MIA
It turned out that shortly after Nina had left me in the bedroom yesterday, she ran into Fabi’s sister-in-law. Cleo Messero cornered Nina for a full twenty minutes, grilling her about Fabi’s likes and dislikes for the bachelorette party she was planning. It was long enough for Nina to miss the entire fiasco with Romolo.
When Nina finally called me, panicked after finding the room empty with a broken lamp on the ground, I told her I was fine and already in a cab. What I didn’t tell her was how shaken I was—how I’d clawed at the front door of that house like my life depended on it.
And I definitely didn’t tell her a word about Romolo. That story would have to wait until tonight, when I met up with her, Fabi, and Zo. They were finally going to explain to me, in person, why they’d kept me in the dark.
Right now, I had more immediate problems to deal with. Another client was ghosting me. She was more than an hour late for our meeting and hadn’t responded to my texts.
I leaned back in my office chair. I’d rented this studio in SoHo three years ago. It was small, but I’d made it work.
The space had high ceilings and exposed brick that was softened by a vintage Persian rug and warm pendant lighting. A floor-to-ceiling mirror leaned against the far wall, framed in antique gold. Closer to where I sat was a sleek rack where I kept my latest styling pulls—handpicked outfits curated for clients based on their personalities, their lifestyles, and the images they wanted to project.
A few blocks over, the high-end boutiques buzzed with life, but Broderick Lane was quieter. Most of the storefronts here were short-term rentals for pop-ups. Some weeks, the street pulsed with energy, and lines of people snaked around the block for the latest ‘it’ brand. Other weeks? Ghost town.
This space wasn’t cheap, but I’d told myself I’d be able to cover the rent in no time. Back then, I’d been so full of hope, so sure of myself.
For a while, everything had gone according to plan. I’d built a solid roster of clients, carving out a name for myself in a city where the competition was ruthless.
Then my father announced his run for mayor.
His campaign advisors decided his messaging needed to lean into his family values and his unwavering commitment to fighting organized crime. Since my stepmom was too sick to be by his side, I took her place—attending campaign rallies, shaking hands, smiling for cameras.
No one asked me if I’d do it. It was simply decided.
Even if someone had asked, I would’ve said yes. How could I not? I wanted to support my dad. But I hadn’t considered what that support would cost me.
It wasn’t the hard work—I could handle long hours and late nights. What gutted me was losing control over my time. I was a piece on someone else’s chessboard, moved at will. Client appointments didn’t matter. Shopping for my business didn’t matter. If I was needed at a lunch, a rally, an interview, I had to drop everything at a moment’s notice, without question.
I’d lost ten clients in the past year. Ten. And every time, it felt like a part of me withered and died.
This wasn’t just a business. It was my passion and my last, fragile link to my mom.
To me, she was the most beautiful woman in the world—always smiling, always expressive, always draped in color. Fashion wasn’t just something she wore. It was how she lived. And it had rubbed off on me.
We used to play dress-up with the treasures in her closet. Later, she taught me to sew, to alter clothes, to make them my own.
She died when I was nine. An aneurysm. No warning. No goodbye.
For months afterward, I wanted nothing. Nothing but her. My room felt cold and empty, so I slept in her closet. My dad let me. He didn’t know what else to do. I curled into my sleeping bag on the carpeted floor, one of her dresses clutched in my arms, and cried into the fabric that still smelled like her.
It was during one of those nights—wrapped in the scent of her and cocooned in her world—that I decided what I wanted to do with my life.
I wanted to dress people the way Mom had dressed me. I wanted them to feel what she’d made me feel—confident, seen, beautiful. And every time they smiled, it would be a smile for her too.
Swallowing past the tightness in my throat, I retied the shoulder straps of my dress, adjusting the bows until they sat just right.
Not everything was lost.
I just had to make it to November 8th.
If my father won? Great. If he lost? I would be devastated for him, but at least the campaign would be over. I’d be off the hook. Jenny had promised.
I could start putting my business back together.
If there was still a business left to save.
The door swung open. I didn’t get a ton of walk-ins, but when it happened, it was always a nice surprise. Especially now.
“Hi! Come on i—“
My greeting got strangled on its way past my lips. It wasn’t a prospective client standing on my doorstep.
It was him.
Romolo Ferraro tilted his head, his gaze drifting over my body.
I blinked once, twice, praying he was an apparition. He wasn’t. He was still there, staring at me like I was something he couldn’t wait to sink his teeth into.
How had he found me? He didn’t even know who I was. Or at least… I’d thought he didn’t. Clearly, I’d been wrong.
His intense stare unsettled me, but worse was the slow, dangerous smirk that curved his lips as he slightly turned. Flashing me the snake and dagger tattoo on the side of his throat, he reached behind him, and…
Locked the door.
My heart rate soared. If one of my fainting spells hit right now, it would be the worst possible time.
I waited for that telltale flash of heat to appear, but it didn’t. Not yet.
“I have an appointment coming any second now,” I warned him, rising from my seat while I gripped the side of the desk, just in case I started feeling woozy.
His eyes glittered. “Doubt it.”
He couldn’t possibly know that. But the momentary flicker in my expression must have given me away. I was ninety-nine percent sure my client wasn’t going to show, and I wasn’t a good liar.
