Chapter 4 - Dinner With a Man Everyone FearedI called Carlo immediately.
He answered on the first ring.
“Where are you?”
“Hotel.”
“Stay there.”
“You say that as though it has ever worked.”
“Adriana.”
“I found someone.”
Silence.
“Who?”
“Vittorio Rinaldi.”
The silence changed.
That was enough.
“You know him.”
“How did you find that name?”
“Google.”
“You investigated my family on Google?”
“I am a graphic designer. Research is approximately sixty percent of my job.”
“This is not a branding project.”
“No. Branding projects rarely involve death threats.”
“Tell me exactly what you found.”
I explained.
The warehouse fire.
Rinaldi.
The man across from my apartment.
Carlo did not interrupt.
When I finished, he said:
“Do not leave the room.”
Then hung up.
Twenty minutes later, Carlo arrived.
He was not alone.
Matteo Ferretti came with him.
I knew immediately which brother he was.
Same height.
Same dark eyes.
But where Carlo’s intensity was controlled, Matteo carried his like a weapon.
He entered my hotel suite, looked at me once, then turned to Carlo.
“This is her?”
I folded my arms.
“She is standing three meters away and speaks Italian.”
Matteo looked at me again.
“Sharp.”
“So I have been told.”
Carlo almost smiled.
Matteo did not.
“Tell me where you saw Rinaldi.”
I explained again.
Matteo cursed.
“What does he want?” I asked.
Neither answered.
“Wonderful. The Ferretti family communication style.”
Carlo gave Matteo a look.
Matteo exhaled.
“Rinaldi’s father worked with ours.”
“Worked with?”
“Partnered.”
Carlo corrected him.
“Until our father discovered he was stealing.”
“And then?”
Matteo looked at Carlo.
Carlo answered.
“Rinaldi’s father disappeared.”
I stared at him.
“Disappeared?”
“We were young.”
“That is not an answer.”
“It is the only one I have. Our father handled it.”
“And the warehouse?”
“Belonged to Rinaldi.”
Three people had died.
Carlo continued.
“Vittorio blamed our family.”
“Was your father responsible?”
“We never proved it.”
That sounded carefully worded.
Matteo crossed his arms.
“Rinaldi disappeared after the fire. Spain, maybe South America. We thought he was dead.”
“Clearly not.”
“No.”
Carlo looked toward me.
“If he is back, you cannot stay in Naples.”
I laughed.
Nobody else did.
“You are serious.”
“Yes.”
“This is my home.”
“For now, leaving is safer.”
“Where?”
“Anywhere.”
“And my business?”
“Remote.”
“My clients?”
“We will arrange—”
“No.”
Carlo stopped.
“Do not finish that sentence.”
“Adriana.”
“You are not rearranging my life.”
“Someone photographed you through your window.”
“And leaving the city guarantees what? That he stops? That he cannot follow?”
Carlo had no answer.
“Exactly.”
Matteo studied me.
Then something unexpected happened.
He smiled.
“I like her.”
Carlo looked irritated.
“That is irrelevant.”
“She is right.”
“That is also irrelevant.”
“Unfortunately for you, little brother, it is not.”
“Little?” I asked.
“Seven minutes.”
Carlo glared at him.
Twins.
Interesting.
Matteo left shortly afterward.
Carlo remained.
“You have approximately forty-five minutes until our dinner reservation,” I said.
He stared at me.
“You still want to go?”
“We agreed.”
“Rinaldi changes things.”
“Rinaldi wants me frightened.”
“You should be.”
“I am.”
I walked toward him.
“But fear does not get to schedule my dinner.”
Carlo stared.
Then laughed quietly.
“What?”
“I have spent my entire adult life surrounded by men who claim courage while carrying guns.”
“And?”
“You are five foot six, armed with sarcasm, and somehow more difficult than all of them.”
“I’m five foot seven.”
“My apologies.”
Dinner happened.
With security.
A lot of security.
I chose a restaurant with outdoor seating near the waterfront.
Carlo sat across from me.
“Tell me something true,” I said.
“What?”
“Something nobody puts in newspaper articles.”
