Chapter 5: Instagram Friends and Incoming Bruises
Aria:
The hallway outside Caterina's room was silent except for my breathing. I sat down against the wall opposite her door, the garment bag folded beside me, and pulled out the small vial of perfume I'd tucked into my bag before leaving the hotel.
"Caterina?" I called softly. "I brought you something. A gift."
Silence.
"It's a perfume I made. I call it 'Hope.' It has bergamot and white tea—light things. Clean things. The kind of scent that makes you think maybe tomorrow won't be so terrible."
Still nothing. But I thought I heard movement on the other side of the door.
"Before my mom died, we lived in this tiny apartment in Palermo," I continued, my voice steadier now. "The bad part. We did whatever work we could find—cleaning houses, washing laundry. When she got sick, we couldn't afford a doctor. She just... got worse until one morning she didn't wake up. I was twelve."
A long pause. Then, so quietly I almost missed it: "I'm sorry."
"Me too." I swallowed hard. "My nanny died too," came Caterina's voice through the door, cracking. "She was the only person who... except for Vito. He's the only one who doesn't look at me like I'm disgusting."
"You're not disgusting," I said firmly. "Whatever happened to you—whatever people say—it doesn't make you disgusting."
Another pause. "The perfume. Can I... can I have it?"
I felt something shift in my chest—something warm and painful at the same time. "Of course." I crouched down and slid the small vial through the gap at the bottom of the door.
I heard her pick it up, the cap unscrewing, a long shaky inhale.
"It really does smell like hope," she whispered.
Then I heard the lock turning.
"I'm going to stand up now and take a few steps back," I said gently. "You can open the door as much or as little as you want. Okay?"
The lock clicked fully open. I stood slowly and backed up until my shoulders hit the opposite wall.
The door cracked open—just an inch at first. I could see a sliver of pale face, one dark eye peering out.
"Hi," I said softly.
The door opened wider. Caterina stood in the gap, one hand clutching the doorframe, the other holding my perfume vial against her chest. Her dark hair hung in tangled curtains around her face, and her eyes were huge and achingly sad.
"You're not scared of me," she whispered. "Everyone else is scared."
"I'm not scared of you. I promise."
Eventually, she pulled back and led me inside. The room was expensive and suffocating, heavy curtains blocking out the night. On a small table by the window sat a collection of glass bottles and vials, dusty and forgotten.
"Your nanny's perfumes?" I asked gently.
She nodded, fresh tears spilling. "I haven't touched them since she died."
We sat down together, and I showed her how to blend scents, how to layer notes. Her hands shook at first, but as we worked, they steadied. She told me about her nanny, about the garden they used to tend.
I told her about stealing flowers from the church garden with my mother, and she laughed—a small, surprised sound, like she'd forgotten how.
I didn't realize how much time had passed until I noticed the clock on her nightstand had slipped past eleven.
Shit. How long have I been here?
"I have to go," I said, scrambling to my feet. "I'm so sorry, I didn't realize how late—"
"Wait!" Caterina grabbed my hand. "Your phone—can I have your number? Or Instagram, or—"
"Yes, of course!" I fumbled with my phone, and we followed each other quickly. She smiled when my profile loaded.
"I haven't added anyone new in..." She trailed off, then shook her head. "Thank you."
She disappeared into her closet and emerged with a garment bag. "Your dress is ruined. Change before you go—the bathroom's there."
I changed quickly, transferring the envelope from my bag to the inner pocket of Caterina's dress before folding my ruined one into the garment bag.
When I emerged, Caterina was standing by the door.
"You'll come back?" she asked, her voice small and hopeful.
"I promise," I said. "I'll text you tomorrow, okay?"
She nodded, still smiling.
I stepped out of the villa's front entrance, my mind still on Caterina's smile, on the way her hands had steadied as we worked—
And froze.
Vito was leaning against his car, scrolling through his phone with that same infuriating calm. He looked up when he heard my footsteps, his dark eyes tracking over me with unsettling focus.
