0003

0003

~ Aria ~

I woke to an empty bed and the sound of the shower running.

For a moment, I let myself savor the pleasant ache in my muscles, the memory of Luca's hands on my body, his lips pressed to my shoulder long after it was over. Then reality crashed back in, cold and unforgiving.

What had I done?

I sat up, pulling the sheet around myself, and spotted my clothes folded neatly on the chair. My sweater, my jeans… everything I'd discarded in desperation last night. The careful organization felt like a rebuke.

The shower cut off. My stomach tightened.

Luca emerged moments later, fully dressed in a fresh suit, his dark hair damp and slicked back. He looked every inch the consigliere again: composed, controlled, untouchable.

He didn't quite meet my eyes. "The jet is ready. We leave in forty minutes."

That was it? That was all he had to say?

"Luca…"

"Get dressed." His voice was flat, professional. "We're on a schedule."

Something cold settled in my chest. "Are we really going to pretend last night didn't happen?"

He finally looked at me, and his expression was carved from ice. "Last night was a mistake. It was unprofessional, and it can't happen again."

The words hit like a slap. "Unprofessional."

"Yes."

"I see." I stood, clutching the sheet, pride keeping my spine straight even as humiliation burned through me. "So you got what you wanted, and now…"

"That's not what this is." A muscle jumped in his jaw. "I work for your father. You're his daughter. What happened last night violated every rule I…"

"Rules you seemed perfectly happy to break when you had your hands on me." My voice was sharp enough to cut. "When you were holding me close."

His eyes flashed, something dark and hungry moving behind the ice before he locked it down. "Be ready in forty minutes, Aria."

He walked out, closing the door with careful precision.

I stood frozen for a moment, shock and anger warring in my chest. Then I threw a pillow at the door, childish but satisfying.

Bastard. Absolute bastard.

I dressed quickly, refusing to let him see how much his dismissal had cut me. When I emerged from the bedroom, he was waiting by the door, phone in hand, looking like last night had never happened.

Like I'd imagined the way he'd murmured my name. The tremor in his hand when he first touched my face. The way he'd held on to me afterward like he was afraid to let go.

The car ride to the airport was silent.

I stared out the window, arms crossed, while Luca answered emails with mechanical efficiency. I hated that I was still aware of him… the way he smelled, the occasional flex of his fingers on his phone, the tension in his shoulders that suggested maybe he wasn't quite as composed as he pretended.

The Gulfstream was waiting, sleek and pristine. Inside, it was all cream leather and polished wood, obscenely luxurious. My father's world in miniature.

I took a seat as far from Luca as possible and buckled in. He sat across the aisle, finally pocketing his phone as we prepared for takeoff.

The silence stretched. Outside the window, Boston fell away beneath us.

"Your father is expecting us for dinner tonight," Luca said eventually. "There will be other family members present. Underbosses, caporegimes. You'll need to…"

"I know how to behave." I didn't look at him. "This isn't my first rodeo."

"It's been four years. Things have changed."

"Has he gotten less murderous? Less involved in drug trafficking and extortion?"

"He's still your father."

"Biologically." I turned to face him finally. "Tell me something, Luca. When you held me last night, were you thinking about how unprofessional it was?"

"Aria…"

"No, I'm genuinely curious. At what point did the guilt kick in? Before or after you made me feel special?"

"Stop."

"Why? Does it bother you? Having to face what you did?"

"What we did." His eyes blazed. "You're not blameless in this."

"I never claimed to be. I wanted you. I was honest about it." I leaned forward. "The difference is, I'm not ashamed of it."

"You should be."

The words hung between us, vicious and final.

I sat back, something in my chest cracking. "Well. At least I know where I stand."

Luca looked away. For a second, he closed his eyes, as if the words had cost him something too. "It can't happen again."

"Message received. Loud and clear."

I pulled out my laptop and buried myself in work, ignoring the way my hands shook slightly on the keyboard.

Ignoring the occasional weight of his gaze on me. Ignoring the traitorous part of me that wanted to cross the aisle and make him take back every cold, professional word.

Somewhere over the Atlantic, exhaustion won.

When I woke, the cabin lights had been dimmed. A cashmere blanket was tucked around my shoulders. My laptop sat closed on the table beside me, plugged in to charge.

Across the aisle, Luca was reading, his face turned carefully toward the page.

…

The Santoro estate sprawled across the hills of Provence like something out of a dream… or a nightmare, depending on your perspective.