He considered.
“I hate opera.”
I laughed.
“You’re Italian.”
“I know. My mother considers it a moral defect.”
“My father loved opera.”
“Then your father and my mother would have gotten along.”
“Another.”
“I cook.”
“Impossible.”
“I am excellent.”
“Prove it.”
His eyes darkened slightly.
“Careful.”
“Why?”
“That sounded dangerously like a second date.”
“This is technically our second dinner.”
“So you admit we are dating.”
“I admit we have consumed food near each other.”
He smiled.
That was the moment I realized something dangerous.
I liked him.
Not the money.
Not the power.
Not the reputation.
Him.
The man who noticed everything.
Who could terrify a room but listened when I spoke.
Who had moved a Maserati instead of forcing me out of a parking space.
And that frightened me more than Rinaldi.
After dinner, Carlo walked me toward the car.
The waterfront glittered behind us.
“Why aren’t you married?” I asked.
He glanced at me.
“Subtle.”
“I’m curious.”
“Marriage in my family tends to be strategic.”
“And you refused?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Because if I ever marry someone, I would prefer she tolerate me voluntarily.”
“That eliminates most of Naples.”
“Apparently.”
We stopped beside the car.
His security stayed at a distance.
For once, Carlo looked uncertain.
It was strangely attractive.
“I want to kiss you,” he said.
No games.
No assumption.
Just truth.
My heart kicked.
“That sounds like a personal problem.”
“It is becoming one.”
I should have stepped away.
Instead, I moved closer.
“One kiss.”
“One?”
“Do not negotiate.”
His hand touched my jaw.
Careful.
Almost gentle.
Then he kissed me.
There was nothing gentle about the second after that.
I grabbed his shirt.
His other hand found my waist.
The entire world seemed to disappear beneath the sound of the sea and my pulse.
When we separated, Carlo rested his forehead against mine.
“One kiss,” he murmured.
“That was one.”
“Technically.”
“Do not get arrogant.”
“Too late.”
Then a gunshot shattered the night.
Carlo moved before I understood what happened.
He pushed me behind the car.
Men shouted.
Another shot struck the windshield.
Glass exploded.
Carlo covered me with his body.
His security returned fire.
People screamed.
Carlo dragged me toward the rear wheel.
“Are you hit?”
“No.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes.”
Blood appeared on his shirt.
“Carlo.”
“It is not mine.”
But it was.
A thin line ran down his arm.
Glass or bullet fragment.
I grabbed him.
“You are bleeding.”
“Nothing serious.”
A motorcycle roared away down the waterfront.
Security pursued.
Carlo remained with me.
Always with me.
Even while blood soaked his sleeve.
Later, police arrived.
Statements were taken.
The shooter escaped.
And in the back seat of an armored SUV, while a medic cleaned Carlo’s arm, I looked at him.
“This is your normal?”
“No.”
“Do not lie.”
He sighed.
“Not normal. But not unfamiliar.”
I stared out the window.
Maybe this was where a sensible woman walked away.
Maybe I should.
Carlo seemed to read the thought.
“I will understand.”
“What?”
“If you leave.”
I turned.
For once, there was no arrogance in him.
Only resignation.
“You expect me to.”
“Yes.”
“Do you want me to?”
His jaw tightened.
“No.”
The answer hurt more than it should have.
I reached for his injured hand.
Carlo stared at our fingers.
“I’m not promising anything,” I said.
“I know.”
“But I am not disappearing because someone fired a gun.”
His thumb moved across my knuckles.
“Stubborn girl.”
“Arrogant man.”
He smiled.
Then his phone rang.
Matteo.
Carlo answered.
Whatever Matteo said erased the smile.
“When?”
Pause.
“Are you certain?”
Another pause.
Carlo looked directly at me.
“What happened?” I asked.
He ended the call.
“Rinaldi was not the shooter.”
“How do you know?”
“Because Rinaldi was found dead forty minutes ago.”
Cold spread through me.
“Then who is threatening us?”
May you like
Carlo’s expression became grim.
“That is exactly what I intend to find out.”
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