Chapter 2 - The Man Who Made Arrangements“I have made arrangements.”
I stared at Carlo through the windshield.
Those were four words no woman wanted to hear from a man rumored to control half the city.
“What kind of arrangements?”
“The harmless kind.”
“That sounds exactly like what someone says before revealing the arrangements are absolutely not harmless.”
His mouth twitched.
“You distrust me.”
“I met you four minutes ago.”
“Five.”
“That extra minute did not improve your reputation.”
Carlo laughed again.
Then a second black car appeared at the end of the street.
It was an Alfa Romeo sedan, polished enough to reflect the balconies above us. A broad-shouldered man in a dark suit climbed out, walked toward Carlo, and held out a set of keys.
Carlo tossed him the Maserati keys.
The man caught them without speaking.
I watched in confusion as Carlo’s Maserati was driven away.
Carlo gestured toward my parking space.
“It is yours.”
I blinked.
“That is it?”
“That is it.”
“You called someone to collect a Maserati because you lost an argument with a Fiat?”
“I did not lose.”
“You are standing on the sidewalk without a car.”
His eyes narrowed with amusement.
“I chose to withdraw.”
“That is what people who lose say.”
For several seconds we stared at each other.
Then Carlo stepped aside.
“Go to your meeting, Adriana.”
I hesitated.
This felt too easy.
“Are you going to have my car towed after I leave?”
“No.”
“Slashed tires?”
“No.”
“Concrete shoes?”
His expression changed.
“Do people genuinely think we still use concrete shoes?”
“I have no idea what your family uses.”
“We have accountants now. Much more frightening.”
Despite myself, I laughed.
That seemed to satisfy him.
I parked.
By the time I grabbed my portfolio and climbed out, Carlo was leaning against the stone wall beside the entrance.
“You are still here.”
“I own the building.”
“You mentioned that.”
“And your meeting is inside.”
I stopped.
“How do you know?”
He pointed toward the address printed on the folder protruding from my bag.
Right.
Observant worked both ways.
My potential client was Bellucci Hospitality, a boutique hotel company looking for a complete redesign of its branding.
It was the biggest opportunity I had received since opening Adriana Romano Design eighteen months earlier.
And I was fourteen minutes late.
I hurried toward the door.
“Adriana.”
I turned.
Carlo stood beneath the afternoon sun, one hand in his pocket.
“Good luck.”
Something about the sincerity surprised me.
“Thank you.”
I made the meeting seventeen minutes late.
And lost the contract.
Or at least I thought I did.
The meeting itself was catastrophic.
Mr. Bellucci spent the first ten minutes checking his watch. His marketing director barely looked at my portfolio. By the time I finished presenting my concept—Mediterranean colors, contemporary typography, visual references to old Neapolitan tilework—I could already feel the opportunity slipping away.
“We will contact you,” Bellucci said.
Everyone knew what that meant.
Do not wait by the phone.
I walked outside forty minutes later carrying the particular exhaustion of someone whose bank account could not afford another failure.
My Fiat was still there.
No tow truck.
No slashed tires.
No mafia henchmen.
I climbed inside and rested my forehead against the steering wheel.
“Fantastic.”
The engine required three attempts.
That evening, I returned to my apartment in Quartieri Spagnoli and ate pasta standing over the sink because my kitchen table was covered in invoices.
My business account contained €3,842.
Rent was due in nine days.
Two clients were late paying me.
My laptop had begun making a noise resembling an asthmatic lawn mower.
I opened my email.
Nothing from Bellucci.
Of course.
At 10:17 p.m., my phone rang.
Unknown number.
I considered ignoring it.
Then answered.
“Adriana Romano?”
“Yes?”
“This is Sofia Bellucci.”
I nearly dropped my fork.
The marketing director.
“I wanted to call personally. We reviewed your proposal again.”
My stomach tightened.
“And?”
“We would like to hire you.”
Silence.
I actually checked the phone to make sure the call had not disconnected.
“I’m sorry?”
Sofia laughed.
“The complete rebranding package. All three hotels.”
That was nearly €30,000 of work.
Enough to keep my business alive for months.
“That is wonderful.”
“There is one condition.”
My excitement cooled.
“What condition?”
“We need the first concepts within three weeks.”
“That is fine.”
“And Mr. Bellucci wants you to know your lateness this afternoon remains unacceptable.”
