polished floor and I stumbled backward.
His hands caught my waist, steadying me.
For a moment I was pressed back against him, his hands firm on my sides, and I could feel the heat of him through the thin fabric of my dress.
"Careful," he said quietly, near my ear.
Then the elevator steadied and he released me, stepping back.
Matteo cleared his throat as we walked down a hallway lined with expensive art. "Don Castellano's sister, Miss Caterina, experienced severe trauma two years ago. She was raised primarily by her nanny—the nanny had a passion for perfumery. After the nanny's death six months ago, Miss Caterina has withdrawn completely. She rarely leaves her room. The Don believes your skills—your victory tonight—might help draw her out."
The regret hit like a physical blow.
So that's it. That's why he noticed me.
Because I won first place. Because I walked up to that podium and accepted the award in Isabella's name. Let them announce "Aria Rossi" to the entire room. Let them shine a spotlight on the bastard daughter with the magic nose.
I had a plan. A good plan. Slip the evidence to the tech crew backstage—let them "accidentally" project Camilla's fraud on the big screen during the announcement. She gets destroyed, Isabella wins, and I stay completely anonymous. Invisible. Safe.
But no. I saw Isabella's face when that perfume bottle shattered—saw the glass shards slice into her palm, saw blood welling up between her fingers. My sister. The only person in this godforsaken family who ever protected me. I walked right into that spotlight like an idiot, made myself the center of attention, made myself memorable.
And now he knows my face. Knows my name. Knows exactly what I can do.
Stupid. So fucking stupid.
"Twenty thousand a month," Vito said, turning to face me. "Cash. No records. Three visits a week—you help Caterina with her perfumes, keep her talking, keep her engaged."
Twenty thousand dollars.
My brain stuttered to a halt.
