I drum my fingers against the leather steering wheel, not out of nervousness, but impatience, watching the café through tinted windows.
The café is too small, too public, too exposed. I didn’t need to be in there for this part—I already knew the outcome. Chiara—whatever her last name is—is about to become Chiara Bianchi.
Nicolo would make the offer. She would hesitate, fight it, pretend she had a choice. But in the end, she’d say yes.
Because there was no other option.
I lean closer to the window, counting the minutes until Nicolo delivers my proposition. The earpiece in my ear crackles with ambient noise from the mic he’s carrying—standard protocol, nothing fancy. Just efficient.
I could’ve done this myself. Walked in, laid the offer on the table. But that’s not how men like me operate. And right now, she needs to see that I don’t come knocking—I send. She needs to understand who she’s dealing with, long before I walk through that door myself.
What she doesn’t know is that I’m no philanthropist. The proposal Nicolo delivers today will outline all the ways I can help her. What it won’t mention is the real reason—that marrying her gets me out of a future with Valentina Costa.
From this angle, I can see her behind the counter, moving like she always did—effortless, graceful, like she didn’t have the weight of a city hunting her down.
But there’s something different about Chiara today. She’s not stopping by the tables to speak; she’s holding back her usual charm and those smiles.
My fingers tighten around the cigarette I haven’t even lit, a flicker of unease curling in my chest.
She’s wearing that same uniform, but there’s a boldness to it. Her hair’s tied up in a high bun, and her face is painted with heavy makeup that screams for attention. Her shirt, I notice, has an extra button unopened.
I don’t mind the boldness… not at all… but it doesn’t feel like her. Then again, I’ve known her for two days. Not exactly enough time to judge.
My phone vibrates with a text from Nicolo: Ready?
I type back a simple: Proceed.
I adjust the volume on my earpiece as Nicolo pushes through the door of the café. He’s dressed impeccably—charcoal suit, burgundy tie, pocket square—the perfect consigliere.
Professional, but not intimidating. At least, not visibly so. The café is quieter now, the morning rush having subsided, leaving only a few patrons hunched over laptops.
Chiara looks up as the bell above the door announces Nicolo’s entrance. He meets her gaze, and she holds it as he walks over.
“Can I help you?” she asks in a disinterested voice. “Takeout, is it?”
“Good morning,” Nicolo says, voice even and calm through my earpiece. “I need five minutes. You’ll want to listen.”
“I’m working,” she snaps, her tone clipped. Nothing like the soft-spoken girl I’ve been watching. “If you want coffee, I can take your order.”
“It’s in your best interest to hear me out.” Nicolo slides onto a stool at the counter and places his briefcase beside him. “It concerns your financial situation.”
Her hands still on the espresso machine. “My financial situation is none of your business.”
Her voice trembles.
“On the contrary. Your debt to D’Angelo has become very much my employer’s business.”
I watch her face drain of color.
“I need two more weeks,” she says, voice lower now, eyes darting to ensure other customers aren’t listening. “I’ll have the payment.”
Nicolo offers a practiced smile that never reaches his eyes. “My employer isn’t interested in your payments anymore. He’s interested in a more… permanent arrangement.”
“What does that mean?” Her knuckles whiten against the countertop.
“It means that I’m here with an offer. One million dollars. Protection for you. Complete forgiveness of your debt—and freedom from D’Angelo. Decline, and you’re on your own.”
He unlatches his briefcase and pulls out an envelope, setting it on the table. “Inside is a check for one hundred thousand dollars—an advance. The rest will come after the ceremony.”
“In exchange for what?” Her voice is tight, suspicious.
“Marriage.”
The word hangs in the air between them. I lean forward in my seat, studying her reaction. This is the moment I anticipated resistance, outrage, perhaps tears. I had walked through every argument with Nicolo for when that would happen. Chiara didn’t seem like the type to sell herself off—at least, not easily. Eventually, they all fall—with just the right pressure and a tempting promise. I just thought it would take more.
So, of course, I’m caught off guard when, instead of outrage, her expression shifts—cool, assessing, calculated.
“Marriage,” she repeats flatly. “To whom?”
“The man who saved your life.”
I watch recognition dawn on her face.
“Him?” she asks, and I’m surprised to detect a note of interest rather than revulsion.
“Yes. My employer believes you’d make a suitable wife.”
She laughs—short, biting.
“Oh, really? What gave him that idea? My latte art? Or because I’m conveniently desperate?”
She steps back, arms crossing.
“What is this, a job interview? What else does he like? My tip jar? The way I dodge bill collectors? Or maybe he just gets off on saving desperate girls with a savior complex?”
Nicolo doesn’t flinch.