“Completely understandable.”
“But apparently someone reminded him that good design is more difficult to replace than punctual designers.”
My fingers tightened around the phone.
“Someone?”
A pause.
“Goodnight, Ms. Romano.”
The call ended.
I knew.
Of course I knew.
I called the number Carlo had used earlier.
Then realized I did not have Carlo’s number.
I stared at my phone.
Five seconds later, a message appeared.
Unknown number.
Congratulations on Bellucci.
My mouth fell open.
I typed immediately.
Did you interfere?
Three dots.
Define interfere.
Did you tell Bellucci to hire me?
His reply came almost immediately.
No.
I did not believe him.
Then what did you do?
This time, he waited.
I told him firing a talented designer because she was seventeen minutes late would make him an idiot. The decision remained his.
I stared at the screen.
Anger and gratitude fought inside me.
You looked at my portfolio?
Your website.
Of course he had found my website.
That is unsettling.
Your typography needs improvement on mobile.
I sat upright.
The bastard was right.
I had been meaning to fix it.
Are you criticizing my website now?
Constructively.
I didn’t ask for your opinion.
You didn’t ask me to move my Maserati either. Life is full of surprises.
I smiled despite myself.
Then another message appeared.
Dinner tomorrow. 8.
I stopped smiling.
No.
His response:
I know a restaurant without parking problems.
Still no.
Why?
That irritated me.
Men like Carlo Ferretti probably rarely heard that word without explanation.
So I gave him one.
Because you helped my career without asking, then immediately invited me to dinner. That creates an obligation. I don’t like obligations disguised as favors.
The typing indicator appeared.
Disappeared.
Returned.
Finally:
Fair.
That was unexpected.
Another message followed.
Then Bellucci has nothing to do with dinner. You owe me nothing. I will never mention the contract again.
I read it twice.
And dinner?
Still tomorrow at 8.
I laughed.
Still no.
Stubborn girl.
Arrogant man.
Sleep well, Adriana.
I put down the phone.
For reasons I refused to examine, I checked it twice before bed.
The next morning, everything returned to normal.
Emails.
Deadlines.
Coffee.
Client revisions.
Until 6:30 p.m.
Someone knocked on my studio door.
My studio occupied the second floor of an old building near Piazza Dante. It consisted of two rooms, one assistant named Lucia, three desks, and enough extension cords to violate several safety regulations.
Lucia answered.
Then looked at me.
“Adriana?”
“What?”
Her expression was strange.
“There is a man here.”
Carlo walked inside.
No entourage.
No sunglasses.
Dark trousers, white shirt, sleeves rolled to his forearms.
Somehow casual clothing made him more dangerous.
Or perhaps merely more attractive.
Neither possibility pleased me.
“You cannot just appear at my office.”
“I knocked.”
“That is technically true.”
Lucia looked between us.
“Should I leave?”
“No,” I said.
“Yes,” Carlo said simultaneously.
Lucia grabbed her purse.
“Definitely leaving.”
“Traitor.”
“I have a date.”
“You absolutely do not.”
“I do now.”
She disappeared.
Carlo looked around.
His attention stopped on the presentation boards covering the wall.
“You made these?”
“Yes.”
“They are good.”
“I know.”
That smile again.
“Confident.”
“Necessary when your clients spend half the meeting asking whether their nephew could do the same thing in Canva.”
Carlo walked toward the window.
“Dinner.”
“No.”
“It is seven thirty.”
“I am aware of time.”
“You are still working.”
“I am also aware of work.”
He turned.
“Adriana.”
There was something different in his voice.
Less teasing.
More serious.
“I am asking you to dinner because I want to know you. Not because you owe me anything. Not because I expect anything afterward. One meal.”
I studied him.
“Why?”
“Because yesterday you knew exactly who I was and still refused to move.”
“That cannot possibly be enough.”
“It is a start.”
I should have said no.
Instead, I looked at the mountain of work on my desk.
Then at him.
“One hour.”
“Two.”
“Ninety minutes.”
“Done.”
“And I choose the restaurant.”
His eyebrows rose.
“You distrust my restaurants?”
“I distrust anywhere the owner might mysteriously decide our bill is free.”
“You are difficult.”
“I warned you.”
“I noticed.”
I chose a tiny family trattoria near Santa Chiara where my father had taken me as a child.
