Chapter 2 - The Name He Couldn't Forget

Emily spent the entire night convincing herself she had not made the worst decision of her life, and she was failing.

Every time she closed her eyes she saw him again. Black suit, water dripping from his chest, and that look like she’d just said something he’d been waiting five years to hear.

Pascarelli.

She hated that she remembered the way he said it, like the name had weight.

She hated that she was curious.

Most of all she hated that at 3am she was still googling him and deleting the search history like that would make it better.

“You’re thinking about him,” Clara said from the doorway, holding two coffees.

Emily didn’t look up from her laptop. “I’m not.”

“You’ve been staring at the same email for ten minutes.” Clara set a coffee down and flopped onto the couch. “The gallery proposal. The one you said was perfect.”

Emily finally looked at her. “I’m thinking about work.”

“You’re thinking about the terrifying mafia heir you argued with in front of an entire restaurant.”

“He wasn’t terrifying.”

Clara choked on her coffee. “Emily.”

“What? He was just a guy in a suit.”

“A guy in a suit who had four armed men walk in with him and make the whole room go silent.” Clara pulled her legs up. “You told him he was intense.”

“Because he was.”

“You know most people don’t say that to his face.”

“Most people probably don’t spill water on him either.” Emily closed the laptop because she couldn’t focus anyway.

Clara watched her for a second, then her face softened. “Are you actually okay?”

Emily wanted to say yes. That was the answer she always gave.

Instead she said, “I don’t know.”

The honesty felt weird in her mouth.

“Because it’s not that I’m scared,” she said, picking at the coffee cup. “I’m not. I’ve dealt with worse than a rich guy with a bad temper. It’s just... the way he looked at me when I said my last name. Like I wasn’t a stranger. Like I was part of something.”

Clara went quiet. “You’ve spent three years running from that name.”

“I know.”

“So what are you going to do?”

Emily sighed. “Pretend it didn’t happen and go to work. What else can I do?”

Clara didn’t look convinced. “Just text me if he shows up at the gallery or something. Please.”

“I’ll be fine,” Emily said, but even she didn’t believe it.

Across the city, Adrian Marcelli sat in his office at 1am with a file on his desk and no intention of sleeping.

The office was dark except for the city lights through the windows and the lamp over the desk.

Emily Pascarelli.

The file was thin, which annoyed him.

Twenty-five. Moved out of the Pascarelli estate three years ago. Rented a small apartment downtown. Opened a gallery last year that was barely making rent. No arrests. No business dealings. No ties to her father’s accounts.

She was clean.

The problem was, Adrian didn’t know if that made things better or worse.

Ethan walked in without knocking and set another folder down. “Her file.”

“I already have her file,” Adrian said without looking up.

“This is the other file.” Ethan hesitated. “The one about why she left.”

Adrian finally looked up. “And?”

“According to two people who used to work for the Pascarellis, she walked out after a fight. Big one.” Ethan shrugged. “She didn’t agree with how they made money. She really did leave. She’s not playing you.”

Adrian leaned back in his chair and stared at the photo paperclipped to the front. It was from three years ago, some charity event. Emily standing in the corner in a dress she clearly hated, looking like she wanted to be anywhere else.

She didn’t look like the rest of them.

“Her father?” Adrian asked.

Ethan’s expression changed. “Still the same. Still making moves. Still blames us for what happened five years ago.”

There it was. The reason the name Pascarelli made Adrian’s jaw tick.

Five years ago the Pascarellis sold out a deal. It cost the Marcellis millions, cost them two warehouses, and cost Adrian his uncle. The kind of betrayal you don’t forget. The kind you spend years waiting to answer.

“You think she’s involved?” Ethan asked carefully.

Adrian didn’t answer right away because he didn’t know, and he hated not knowing.

The woman last night had looked at him without fear. She’d been angry and tired and completely unimpressed. That wasn’t someone raised to play family games.

“I think I don’t like unanswered questions,” Adrian said finally.

Ethan almost smiled. “That’s a polite way of saying you’re interested.”

Adrian gave him a look.

“I didn’t say anything,” Ethan said, holding up his hands.

But Adrian knew him. That was exactly what he meant.

Adrian flipped the file shut. “Keep watching her. Not close. Just keep me updated if anything changes.”

“Anything specific?”

“If her father contacts her. If she leaves the city. If anyone connected to the Pascarelli family approaches her.”

Ethan nodded. “Got it.”

Adrian stood and walked to the window. The city was quiet at this hour.

He should’ve been thinking about the deal next week. About the warehouses. About revenge.

Instead he was thinking about the way Emily Pascarelli hadn’t lowered her eyes.

Emily’s gallery was quiet at 7pm and that was the problem.

Quiet meant she had time to think, and thinking meant thinking about Adrian Marcelli.

She was rehanging a painting for the third time when her phone rang. Unknown number. She almost ignored it.

Then it rang again.

“Hello?”

“Miss Pascarelli. This is Mr. Pascarelli’s assistant.”

Emily’s hand tightened around the phone. “What do you want.”

“Your father would like to speak with you.”

“I’m busy.”

“It’s about Adrian Marcelli.”

The room went cold.

Emily set the painting down carefully. “What about him.”

There was a pause. “Your father knows you met him last night.”

“How?”

“That’s not important. What’s important is that you don’t speak to him again.”

Emily laughed, but it wasn’t a real laugh. “You don’t get to tell me who I can talk to.”

“Miss Pascarelli, you don’t understand—”

“No, you don’t understand,” Emily cut in. “I left three years ago so people would stop telling me what to do. So tell my father I said no.”

She hung up before the assistant could answer.

Her hands were shaking.

How did he know? She hadn’t told anyone. Clara didn’t even have her father’s number.

Her phone buzzed again. Same number. She sent it to voicemail.

For the next hour she tried to work but her brain kept circling back to one thing: if her father knew, then Adrian probably did too.

And if Adrian knew, then this wasn’t over.

She was locking up the gallery at 8:30 when her phone lit up on the counter.

Unknown number.

She almost didn’t open it.

Then she did.

Unknown:

Adrian Marcelli:

We need to talk.

Emily stared at the screen.

Her heart was hammering and she didn’t know what scared her more.

That he found her number.

Or that a small part of her wanted to answer.