Chapter 3 - The Photograph on Carlo’s DeskI locked the door.
Then I hated myself for doing it.
Not because locking the door was unreasonable.
Because Carlo had told me to.
There was a difference.
I stood in my dark studio with my phone pressed to my ear.
“Who followed me?”
“I’m coming upstairs.”
“No.”
“Adriana—”
“You do not get to give me mysterious orders. Tell me what is happening.”
Silence.
Then:
“Someone photographed you leaving your apartment this morning.”
Every muscle in my body went still.
“How do you know?”
“The photograph was delivered to me twenty minutes ago.”
“Delivered by whom?”
“That is what I intend to find out.”
My eyes moved toward the window.
Suddenly every shadow outside looked different.
“Why would anyone photograph me?”
“Because you were seen with me.”
The answer came too quickly.
He already understood.
My voice lowered.
“What exactly does that mean?”
“It means my name attracts attention.”
“That is a very elegant way of saying enemies.”
“Yes.”
“How many?”
Another pause.
“Enough.”
I closed my eyes.
Yesterday my biggest problem had been a parking space.
Now apparently I had become a message in someone else’s war.
“I want to see the photograph.”
“No.”
“Carlo.”
“It contains a message.”
“What message?”
“I’m coming upstairs.”
This time I did not argue.
Three minutes later, someone knocked.
I checked through the peephole.
Carlo stood outside with the man who had collected his Maserati.
I opened the door.
Carlo entered.
The second man remained outside.
“This is Luca,” Carlo said. “He will stay in the hallway.”
“I do not need a guard.”
“That is not currently your decision.”
“It absolutely is.”
Carlo turned toward me.
Something fierce lived behind his eyes now.
“Someone watched you sleep.”
The anger disappeared from my lungs.
“What?”
He placed the photograph on my desk.
I looked.
It had been taken through the courtyard window of my apartment.
There I was.
Standing in my kitchen that morning.
Wearing pajamas.
Holding coffee.
Unaware.
Across the bottom someone had written:
Everything Carlo touches can bleed.
My stomach turned.
I sat down.
Carlo remained standing.
“I’m sorry.”
I looked at him.
The apology seemed almost painful for him.
“This is because of you.”
“Yes.”
“At least you admit it.”
“Yes.”
I expected excuses.
None came.
“Who sent it?”
“I don’t know yet.”
“But you have suspicions.”
“Yes.”
“Tell me.”
“No.”
I stood again.
“Stop doing that.”
“Doing what?”
“Deciding which information I am allowed to have.”
His jaw tightened.
“There are things you are safer not knowing.”
“That sentence belongs in terrible movies.”
“This is not a movie.”
“Exactly. This is my life.”
He looked away.
That frightened me more than his anger.
Because Carlo Ferretti looked like a man accustomed to controlling every variable.
And right now, he could not.
“I will put security outside your apartment and studio.”
“No.”
“Non-negotiable.”
“Everything is negotiable.”
“Not this.”
I folded my arms.
“You cannot control me.”
His eyes returned to mine.
“I know.”
The answer surprised me.
“If I could,” he continued quietly, “you would not have taken my parking space.”
Despite everything, a laugh nearly escaped me.
Nearly.
He stepped closer.
“I cannot control you, Adriana. But I can control who gets near you.”
“Is that what your life is? Guards? Threats? People photographing strangers because they had dinner with you?”
His expression hardened.
“Sometimes.”
“That is insane.”
“Yes.”
“You say that very casually.”
“Because pretending otherwise would insult your intelligence.”
For the first time since meeting him, I saw something behind the confidence.
Exhaustion.
Not physical exhaustion.
Something older.
The weariness of a man who had been carrying danger so long it had become furniture.
“Who are you really?” I asked.
Carlo stared at me.
“You already know.”
“No. I know rumors.”
“Sometimes rumors are kinder than truth.”
“Then tell me the truth.”
He did not.
That was my answer.
I picked up the photograph.
My hands were steadier now.
Fear had begun transforming into anger.
“I’m going home.”
“You are not.”
“Excuse me?”
“Your apartment is compromised.”
“It is my apartment.”
“And someone knows which window looks into your kitchen.”
A chill moved across my skin.
He was right.
I hated that.
“So where exactly am I supposed to go?”
“My place.”
I laughed once.
“No.”
“It has security.”
“So does a prison.”
“Adriana.”
“Hotel.”
“I own several.”
“Of course you do.”
“Choose one.”
“I will pay.”
“Fine.”
He said it immediately.
That mattered.
We eventually agreed on a small hotel near Chiaia that Carlo did not own.
At least according to him.
I checked online.
He was telling the truth.
Luca drove me.
Carlo followed separately.
By midnight, I had a hotel suite, two guards downstairs, and a headache.
Carlo stood near the door.
“You should sleep.”
“You should stop telling me what to do.”
“I am beginning to understand that.”
He turned to leave.
“Carlo.”
He stopped.
“Are we still having dinner tomorrow?”
He looked at me as though I had spoken Mandarin.
Then his face hardened.
“No.”
That irritated me unexpectedly.
“You spent twenty-four hours refusing to accept no from me. Now you are canceling?”