“Call it what you want. He doesn’t offer twice.”
“And if I refuse?”
“Refuse,” Nicolo says evenly, “and D’Angelo gets to decide how this ends. Spoiler: You won’t like how he negotiates.”
He leans in, voice low and cold near her ear.
“And trust me, he won’t be this gentle.”
Her fingers drift to the envelope, brushing its surface.
“Your boss must be desperate if he’s out here buying brides,” she says, voice dripping with newfound sass I’ve never witnessed before. “Tell me something—is he that ugly, or just that horrible to be around?”
Through my earpiece, I hear Nicolo’s carefully controlled exhale. This isn’t how he expected the conversation to go. It’s not how I expected it, either.
He’s not kind, but he is precise. Doesn’t waste time—or patience.
But he gives more—if you’re smart.
She opens the envelope, and I hear her gasp—even through the microphone.
“And I’ll get the full million after the deal?” she asks, her hands trembling. “It’ll all be mine?”
“Every cent,” Nicolo says. “All it costs is a yes.”
Nicolo sees right through her, and I frown. I know what she’s thinking, and it’s strange—seeing her in this light. Something’s off.
“If you try to run, we have ways to find you,” Nicolo warns. “Don’t even think about it.”
“I won’t. When would this marriage take place?” she asks, and my pulse quickens. She’s considering it. More than considering—she’s negotiating.
“Saturday. Four days from now.”
“Four days?” Her eyebrows shoot up. “That’s not much time.”
“You have to give me an answer now.”
“And who exactly am I marrying? I don’t even know his name. Don’t tell me I’m supposed to say ‘I do’ to some nameless savior.”
Nicolo’s voice remains even. “You’ll find out when you arrive at the address. The ceremony will be at six in the evening. Don’t be late.”
He reaches into his breast pocket and produces a business card, sliding it across the counter. Chiara picks it up, studies it, then tucks it into her apron.
“You simply have to show up. Everything else has been arranged.”
She stares at him for a long moment, then lowers her gaze to the check. One hundred thousand—ready for immediate deposit—and a promissory note for the remainder, payable upon completion of the ceremony.
“Let me get this straight,” she says, tucking the check into her apron alongside the card. “I show up at this address on Saturday at six, marry your boss, and all my problems disappear?”
“That’s correct.”
“And what will be expected of me as his wife?”
“Loyalty. You won’t be forced to do anything you don’t want to.”
Her lips curve into a smirk that sends an unexpected jolt through me. “Tell your boss he just bought himself a wife—though he might find he’s getting more than he bargained for.”
Something cold slithers down my spine at her words. This isn’t right. She’s too composed, too measured. Where’s the reluctance? The moral outrage? The tears?
Nicolo nods once, closes his briefcase, and stands. “Saturday. Six o’clock. Don’t be late.”
“I wouldn’t dream of it.”
I watch him exit the café, cross the street, and approach my car. Rain plasters his hair to his forehead as he slides into the passenger seat beside me, shaking water from his coat.
“It’s done,” he says unnecessarily.
“I heard.” I start the engine, but don’t pull away from the curb, my eyes still fixed on Chiara through the window. She’s returned to work, but there’s a new energy in her movements. A purpose.
“She agreed more easily than expected,” Nicolo observes, echoing my thoughts.
“Too easily.”
“Does it matter? You got what you wanted.”
I turn to look at him, my oldest friend, my most trusted advisor. “When a mouse walks willingly into a trap, one has to wonder if it’s really a mouse at all.”
“Perhaps she’s simply pragmatic. The debt would have ruined her.”
“Perhaps.” I return my gaze to the window. Chiara wipes down the counter—deliberate, controlled. The check sits in her apron pocket. The card with my address tucked alongside it.
“Or perhaps she believes she has a card to play that we don’t know about.”
“What could she possibly have?”
“That’s what concerns me.” I shift the car into drive, pulling away from the curb. Rain cascades down the windows, distorting the image of the café as it recedes behind us.
The unease lingers as we drive through rain-slicked streets. Something about Chiara’s reaction nags at me like a splinter beneath the skin. Where’s the quiet dignity that forces her to carry the weight of the world on her shoulders? The woman who just accepted Nicolo’s offer seemed like someone else entirely. Sharper. Harder. More dangerous. Ready to gamble and unafraid of risks.
But whatever today was, she belongs to me now. By Saturday evening, she’ll be Chiara Bianchi—my wife, under my protection and subject to my rules. Whatever game she thinks she’s playing ends before it begins.
I flex my fingers on the steering wheel, imagining them tangled in her hair, gripping her waist, making sure she remembers exactly who owns her.