What? No. Why is he still here?
"Miss Rossi." His voice was smooth, almost amused. "Enjoy your evening?"
"Yes, thank you." I clutched the garment bag tighter. "But you really didn't have to wait—"
"Get in the car. I'll drive you home."
Not a request.
God.
I slid into the passenger seat, my pulse hammering as he rounded the car and settled behind the wheel. The engine purred to life, and we pulled away from the villa in silence.
"Thank you," I managed. "For waiting. And for... everything tonight."
"You're welcome." He glanced at me briefly, then back at the road. "Caterina opened the door for you."
"She did."
"First time in two years."
I nodded, unsure what to say.
"I'm only at the villa on Sundays," Vito continued, his tone casual. "The rest of the week I'm at my other residence—business keeps me occupied."
Only Sundays. Only Sundays. I can avoid him six days a week.
Relief crashed through me so hard I almost laughed.
"That's... good to know."
"Why?" His lips curved slightly, and I caught the dangerous amusement in his voice. "Disappointed?"
What?
"I—no, I just meant—"
"You seemed relieved just now." He slowed at a red light, turning to look at me fully, and the intensity in his gaze made my breath catch. "What, you want me there every day? Keeping you company while you play therapist?"
Is he... teasing me?
"I wouldn't want to inconvenience you," I said carefully.
"Hmm." His eyes glinted with something I couldn't read. "You could ask nicely. Beg a little. Maybe I'd make an exception."
My face burned.
He's definitely teasing me. The man who killed me is flirting. What the actual hell.
"I'll manage," I said, forcing a smile.
He made a low sound that might have been a laugh, then turned his attention back to the road.
"What perfume are you wearing?"
I blinked. "I'm... not wearing any."
His eyes cut to me again, sharp and assessing. "Liar."
"I'm not lying. I didn't put on perfume tonight."
"Then what the hell is that smell?" He inhaled slowly, deliberately, his gaze never leaving my face. "It's been driving me insane since you got in the car."
Oh God. The blending session. Caterina and I must have gotten some on our clothes.
"We were making perfumes," I admitted. "Caterina and I. Some of it probably transferred—"
"So this is what?" His voice dropped, taking on a dangerous edge. "Some new seduction technique? Playing innocent while you smell like—" He inhaled again, sharper this time. "What is that? Jasmine? Something else?"
Are you kidding me right now?
"It's not a technique," I said, fighting to keep my voice level. "It's literally just residue from the bottles we were working with. I wasn't trying to—"
"Weren't you?"
The look he gave me made my stomach flip—dark and assessing and far too interested.
Breathe. Just breathe. He's testing you. Don't react.
I forced a placating smile, the kind I'd perfected over years of managing my father's moods. "I promise, Don Castellano, if I were trying to seduce you, you'd know."
Did I just say that out loud?
His eyebrows rose slightly. Then, to my absolute shock, he laughed—a real laugh, low and genuine.
"Careful, Miss Rossi. That almost sounded like a challenge."
"It wasn't," I said quickly. "I just meant—"
"I know what you meant." He pulled up in front of the Rossi estate, the single light in the foyer glowing like a warning beacon. His gaze followed mine to that light, and something shifted in his expression. "Your father's waiting."
Vito's gaze sharpened, tracking the tremor in my fingers where they clutched the garment bag. "Problem?"
"No. Just... late curfew. You know how it is." I tried to sound casual and failed miserably.
He studied me for a long moment, his expression unreadable. Then he reached across and opened my door from the inside, his arm brushing against mine.
The brief contact sent a jolt through me—warmth and threat and something I couldn't name.
"Go," he said quietly.
I scrambled out, clutching the garment bag like a lifeline.
I slipped through the front door as quietly as I could—
My father stood in the center of the foyer in his bathrobe, his face twisted with rage.
"Where the hell have you been?"
"I—there was a situation after the competition—"
The slap came out of nowhere, snapping my head to the side. My cheek exploded with pain, hot and sharp, and I tasted copper.