“Things changed.”
“Because somebody sent a photograph.”
“Yes.”
“So they get what they want.”
His eyes narrowed.
“This is not about winning.”
“Isn’t it?”
“No.”
He came closer.
“This is about keeping you alive.”
“Maybe I get a vote.”
“You do.”
“Good. Dinner tomorrow. Eight fifteen.”
For several seconds he said nothing.
Then something like reluctant admiration entered his expression.
“You are unbelievable.”
“You started this.”
“I am beginning to regret that parking space.”
“No, you aren’t.”
His mouth curved.
“No.”
He left.
I slept badly.
At 3:17 a.m., I woke from a nightmare involving camera flashes and windows.
At 7:30, someone delivered coffee.
At 8:02, Lucia called.
“Why are there two enormous men outside our studio?”
“Long story.”
“Are you dating a criminal?”
“No.”
Pause.
“Are you planning to?”
“I’m hanging up.”
At noon, I returned to work.
Carlo’s security remained discreet.
Almost.
Nobody wearing a black suit and an earpiece could truly be discreet in a design studio.
By six, I had almost convinced myself things were normal.
Then Lucia handed me an envelope.
“This came by courier.”
No return address.
My heart stopped.
“Do not open it.”
She froze.
I called Luca.
Within minutes, Carlo arrived.
This time with four men.
He opened the envelope wearing gloves.
Inside was another photograph.
Not of me.
Of Carlo.
Standing outside the trattoria with me the previous night.
Across his face someone had drawn a red X.
On the back:
Your father took something from us. We are taking everything from you.
Carlo stared at the words.
His expression became completely blank.
I had learned enough in forty-eight hours to understand something important.
Carlo smiling was dangerous.
Carlo angry was frightening.
Carlo showing no emotion at all was terrifying.
“Your father?” I asked.
He folded the photograph.
“Dinner is canceled.”
“Carlo.”
“Go back to the hotel.”
“Tell me about your father.”
“No.”
He turned toward Luca.
“Take her—”
I grabbed Carlo’s wrist.
Everyone in the room froze.
Carlo looked down at my hand.
Then at me.
“I am not luggage.”
His voice became low.
“Adriana.”
“If somebody is using me to threaten you, I deserve to know why.”
He stared at me.
Then ordered everyone out.
Even Luca.
When the door closed, Carlo walked toward the window.
“My father built the Ferretti organization.”
Organization.
Interesting word.
“Legitimate businesses?”
“Some.”
“And the others?”
He looked at me.
“Do you genuinely want the answer?”
I swallowed.
“Yes.”
“Shipping. Protection. Gambling. Smuggling, years ago. Political influence. Construction contracts acquired through methods you would not approve of.”
“You mean crimes.”
“Yes.”
The bluntness shocked me.
“And you?”
“I inherited everything.”
“That does not answer my question.”
“No.”
He rubbed his jaw.
“I have spent six years dismantling parts of what my father built.”
“Why?”
“Because some things should die with the men who created them.”
That was not what I expected.
“But?”
“But you cannot simply close criminal enterprises like shops. People depend on them. Other people want them. Weakness invites war.”
“So you became stronger.”
“Yes.”
“To become legitimate?”
“Eventually.”
I studied him.
“Are you a mafia boss?”
He almost smiled.
“People love simple labels.”
“Carlo.”
His eyes met mine.
“Yes.”
The word landed heavily.
Not rumor.
Not newspaper gossip.
Truth.
I stepped back.
He noticed.
Pain flickered across his face before disappearing.
“I should go.”
“Probably.”
He moved toward the door.
“Carlo.”
He stopped again.
“Who is threatening you?”
“I don’t know.”
“Your father’s enemies?”
“Possibly.”
“And dinner?”
His shoulders lowered.
“Adriana.”
“Eight fifteen.”
“You just learned what I am.”
“Yes.”
“And you still want dinner?”
“No.”
That finally surprised him.
I walked closer.
“I want answers.”
“That sounds significantly less romantic.”
“Good.”
He looked at me for a long moment.
“Eight fifteen.”
“Public restaurant.”
“Yes.”
“My choice.”
“Yes.”
“And your security stays far enough away that I cannot smell their cologne.”
A quiet laugh.
“I’ll inform them.”
He opened the door.
Then paused.
“Adriana?”
“Yes?”
“You should be afraid of me.”
I looked at the man standing there.
Powerful.
Dangerous.
Complicated.
Maybe guilty of things I did not want to imagine.
“I am.”
His expression changed.
“Good.”
“But I am more afraid of men who need me ignorant.”
Carlo stared at me.
Then nodded once.
That evening, while he left to investigate his father’s enemies, I returned to my computer.
I should have worked on Bellucci.
Instead, I searched everything I could find about the Ferretti family.
Most articles were vague.
Business acquisitions.
Political connections.
Investigations that went nowhere.
Then I found something from eleven years earlier.
A warehouse fire.
Three men killed.
One survivor.
The surviving man’s name was Vittorio Rinaldi.
I clicked another article.
There was a photograph.
Older now, but unmistakable.
I had seen that face before.
Yesterday.
May you like
Standing across the street from my apartment.
Watching me.
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