Stone walls, manicured gardens, vineyards stretching toward the horizon. Beautiful and brutal, like everything my father touched.

A car was waiting on the tarmac. Luca handed me into the back seat with impersonal courtesy, then slid in beside me. The driver pulled away without a word.

"How bad is he?" I asked quietly.

"Pancreatic cancer. Stage four." For the first time since the hotel, his voice wasn't quite steady. "He has months. Maybe less."

I glanced at him. He was staring straight ahead, his hands still on his knees.

I processed the news, waiting for grief to hit. It didn't. Just a distant sort of sadness for what had never been. Luca, I realized, was grieving enough for both of us.

"And he wants me to take over the legitimate businesses."

"Yes. The hotels in Paris, Nice, and Monaco. The vineyards here in Provence. The shipping company in Marseille." His tone was strictly professional again. "You'll have full operational control. He's kept them clean… genuinely clean. No money laundering, no ties to the family business."

"I don't believe that."

"Believe what you want. It's the truth." He looked at me finally. "He wants you to have something untainted. Something you can build on without the weight of his sins."

"How generous."

"He's trying, Aria."

"Four years too late."

The estate's gates opened as we approached. Armed guards, discreet but unmistakable, nodded to Luca as we passed. The car wound up the long drive, pulling to a stop in front of the main house.

My stomach tightened. I hadn't been here since I was eighteen, since the last disastrous night that had ended with me screaming at my father about his "business" and taking the first flight back to Boston.

Luca opened my door. "Ready?"

"No."

"Good. Fear keeps you sharp."

He walked beside me up the stone steps, close enough that his arm brushed mine. I wanted to move away, but something about his nearness steadied me.

The entrance hall was exactly as I remembered: soaring ceilings, Renaissance paintings, furniture that belonged in a museum. My heels clicked on marble as we walked toward my father's study.

Luca knocked once, then opened the door.

Vittorio Santoro sat behind his massive desk, and my breath caught. Four years had aged him decades. He'd always been imposing—broad-shouldered, granite-faced, commanding. Now he looked diminished, his skin sallow, his frame gaunt beneath an expensive suit.

But his eyes were still sharp as he rose to greet me.

"Aria. Figlia mia."

"Father." I didn't move forward for an embrace. Neither did he.

"Thank you for coming."

"I didn't have much choice." I glanced at Luca. "Your consigliere was very persuasive."

My father's mouth twitched. "Luca is good at his job. Sit, please."

I took the chair across from his desk. Luca moved to stand behind my father… his usual position, I remembered. Always watching, always assessing threats.

"I won't waste time with pleasantries," my father said. "You know I'm dying. You know I want you to take over the legitimate operations. What you don't know is why."

"Guilt?"

"Pragmatism." He poured himself water with a slightly trembling hand. "My nephews are idiots. My brother cares only about the criminal side of the business. You're the only one with the intelligence and education to build something lasting."

"How touching."

"I don't expect forgiveness. I don't expect love." His eyes held mine. "But I'm offering you an empire, Aria. Clean money, real businesses. Power without blood on your hands."

"There's always blood," I said quietly. "Even on the clean side. Because it all flows from the same source, doesn't it? You built those hotels with drug money. Those vineyards with extortion proceeds."

"Yes." He didn't flinch. "And now I'm giving you the chance to make them something better. To prove that Santoro can mean more than violence and fear."

I wanted to refuse, walk out and never look back.

But the look on his face… the exhaustion and weariness of a man facing his own mortality and desperate to leave something behind that wasn't just destruction.

"I'll consider it," I said finally. "But I'm not promising anything."

"That's all I ask." He looked at Luca. "You'll serve as her personal bodyguard while she's here. I'm announcing her as my potential successor tonight at dinner. There will be... resistance."

"Understood," Luca said.

My head snapped up. "Bodyguard?"

"You're a target now," my father said bluntly. "My enemies will see you as leverage. My allies will see you as a threat to their own ambitions. Luca won't leave your side."

Perfect. Just perfect.

I met Luca's eyes across the room. His expression was carefully blank, but I saw the tension in his shoulders. He didn't want this any more than I did.

"Fine," I bit out. "If I'm staying, I want my old rooms."

"Already prepared." My father stood slowly, clearly in pain. "Dinner is at eight. Dress appropriately. You're representing the family now."

Dismissed, apparently.