There was an oppressive darkness in the lift going down. The silence seemed to press in from all directions, broken only by the slight hum of machinery and the pounding of my own heartbeat. Lorenzo hadn't given me time to answer; he hadn't offered me any terms, just struck a prison door-shutting thud: You're going to work for me. And somehow, I was even more terrified of the fact that, deep down, a tiny dangerous somebody wanted to know what working for him would mean.
The black Maserati was waiting for me again, only this time he did not send his suited shadow to escort me; Lorenzo escorted me himself. Or maybe escort was not the right word. He was like a king leading a captive through his court. One hand stuffed in his pocket, the other brushing against me just enough to remind me that I was within his reach.
The driver held the door open, but Lorenzo did not let me in. Instead, he leaned in close, his voice low, smooth velvet laced with poison. "Be at L'Ombra tomorrow night. Nine o'clock sharp. Wear something that tells the room you belong to me."
I stiffened. "I don't belong to anyone."
His smile was slow and cutting. "Then consider this your first lesson, Isabella: you belong to whoever can take you from the rest of the world and make you forget it exists." He glanced at my lips for a moment before stepping back. "Tomorrow. Don't be late."
The ride back was all a blur. My head was spinning with questions, but no answers came. I tried to think about what he wanted—what possible use a bookstore clerk could have to a man like Lorenzo Valenti—but then every thought circled back to the way he had looked at me. Like a puzzle he would resolve piece by piece until I was just a picture he owned.
The air in my apartment felt stale and heavy when I got home. Again, I checked the locks. Finally, I sank onto the couch and stared at the note that had started it all. The ace of spades lay on my coffee table; the number still burned into my mind. I lived small and quiet because of my father's world; no drama, no risks. Yet here I was, already stepping back into the shadows I swore to avoid.
Sleep felt impossible. Every time I closed my eyes, I saw the contours of his face: those cold, unreadable eyes and the slightest curl of his mouth when he knew he had won.
The next night saw the city cloaked in neon and secrets. I was clad in little black with just enough clinging to a shape to seem innocent, though I wasn't sure why I bothered caring to send a wrong message; the man already seemed to think I belonged to him. Hair left down, sharp makeup. If I had to stand beside the devil, I was going to walk in looking like I belonged.
Inside L'Ombra, the bass from the music felt like a slow thud in my chest, and every glance I caught seemed to linger too long. I had yet to catch a glimpse of Lorenzo. For one wild, reckless moment, I imagined that perhaps he'd forgotten me.
And then a hand landed at the small of my back, firm and intentional. "You're late."
I spun around ready to admonish him, but he was already taking in every inch of me in a way that felt less like appreciation and more like a stock-taker, travelling with his eyes from the neckline to my legs then back to my face almost as if reconfirming I had passed his unspoken standards.
"It's nine-oh-five," I said, crossing my arms.
"In my world," he murmured low enough for only me to hear, "five minutes late can get you killed."
I rolled my eyes, but the pulse in my neck quickened under his watchful gaze. "So what am I doing? Serving drinks? Cleaning up your mess?"
His lips twisted into something that was part smile and part warning. "Your job is to listen, watch, and speak only when I tell you to. Tonight, you'll sit at my table. You'll smile when you're spoken to. And you'll make every man in that room think I've found something worth protecting."
Something about the way he said protecting sent chills dancing down my spine. "And what if I don't want to go along with this charade?"
He leaned closer still, so close that I felt the rush of his breath against my ear. "Then I will make you wish you had."
Before I could say anything, he grabbed my arm and drew me into the crowd toward the VIP section. Shadows were pooling in the corners of the dimly lit room; the air was thick with high-priced cigars and low laughter. As we walked by in tandem, men in tailored suits looked up with their eyes flickering from me to him.
We made our way to a round table toward the center, where three men were already seated. One was older, silver hair slicked back, his expression unreadable. The other two were younger, but their eyes had the same hard edge.
"Gentlemen," Lorenzo said, his tone dropping colder and more authoritative. "This is Isabella Moretti. She's with me."
One of the younger men smirked. "Pretty little thing, isn't she? What's she worth, Valenti?"
Lorenzo's grip tightened slightly around mine, but his voice was calm, each syllable steeped in steel. "More than you can afford, Luca."
The older man chuckled, and the sound twisted my stomach. "She your new investment?"
Lorenzo didn't answer right away. Instead, he pulled me closer, almost onto his lap, and never broke eye contact with me. "She's my insurance."
I wanted to ask what the hell that meant, but his gaze warned me to stay silent. They started talking business, something about territory disputes, shipments, alliances, and I barely registered any of it. I was simply too aware of the way his hand rested on my thigh, squeezing just that little bit extra when one of the men gave me one look too long.
Luca leaned in at one point. "Careful, Valenti. Bring something that tempting into the room, and you might not get to keep it."
Lorenzo never looked away from my eyes as he declared, "If anyone touches what's mine, they won't live to regret it."
The possessiveness invoked rising ire, but at that moment it sent an unwelcomed shiver down my spine.
After some stiff handshakes and stingier glares, the meeting concluded. As we were rising from the table, I managed to pull my arm free. "Insurance? That's what I am to you?"
He stopped, turning to face me. The shadows from the club lights cut across his face, making him look every bit the devil they said he was. "No, Isabella. You're a promise. One I intend to keep."
Before I could demand he explain, he walked away, and like an idiot, I followed.