Chapter 4 - One Bedroom Too Close
I lasted 17 minutes at Carlo’s villa before attempting to escape.
Technically, I called it leaving.
Carlo called it escaping.
“Open the gate.”
“No.”
We stood in the foyer like 2 children fighting over a toy, except his toy was an enormous fortified estate and mine was personal freedom.
“You cannot keep me here.”
“I’m protecting you.”
“Against my will.”
“Temporarily.”
“That does not improve it.”
His jaw tightened.
“Elena, someone broke into your apartment.”
“And staying inside the home of the man they’re trying to kill seems safer?”
He had no immediate answer.
“Exactly.”
I grabbed my bag.
Then the electricity went out.
The villa fell into darkness.
Carlo’s hand closed around my wrist instantly.
“Don’t move.”
His voice was no longer playful.
Men shouted outside.
Emergency lights flickered on.
Matteo appeared with a weapon.
“Perimeter breach.”
Carlo pulled me behind him.
My irritation disappeared.
“What does that mean?”
“It means,” Carlo said quietly, “you were right.”
“About?”
“My house isn’t safe enough.”
The intruder was found 7 minutes later.
Not inside.
Near the eastern wall.
He carried photographs of the estate and a phone containing my address.
That was when I stopped arguing about leaving.
Mostly.
Carlo moved me to a secure upstairs suite directly beside his bedroom.
The connecting door between our rooms irritated me immediately.
“No.”
“What now?”
“That door.”
“It locks.”
“From which side?”
“Both.”
I tested it.
He was telling the truth.
“You expected me not to check?”
“I was hoping.”
I closed the door in his face.
For approximately 3 hours, I worked.
My laptop had been stolen, but Carlo produced a new one.
I refused it.
He placed it on the desk.
I refused again.
He left it there.
Eventually I used it.
At midnight, hunger dragged me downstairs.
I found Carlo alone in the kitchen.
Not the mafia boss.
Not the billionaire.
Just a tired man eating cereal from a bowl.
I stared.
He stared back.
“What?”
“I expected something more dramatic.”
“At midnight?”
“Imported steak. Gold utensils. A chef terrified for his life.”
“I gave the staff the evening off.”
“You eat cereal?”
“I’m deeply complicated.”
I opened the refrigerator.
“You have 11 kinds of cheese.”
“Italy.”
“Fair.”
I made a sandwich.
For several minutes, neither of us spoke.
Then I noticed his bandage had bled through.
“You tore the wound.”
“It’s fine.”
“Sit.”
His eyebrow lifted.
“That sounded like an order.”
“It was.”
To my surprise, he sat.
I found the medical kit.
My fingers touched his skin as I removed the bandage.
Carlo went very still.
His arm was warm.
Scarred.
Not just from today.
There were old marks along his shoulder and ribs.
“You’ve been shot before.”
“Yes.”
“How many times?”
“Enough.”
“That is not a number.”
“It is the only answer you’re getting tonight.”
I cleaned the wound.
He watched me.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
“You’re staring.”
“You aren’t afraid of me.”
“I’m currently holding antiseptic over an open wound. You should be afraid of me.”
His mouth curved.
Then his expression softened.
“Most people hear my name and decide who I am before I speak.”
“Maybe they know things I don’t.”
“They do.”
The answer was too quiet.
I stopped.
“Are you a bad man?”
Carlo looked directly at me.
“I have done bad things.”
“That isn’t what I asked.”
“No.”
His gaze dropped briefly to my hand against his arm.
“But it may be the more honest answer.”
Something inside me shifted.
I finished the bandage.
“There.”
“Thank you.”
I turned away.
“Elena.”
I looked back.
“Dinner tomorrow at 8.”
I laughed.
“You got shot today and you’re still doing this?”
“I’m persistent.”
“You’re insane.”
“Is that a yes?”
“No.”
“Progress.”
“How is no progress?”
“You didn’t threaten me with the parking garage.”
I walked upstairs smiling despite myself.
At 2:14 a.m., I woke to voices outside my room.
Carlo and Matteo.
They thought I was asleep.
“The shooter was Santoro’s,” Matteo said.
Silence.
Then Carlo answered.
“Are you certain?”
“Yes.”
“And the photographs?”
“Also Santoro.”
My stomach tightened.
“Why her?” Carlo asked.
“We don’t know.”
A pause.
Then Matteo said something that made my blood turn cold.
“There’s more.”
“What?”
“The break-in happened before the shooting.”
Silence.
I sat upright.
Before?
That was impossible.
I had met Carlo only minutes before the attack.
Matteo continued.
“Whoever targeted Elena Bennett was watching her before she met you.”
Carlo’s voice became deadly quiet.
“Then this was never about me.”
“No.”
I slipped out of bed and opened the connecting door.
Both men turned.
“What does Santoro want with me?”
Neither answered.
“Carlo.”
He looked at Matteo.
“Tell her.”
Matteo hesitated.
“We found something inside the photograph left in your apartment.”
He handed me a tiny plastic sleeve.
Inside was an old photograph.
A man stood beside a younger Carlo.
I recognized neither face at first.
Then my breath stopped.
The second man was my father.
The father who had supposedly died in a boating accident when I was 9.
On the back, written in faded ink, were 5 words.
FERRETTI KNOWS WHAT HE DID.
I looked at Carlo.
His face had gone pale.
“You knew my father?”
“No.”
“Then why is he standing beside you?”
Carlo took the photograph.
For the first time since I had met him, the most controlled man in Naples looked genuinely shaken.
“Because,” he whispered, “that isn’t me.”
May you like
He turned the photograph toward the light.
“That’s my brother.”
