Chapter 2 - The Man Everyone Feared
The name hit me approximately 10 seconds too late.
Ferretti.
I had seen it on buildings. Restaurants. Construction signs. Hotels. A charitable foundation. Even the elegant black lettering above the entrance of the building where I was supposed to meet my prospective client.
What I had not realized was that the Ferretti name came with another reputation.
My best friend, Sofia, had once described the family with a sentence I had dismissed as dramatic.
“They don’t own Naples,” she had said. “They just own enough of the people who do.”
Now Carlo Ferretti was leaning through the window of my dying Fiat.
And I had told him to find a parking garage.
I swallowed.
He noticed.
That irritating smile deepened.
“There it is.”
“There what is?”
“Recognition.”
“I recognize your last name.”
“And?”
“And I still had my blinker on first.”
For 3 full seconds, Carlo simply stared at me.
Then he stepped away from my car.
“Take the spot.”
I blinked.
“What?”
“You fought harder for it.”
I narrowed my eyes suspiciously.
“What is the catch?”
“No catch.”
“Men who drive Maseratis do not surrender parking spots without catches.”
His mouth twitched.
“You have strong opinions about Maserati owners.”
“I have strong opinions about entitled people.”
“And you have decided I am entitled?”
“You put your hand on my car.”
“You nearly drove over my shoes.”
“You were standing in my parking spot.”
His laugh followed me as I finally pulled forward.
I parked.
Badly.
But successfully.
When I climbed out with my laptop bag, portfolio, and the coffee I had somehow managed not to spill, Carlo was still standing beside his Maserati.
“Goodbye, Mr. Ferretti.”
“Carlo.”
“I don’t think we’re on a first-name basis.”
“We argued over asphalt for 8 minutes. I think that makes us practically family.”
I rolled my eyes and hurried toward the building.
“Your meeting is on the fourth floor,” he called.
I stopped.
Slowly, I turned.
“How do you know?”
“Because I own the building.”
“That does not explain how you know where I’m going.”
“No,” he agreed.
Then he put his sunglasses back on.
“It doesn’t.”
That should have bothered me more.
Unfortunately, I was already 23 minutes late.
The receptionist on the fourth floor looked horrified when I rushed through the glass doors.
“Ms. Bennett?”
“Yes. Elena Bennett. I’m so sorry.”
“You were supposed to meet Mr. Romano at 10.”
“I know. Parking was—”
“Difficult?”
A familiar voice came from behind me.
I closed my eyes.
Of course.
Carlo walked past me without even looking winded.
The receptionist stood immediately.
“Mr. Ferretti.”
I turned.
“You followed me?”
“This is my building.”
“You keep saying that as though it makes everything less creepy.”
The receptionist looked like she wanted to disappear into the marble floor.
Carlo looked entertained.
Before either of us could say more, a nervous-looking man in his fifties hurried from a conference room.
“Mr. Ferretti. We weren’t expecting you.”
“Clearly.”
Then Carlo looked at me.
“Ms. Bennett has a presentation.”
Mr. Romano blinked.
“Yes.”
“You should see it.”
That was all.
Carlo walked away.
I stared after him.
Mr. Romano stared after him.
Then he looked at me differently.
Five minutes ago, I had been an unknown freelance designer who had arrived late.
Now I was an unknown freelance designer whom Carlo Ferretti apparently knew.
I hated how quickly that changed the temperature of the room.
My presentation lasted 37 minutes.
I showed them my rebranding proposal for a boutique hotel chain. New typography. Packaging. Digital campaigns. A complete visual identity designed to make the company feel intimate rather than corporate.
Mr. Romano loved it.
At least, I thought he did.
Then he asked the question that made my stomach sink.
“Could your studio handle all 12 properties?”
“My studio” consisted of me, an aging laptop, a secondhand printer, and Sofia helping with invoices whenever I bribed her with pizza.
“Yes,” I lied.
“Excellent.”
He offered me the contract.
It was worth more money than I had earned during the previous year.
My hands nearly shook when I signed.
Outside, I found Carlo leaning against the hood of my Fiat.
“You’re touching my car again.”
“I’m beginning to like this car.”
“It has a transmission problem and the passenger window doesn’t open.”
“Character.”
“What are you doing here?”
“Waiting.”
“For?”
“You.”
I hugged my portfolio closer.
“Why?”
His expression changed.
Only slightly.
But the humor disappeared.
“Because Romano didn’t hire you because of me.”
I frowned.
“I didn’t think—”
“Yes, you did.”
I hated that he was right.
“He hired you because your work is good,” Carlo continued. “I looked at the proposal before your meeting.”
“You what?”
“The building’s redevelopment portfolio crosses my desk.”
“That sounds suspiciously like invading my privacy.”
“That sounds suspiciously like due diligence.”
“You are impossible.”
“I’ve been told.”
I stepped around him and reached for my car door.
He moved.
Not toward me.
Toward the door.
His hand closed around the top of it before I could open it.
Suddenly, the teasing atmosphere disappeared.
I became intensely aware of his size.
His closeness.
The faint scent of cedar and expensive cologne.
“Move.”
“No.”
My pulse jumped.
His gaze stayed on mine.
“Dinner tomorrow.”
I actually laughed.
“No.”
“At 8.”
“No.”
“I’ll send a car.”
“Absolutely not.”
His eyes narrowed with amusement.
I tugged the door.
He did not release it.
“You’re blocking my exit.”
“Yes.”
“That’s incredibly annoying.”
“I know.”
“Is this how you ask women on dates?”
“I don’t ask women on dates.”
I stared at him.
“Wow. Somehow that answer was worse.”
His mouth curved.
Then he leaned closer, voice low enough that only I could hear.
“Dinner tomorrow at 8, stubborn girl.”
“No.”
“7:30?”
“That is not what I meant.”
For the first time, he smiled without arrogance.
It transformed him.
And that was dangerous.
Because for 1 stupid second, I forgot the stories attached to his surname.
Then 2 black sedans turned onto the street.
Carlo’s smile vanished instantly.
Men stepped out.
Not casually.
Fast.
His entire body changed.
He opened my car door.
“Get inside.”
“What?”
“Now, Elena.”
May you like
The first gunshot shattered the restaurant window behind us.
And Carlo Ferretti threw himself over me.