He began walking toward me.
Fear and panic tangled with something much worse—something dark and electric that spread through my chest, buzzing through every nerve. His presence turned the dial up on reality, every detail sharper, more intense.
It thrilled and terrified me all at once.
Was he here to punish me for my parting gift? I was sure a man like him didn’t love getting physically bested by a girl.
Do something, Mia.
Keeping my gaze locked on him, I shoved my hand into my desk drawer, fingers fumbling until they closed around the cold metal of my nail file. I yanked it out and held it up like a dagger. “Stay back.”
He stopped, amusement dancing across his features as he took in my makeshift weapon.
“What exactly are you hoping to accomplish with that?”
“Don’t patronize me,” I hissed, tightening my grip.
He gestured lazily toward the nail file. “You’re a lot more likely to hurt yourself than you are to hurt me with that thing.”
I groaned internally because he was right. This man was a six-foot-something wall of muscle, and I knew that because I’d felt it. Felt him. On top of me. Against me.
And now here he was again, standing in my studio in a navy suit made from what looked like high-quality Italian wool, tailored to emphasize the shape of his lethal body.
Let’s get real. Yesterday had been a fluke. I wouldn’t stand a chance against him if he wanted to hurt me. Even if I lunged, he’d swat me away like a fly.
I tossed the useless nail file back into the drawer with a clatter. “What are you doing here?”
He rolled his shoulders and glanced around the studio. “Is this how you greet all of your prospective clients? By threatening them with personal grooming objects?”
“You’re not a prospective client. How did you find me?”
“Fabi told me.”
Lie. “She’d never.”
A mocking smirk tugged on his lips. “Just checking to see how loyal you think your friends are.”
“Loyal enough that if I called her right now, she’d get here fast and demand to know why you’re intimidating me.”
“Intimidating?” He took another step forward, gaze pinned to mine. “We’re just having a conversation, Mia.”
The way he said my name—low, deliberate—sent an unwanted shiver down my spine.
“I saw you on TV. You’re all over the news.”
I winced. Damn it.
“It’s a shame I didn’t place you right away.” His voice dropped lower, became silkier. “If I’d known you were the enemy, I would have enjoyed having you beneath me even more.”
My thoughts scrambled, tripping over themselves. What was I supposed to say to that? I hated the way my skin warmed, hated the way my gaze suddenly couldn’t leave his. Why did he have to be so impossibly beautiful? The kind of beauty that made you forget—momentarily—how dangerous he was.
Romolo pulled out the chair in front of my desk and lowered himself into it, looking as comfortable as if he owned the place. He gestured for me to sit, like I was the guest in his studio.
After a second, I sat down. I hated giving him the impression he could boss me around, but I just wanted this over with. Maybe playing along would get him the hell out of here faster.
That condescending smirk was still playing on his lips. “I kept trying to figure out why you showed up at the party only to hide inside. Now that I know who you are, I’m back to thinking I was right about you being a spy.” Elbow propped on the armrest, he dragged his index finger over his bottom lip and then slowly leaned back in the chair, letting his jacket fall open to reveal…
A gun holstered at his side.
He brought a freaking gun into my studio.
I barely contained my panicked squeak. “I’m not a spy! I already told you. I was in the bedroom because I wasn’t feeling well.”
“We both know you shouldn’t have been there in the first place. Your last name is more than enough to keep you off the guest list.”
“Why don’t you ask Fabi?” It didn’t feel great, throwing her under the bus, but she was his future sister-in-law. Maybe he’d be more civil with her.
“To ask Fabi, I’d have to loop in her brother. You really want me to get Rafaele Messero involved in this too?”
I grimaced. No. No, I absolutely did not. One mobster was more than enough.
Why had I shown up last night? I could’ve waited. Reached out to Fabi after the party.
But that would’ve meant sitting with the possibility that I’d hurt someone—and I was terrible at that.
As a result, I was in this mess.
Maybe it was better to just tell Romolo the truth.
“All right.” I exhaled. “If I tell you, will you promise to leave?”
He chuckled, as if he was amused at my attempt to negotiate with him. “Deal.”
I didn’t trust him. He didn’t strike me as a man of his word. Not at all. But what choice did I have?
“Fabi and I went to boarding school together. She used a different last name. I didn’t know she was a Messero until last night. She didn’t invite me to the party, I just showed up, and then… Well, then I found out why I wasn’t invited.”
KNOCK KNOCK.
I shot to my feet, nearly tripping over my chair.
Romolo twisted, looking over his shoulder. “Your appointment?”
Panic clawed its way up my chest. I doubted my no-show client would appear this late, which meant it could be anyone. The glass on the door was frosted, but the window beside it wasn’t. Whoever was out there would look through the clear glass in seconds if I didn’t open up. That’s what everyone did.
What if it was Jenny? Or someone else from my dad’s staff?
They couldn’t see Romolo here.
Our eyes locked.
I grabbed the curtain that separated the changing area from the front of the studio and yanked it aside. “Go. To the back.”
It wasn’t an order. It was basically a plea.
To my relief, he rose out of his seat. He brushed past me, his arm grazing mine for the briefest moment before he ducked under the curtain.
I let it fall back into place and hurried to the door, praying—praying—that I could quickly get rid of whoever it was.
