MIA
“Over a million views in one week is remarkable,” Corine, my dad’s social media manager, said, grinning as the waiter dropped off her pasta. “And listen to these comments. ‘Go Mr. Morales. Finally, someone making sense.’ ‘Okay, but that outfit? He ate.’” She looked up at me. “Nice work, Mia.”
I smiled as I cut into my salmon. “Just doing my part.”
“I’m confused. Ate what?” Lionel asked, brow furrowed. At seventy, he was one of the campaign’s oldest advisors.
“It means he looked good,” I explained. “It’s Gen Z speak.”
He shook his head, still looking lost.
I dabbed my napkin against my mouth to hide my smile and caught Jenny’s glare from across the table.
She was still pissed at me for skipping the prep meeting last week to do Eliza’s shoot. The way she was acting, you’d think I committed a capital offense.
I was getting tired of her attitude. I’d only missed a handful of commitments all year, and I was doing my best. Showing a little grace wouldn’t kill her.
At least the shoot had gone well. And Romolo…
Romolo had stayed with me all night. He’d even dropped me off at the location in the morning, despite me insisting—repeatedly—that he didn’t have to.
After the third time I’d said it, he’d shot me a look, his grip tightening on the wheel. “I’ll do what I fucking want to do, Berry.”
That had shut me up.
The rest of the drive had been tense. Not because we’d fought, but because we’d both known what had happened in the last eighteen hours.
The unspoken rules had been broken.
He wasn’t treating this like just sex. And the part of me that still believed in self-preservation wished he would. Because the alternative was a ten-letter word.
Heartbreak.
Since then, I’d seen him three more times.
At a thin-walled brownstone he owned, where he’d kept me quiet with his palm over my mouth.
At a hotel in Brooklyn, where steam had curled around our bodies, and we’d left handprints on the shower stall glass.
At a cabin upstate, where we’d made lo—I mean, fucked—under a canopy of stars.
And every time, the lines had blurred a little more. The breathless excitement, the sensation of falling…it all lasted for precious seconds at a time before the dread swooped in.
November 8 was just around the corner.
“We’re excited to see how the new ads perform,” Corine continued, drawing me back to the conversation. “They’re hard-hitting. Great storytelling. We’re hoping to win over the last holdouts in the suburbs.”
“Let’s monitor the comments closely,” Dad said. “I want to see early—” His voice cut off as his gaze snapped to something behind me.
The table went silent.
“Is that who I think it is?” Corine whispered.
I glanced over my shoulder, and my stomach filled with shards of glass.
Romolo and his family had just walked into the restaurant.
Our table wouldn’t have been more tense if someone had announced a bomb threat.
“Should we leave?” Mike, one of my father’s aides, asked.
“No.” My dad stared at the group on the other side of the restaurant as he wiped his napkin over his mouth. “That would make it look like we’re intimidated.”
I barely heard him. My senses had locked onto Romolo, who was oblivious to my presence. He stood near the entrance in his dark-green wool coat and a scarf wrapped around his neck.
Behind him, Cosimo looked tired. According to Fabi, he’d finally agreed to meet her, then rescheduled because he was constantly traveling. Alessio—the third Ferraro brother—stood beside Cosimo, tattooed and unreadable.
Ahead, at the reception desk, were their parents.
I’d seen photos, but seeing them in person was different.
Romolo’s mother—statuesque, with sleek silver hair and crimson-painted lips—had a smile that was meant to put people at ease, but the regal way she carried herself radiated quiet authority. It was her—not her husband—who’d dreamed up the ridiculous theory about my dad’s funding. I could tell just by looking at her that she didn’t sit on the sidelines. She was an active player in their game.
Her husband’s presence wasn’t loud, but it was impossible to ignore. Gino Ferraro was in his late fifties, and like his wife, he had a head full of silver. The fact that neither of them did anything to try to hide their age felt like a deliberate statement.
They were the top dogs. They had no one to impress.