Carlo did not complain.
That surprised me more than anything.
We walked there.
No chauffeur.
No security that I could see.
People noticed him.
That part was impossible to miss.
Men standing outside cafés straightened.
An older shopkeeper nodded respectfully.
Two young men stepped out of our path.
Carlo acknowledged everyone but stopped for no one.
“You are famous.”
“Infamous is probably more accurate.”
“At least you are self-aware.”
At the restaurant, the owner nearly fainted.
Carlo quietly asked him to treat us like ordinary customers.
Somehow, he did.
We ate pasta alla Genovese and drank red wine.
For the first twenty minutes, I waited for Carlo Ferretti the mafia boss to appear.
Instead, I met Carlo the man.
He asked about my business.
Not politely.
Specifically.
Why graphic design?
Why start my own company?
Why Naples instead of Milan?
Nobody wealthy had ever asked those questions without eventually suggesting how I should change everything.
Carlo simply listened.
“My father painted signs,” I told him.
“For businesses?”
“For anyone who paid him. Restaurants, bakeries, mechanics. He believed lettering could tell you what kind of person owned the shop before you ever walked inside.”
Carlo smiled.
“Smart man.”
“He was.”
The past tense registered.
Carlo did not ask immediately.
I appreciated that.
“My parents died eight years ago,” I eventually said. “Car accident.”
“I’m sorry.”
No dramatic sympathy.
No probing.
Just two words.
I nodded.
“What about you?”
“My father died six years ago.”
“And your mother?”
“Alive. Terrifying. Lives outside Sorrento and believes every problem can be solved with food or Catholic guilt.”
I laughed.
“You have brothers.”
“Two.”
“The famous Ferretti brothers.”
“Matteo and Enzo.”
“Are they also terrifying?”
“Matteo believes he is.”
“And Enzo?”
Carlo’s expression changed almost imperceptibly.
“Enzo enjoys being underestimated.”
Something about the answer told me there were stories beneath it.
Dangerous ones.
I did not ask.
Dinner lasted two hours and fourteen minutes.
Neither of us mentioned the time.
Outside, Naples had transformed into nighttime gold.
Balconies glowed.
Scooters buzzed through narrow streets.
Music drifted from somewhere unseen.
We walked back toward my studio.
“You exceeded your ninety minutes,” I said.
“You stayed voluntarily.”
“Technicality.”
When we reached the building, I unlocked the entrance.
“Goodnight, Carlo.”
He leaned against the doorway.
“Dinner again Friday.”
“That was not a question.”
“No.”
“Then the answer is no.”
He stepped closer.
Not touching me.
Just enough that I became intensely aware of the difference in our height.
“You like saying no to me.”
“I love it.”
“I noticed.”
I stepped inside.
He put one hand against the doorframe.
Blocking my exit.
Not trapping me exactly.
But close enough.
My pulse accelerated.
His dark eyes held mine.
“Dinner tomorrow at eight, stubborn girl.”
“Tomorrow is Thursday.”
“I know.”
“I have work.”
“You will still need food.”
“I can eat while working.”
“That is depressing.”
“That is entrepreneurship.”
His gaze dropped briefly to my mouth.
Then returned to my eyes.
Something warm and dangerous moved through me.
“Eight,” he repeated.
I should have refused.
Instead, I whispered:
“Eight thirty.”
His smile was devastating.
“Eight.”
“Eight fifteen.”
“Done.”
He moved aside immediately.
No kiss.
No touch.
Just that maddening smile.
I watched him walk away.
Then I went upstairs and stood at my studio window.
Carlo crossed the street.
A black sedan appeared from around the corner.
So much for no security.
A man opened the rear door.
Before Carlo entered, another man approached him.
Their conversation lasted perhaps ten seconds.
But Carlo changed.
The charming man from dinner disappeared.
His shoulders became rigid.
His face became cold.
The stranger handed him a photograph.
Carlo looked at it.
Then slowly lifted his head toward my window.
I stepped back instinctively.
My phone rang.
Carlo.
I answered.
“What?”
His voice had changed too.
“Lock your door.”
My stomach dropped.
“Why?”
“Adriana.”
No teasing now.
“Lock the door.”
“What happened?”
A pause.
May you like
Then Carlo said the words that turned one strange parking dispute into something far more dangerous.
“Someone followed you home last night.”
Related Stories
