Chapter 5
“You knew,” she said, the moment the car pulled away from the curb.
Her voice was shaking with fury.
“You knew about Marco. You knew he was a gambler. You knew he owed Bianke. You sat there, night after night, watching me — waiting for this to happen.”
“I did.”
“You let this happen. You could have stopped it.”
“Stopped it.” He turned to her, and his eyes flashed with a cold fire. “Bianke is a rival. Your brother foolishly borrowed from him. That is Bianke’s business, not mine. Until he involves you.”
“And now I’m involved.”
“And now I’m involved.”
“They’re going to kill him. And it’s your fault.”
“It’s *his* fault.” The words came out sharp. “His weakness. His lies.”
He paused.
“But you are not weak. You are not a liar.”
The car turned onto a private gated drive, and the city fell away behind walls of stone and iron.
She had never seen the house. She had imagined it, in the abstract way you imagine the homes of the very rich — something large, something cold.
It was worse than she had imagined, and more beautiful.
A sprawling modern Gothic fortress of dark glass and gray stone stood on a bluff above Lake Michigan, with storm clouds piling on the water behind it. Inside it was a museum of cold luxury — black marble floors, vast empty spaces, priceless paintings on walls that had clearly been built to hold them, windows that showcased the weather like art.
Beautiful. Sterile. Utterly soulless.
The car stopped in front of the door.
“What do you want from me?” Bella whispered. The fight had drained out of her, replaced by a cold, hard dread.
He watched her for a long moment.
“Fifty thousand dollars. That is the debt. I can make it disappear.” He snapped his fingers, lightly, like a man dismissing a waiter. “I can call Bianke. I can buy your brother’s debt. I can assure his continued safety.”
“In exchange for what?”
She asked it knowing the answer would be terrible.
He turned his whole body to face her.
“I am a collector, Isabella. I collect rare things. Art. Cars. People.” He said it without irony, as a fact about the world. “And I find you exceptionally rare. You are defiant. You are loyal, even to someone who does not deserve it. And you are not afraid of me. Not really.”
“I’m terrified of you.”
“No.” A small smile played at his mouth. “You’re terrified of what I represent. You’re terrified of failing your brother. You are not terrified of me. You proved that at table twelve.” He paused. “I want that. I want that strength. I want that loyalty.”
“What do you want me to do?”
“You will come to work for me. Not as a waitress. You will be my personal assistant. You will live here. You will manage my legitimate schedules, my appointments, my properties. You will be at my side. You will see my world.” He held her eyes. “And in return, your brother’s debt is gone. He gets a spot in the best rehabilitation clinic in the country. He is safe. He is clean.”
A beat.
“And you are mine.”
It was not a question. It was a statement of fact.
“A gilded cage,” Bella said, looking at the opulent prison of a house.
“A cage is still a cage,” he agreed. “But from this one, you can see the entire world. And you will be protected. No more hyenas. Just the lion.”
She thought of Marco, shaking on the couch. She thought of Bianke’s men, who would break bones as easily as bread. She thought of the mountain of lies and the impossible debt.
Aleandro Moretti had waited for her world to collapse. And now he was the only person offering to build it back — in his own twisted image.
“Do we have a deal, Isabella Rossi?”
She looked at this dangerous, calculating, utterly compelling man.
She had never had a choice. He had been playing chess while she had been playing checkers.
“Yes,” she said, and her voice was hollow. “We have a deal.”
—
The transition was brutally swift. Moretti operated with the kind of efficiency that wars are won with.
Within an hour of her answer, two things happened at once. Vinnie Gallo was dispatched to “negotiate” Marco’s debt with Salvatore Bianke — a negotiation Bella correctly assumed would involve no money, only threats. And two of Moretti’s silent, suited men arrived at her apartment to collect Marco.
She was allowed five minutes to say goodbye.
“Bella, where am I going? What’s happening?”
Marco was frantic, his eyes wide as the large men stood impassively in the doorway.
“You’re going to a clinic. A good one, in Vermont.” Her voice had no emotion left in it. “You’re going to get clean. This is your only chance.”
“But the money. The debt—”
“It’s handled.”
“How, Bella? What did you do?” He grabbed her arm, his grip surprisingly strong. “You went to him, didn’t you. To Moretti. Bella, no. You can’t.”
“I had to.” She pulled her arm free. “You didn’t leave me a choice. Now go. Get better. It’s the only way you can pay me back.”
She watched them lead him out.
She did not cry. She felt a profound, echoing emptiness.
She had saved her brother.
She had lost herself.
May you like
She packed a single bag. Her apartment, with its cracked walls and its view of a brick alley, already felt like a photograph from a past life.
The black Maserati was waiting.
