Chapter 8 - Stubborn Girl Strikes Back
I stole Carlo Ferretti’s Maserati.
To be fair, “stole” was technically inaccurate.
He had accidentally given me the keys.
I merely exercised temporary custody.
Matteo laughed so hard when I called him that he had to hang up.
Carlo called 38 seconds later.
“Elena.”
“Hello.”
“Where is my car?”
“Safe.”
“Where are you?”
“Also safe.”
A pause.
“Did you steal my Maserati?”
“Borrow.”
“Elena.”
“You keep using my name as punctuation.”
“Bring it back.”
“No.”
Silence.
I smiled.
“Dinner tomorrow at 8.”
Another silence.
Then, despite everything, Carlo laughed.
It was exactly what I wanted.
“Are you blackmailing me with my own car?”
“Yes.”
“I’m strangely impressed.”
“Dinner. Eight.”
“And then?”
“You stop deciding what I’m allowed to risk.”
“That is not happening.”
“Enjoy walking.”
He appeared at my apartment 20 minutes later.
I had expected anger.
Instead, he leaned against the doorway.
“Keys.”
“Dinner.”
“Keys.”
“Communication.”
“Keys.”
“Therapy.”
His eyebrow rose.
“Now you’re pushing it.”
I laughed.
Then his expression changed.
“Elena, I meant what I said.”
“So did I.”
“You could die because of me.”
“I could have died before I met you.”
“That’s different.”
“No. It only feels different because now you care.”
That landed.
I stepped closer.
“Love is not keeping someone in a locked room.”
His eyes lifted.
I had said love.
Neither of us mentioned it.
“Protection without choice is another kind of prison,” I continued. “If you want me in your life, you have to trust me to choose it.”
Carlo stared at me for a long time.
Then he held out his hand.
I placed the keys in it.
He placed them back in mine.
“Keep them.”
“Seriously?”
“I hate that car now.”
“You love that car.”
“I loved peace too. Then I met you.”
I smiled.
He kissed me.
This kiss was different.
No fear.
No interruption.
No pretending.
When we separated, he whispered, “Dinner tonight.”
“It’s 7:42.”
“I know.”
“Where?”
“Downstairs.”
He had arranged a table beside my building.
Nothing extravagant.
Two chairs.
Pizza.
Cheap wine.
I stared.
“You own restaurants.”
“Yes.”
“And we’re eating pizza from a cardboard box?”
“You distrust expensive restaurants.”
“I distrust you.”
“Less than last week.”
“Marginally.”
For the first time, we had the date we should have had before bullets complicated everything.
Carlo told me about Alessandro.
How his brother had protected him.
How Carlo had inherited a criminal empire at 21 and spent the next 15 years dismantling the ugliest parts without getting his family killed.
“I’m not innocent,” he said.
“I know.”
“There are things I’ve done you may never forgive.”
“That is my decision.”
He nodded.
“I’m learning.”
My phone rang.
Unknown number.
Carlo’s expression sharpened.
I answered.
A man spoke.
“Elena Bennett?”
“Yes?”
“My name is Marco DeLuca.”
I put the call on speaker.
“I was imprisoned with your father.”
Everything inside me stopped.
Marco told us Daniel Bennett had died 8 years earlier.
But before his death, he had given Marco a message.
Not about the ledger.
About Santoro.
“He said Santoro would eventually come for you,” Marco said. “And when he did, you needed to know one thing.”
“What?”
“Santoro has a son.”
Carlo frowned.
“So?”
Marco hesitated.
“His son works for Ferretti.”
Carlo stood.
“Who?”
The line disconnected.
Then the lights across the street went out.
Carlo grabbed me.
A motorcycle appeared.
The rider raised a weapon.
Carlo pushed me down.
Shots tore through the table.
Glass shattered.
The motorcycle disappeared.
Matteo’s men gave chase.
Carlo lifted me.
“Are you hit?”
“No.”
Then I saw him.
Blood.
Again.
“Carlo.”
He looked down.
This time, the bullet had not grazed his arm.
Blood spread rapidly across his abdomen.
His knees buckled.
I caught him.
“Carlo!”
His face lost color.
“Stay with me.”
He tried to speak.
“No. Don’t talk.”
His fingers closed weakly around mine.
“Elena.”
“What?”
He smiled.
May you like
“Eight o’clock was a terrible idea.”
Then his eyes closed.