This was a high-end restaurant, the kind where business deals were whispered over polished silverware. The Ferraros’ entrance turned heads at nearly every table. As they followed a server toward their seats, whispers rippled across the room.
I swallowed hard.
My father was fighting for power. The Ferraros already had it. They were feared. Respected. Revered. And they wouldn’t go down without a fight.
Nerves crawled over my skin. Don’t look this way.
But as if she’d heard my thoughts, a familiar pair of gray eyes found me.
Not Romolo’s.
His mother’s.
A flicker of recognition crossed her face before her gaze slid to my father. She touched Gino’s arm, her lips moving in a whisper only he could hear.
He followed her line of sight, his steps slowing. His sons noticed, and their heads turned in unison.
That’s when Romolo saw me.
His expression turned to stone.
Gino Ferraro adjusted his suit jacket and began to make his way toward us. Only Romolo followed.
Oh God.
I sank deeper into my seat, gripping my napkin with trembling fingers.
My father had never spoken directly to Gino Ferraro. He’d dismissed the man’s attempts to meet with disdain.
Now, he couldn’t avoid them—not unless he wanted to bolt from the restaurant like a coward.
“Carlos Morales,” Gino said smoothly, his voice easily carrying through the hushed dining room. “It’s about time we finally met, don’t you think?”
My father didn’t rise to meet him—an unspoken slight. Instead, he leaned back in his chair and tossed his napkin onto the table with casual defiance.
“I was hoping it would be in a courtroom with your hands shackled behind your back.”
A burning heat spread over the back of my neck as I stared at the tablecloth. That seemed unnecessarily aggressive. Was Dad trying to provoke him?
Gino’s chuckle was dismissive. “You have quite the imagination. As far as I know, they don’t put shackles on innocent men. Especially when those men make the kinds of generous contributions that I’ve made to the city you claim to love so much.”
“Generous contributions?” Dad cocked a brow. “You mean the filth you flood our streets with? The families you destroy? We’d be better off without your generosity.”
Gino’s stance shifted, his expression darkening. “Your conspiracy theories about my family are getting creative, but that’s all they are—theories.”
I risked a glance at Romolo. His jaw was tight, his hands shoved deep into his pockets. He was looking at everyone but me.
The same couldn’t be said for Vita Ferraro. She stood with her sons where Gino and Romolo had left them, her sharp gaze trained on my face.
My stomach tightened with unease. What was she searching for?
I forced my expression into a blank mask. I wouldn’t give her anything to analyze, to pick apart.
Meanwhile, Gino and my father continued their verbal sparring.
“You have no shame,” Dad said. “Your arrogance will be your downfall, Ferraro.”
Shut up, I willed my father. Stop before you make this worse.
Instead, he leaned forward, his expression turning harsher. “And if you think your sons will be spared in the investigations I’ll launch with the DA the second I’m elected, you’re wrong. Every last one of you will pay.”
The last of Gino’s smirk vanished. The threat to his sons had struck a nerve.
“It’s too bad your wife isn’t here, Morales. I would have loved to meet her. But it seems your family is plagued by tragedy—first your brother, then your wife’s unfortunate condition.” His gaze slid my way. “Let’s hope the unlucky streak doesn’t extend to your daughter.”
My lungs stilled at the barely veiled threat. Some people around the table audibly gasped. My father didn’t move. But if looks could kill, Gino Ferraro would be dead.
“We should let them get back to their lunch,” a rough voice cut in.
Everyone was staring at my dad or Gino.
But Romolo was staring at me.
The restraint spelled across his features set off a warning flare inside my belly.
I shook my head. Just slightly. A silent plea not to come to my defense.
How did I know that’s what he wanted to do? It was a gut feeling, but I trusted it.
His gaze softened.
“Goodbye, Ferraro,” my father ground out. “Enjoy your last few weeks of peace. After I’m mayor, you’ll only ever relive the feeling on your deathbed.”
Gino didn’t respond, just turned and strode away, his steps measured, unbothered.
Romolo lingered for a moment longer, then he followed, leaving a silence so heavy it felt like the whole room was holding its breath.
