CHAPTER SEVEN: STAY AWAY

I barely slept after the gala.

By three in the morning, I was sitting on my living room rug with my laptop open, staring at the municipal registry filings for the Old Exchange Building on Broad Street. There it was, buried in the fine print of the preservation covenant: The De Luca Endowment & Preservation Fund — 20% Equity & Sole Approval Authority for Lead Architectural Consultant.

He hadn't lied. The preservation covenant gave the De Luca Foundation's designated representative final approval over the appointment of the lead architectural consultant. His approval could determine who led the restoration, and that alone was enough to put my future in his hands.

I closed the laptop with a heavy snap and rested my forehead against the cool plastic lid.

I’d tried to prove I didn't need his permission to navigate his world, and in doing so, I’d walked straight into an arrangement that guaranteed he held the final say over my career's biggest opportunity.

By Friday afternoon, my phone rang. It was Arthur Vance’s executive assistant, asking if I could meet at the Broad Street site on Monday morning for an initial walk-through of the structural framework.

"Will Mr. De Luca be attending?" I asked, adjusting the phone against my ear.

"Mr. De Luca rarely attends site walk-throughs himself, Miss Carter," the assistant replied crisply. "His liaison, Mr. Marco Rossi, handles the physical inspections. Mr. De Luca only reviews the signed site assessments."

I let out a quiet breath of relief. Marco. The stocky, silent man who drove the sedan and opened the door at the De Luca estate. That I could handle.

Monday brought a gray, wet cold that hung heavy over the Financial District. The Old Exchange Building sat on the corner of Broad and Wall—a soaring, nineteenth-century granite monolith with arched copper windows and weather-worn stone columns that had survived a century of market panics.

I arrived fifteen minutes early, pulling my hard hat over my tied-back hair and adjusting my high-visibility vest over my wool coat. I carried a digital tape measure, a tablet loaded with floor plans, and a heavy flashlight.

The iron-studded oak doors were propped open with industrial wedges. Inside, the grand trading hall was dark, vast, and silent except for the rhythmic drip-drip-drip of water leaking from an unsealed skylight forty feet above. Dust motes floated in the pale gray light filtering through the high windows.

"Miss Carter?"

I turned. Marco stood near the entrance, wearing a dark work jacket over his suit pants, carrying a heavy leather clipboard. He looked as impassive as he had in the foyer of the townhouse.

"Good morning, Marco," I said, stepping toward him. "Thank you for taking the time to walk the site with me."

Marco gave a brief nod. "Mr. De Luca wants a full structural clearance before the historical board releases the preliminary budget. The lower vault has water seepage."

"I saw the foundation notes," I said, opening the digital blueprints on my tablet. "The sub-basement connects to the old creek line. We’ll need to reinforce the retaining wall before we touch any of the interior masonry."

"This way," Marco said, turning toward a narrow stone staircase near the back of the trading floor that spiraled down into darkness.

We spent forty-five minutes inspecting the lower level—measuring load-bearing arches, photographing water damage on the brickwork, and checking the integrity of the iron beams supporting the main floor above. Marco was methodical, quiet, and surprisingly knowledgeable about nineteenth-century masonry. He took notes on his clipboard without saying a word more than necessary.

"That covers the vault," I said, wiping a streak of mortar dust off my thumb as we climbed back up the stone steps to the main hall. "I'll draft the preliminary report and send it over to Mr. Vance’s office by Wednesday."

"Send a copy directly to the De Luca Foundation office as well," Marco said, checking his watch. "Mr. De Luca reviews structural risk assessments personally."

"Of course," I replied.

Marco walked toward the heavy front entrance, stopping at the threshold. "My car is outside. Can I offer you a ride back to Soho, Miss Carter?"

"No, thank you. I need to take a few more exterior photos of the facade before the light fades," I said, tapping the camera hanging from my strap.

"As you wish. Good day, Miss Carter."

Marco stepped out into the rain, leaving the heavy door propped open behind him. The echo of his footsteps died away down Broad Street, leaving me alone in the cavernous hall.

I let out a long breath, my shoulders dropping three inches.

I walked toward the center of the trading floor, looking up at the vaulted ceiling. The quiet majesty of the building was incredible. Despite the mold, the water damage, and the terrifying politics attached to the project, the architect in me was already falling in love with the space. I could see the light fixtures hanging from the central iron ring; I could picture the dark walnut paneling restored to its original luster.

A soft click echoed through the hall.

I turned toward the entrance. The heavy oak door had swung shut, blocking out the noise of the street traffic outside.

A shadow detached itself from the gloom of the mezzanine balcony overlooking the trading floor.

My heart gave a sudden, hard thump.

Alessandro stood at the top of the wrought-iron spiral staircase that connected the mezzanine to the main floor. He had taken off his dark overcoat, laying it over the balcony railing. He wore a dark charcoal dress shirt with the sleeves rolled up to his forearms, exposing the dark ink tracing his wrists—tattoos I had only glimpsed in the dim light of his penthouse.

He didn't say a word. He simply descended the spiral steps, his boots striking the metal treads with a slow, deliberate rhythm that echoed through the empty hall.

I stood frozen near the central pillar, my fingers tightening around the edge of my tablet as I realized he had engineered this entire walkthrough.

"I thought Marco was conducting the inspection," I said, my voice cutting through the massive space.

Alessandro reached the bottom of the stairs and stepped onto the dusty stone floor. He walked toward me, his dark eyes locked onto mine, his expression completely unreadable.

"Marco works for me," Alessandro said softly, his deep baritone carrying clearly across the stone floor. "He knows when to step aside."

He stopped five feet away. The ambient smell of wet stone and dust was instantly cut through by the familiar scent of his sandalwood cologne.

"What are you doing here, Alessandro?" I asked, forcing my voice into a firm tone. "This is a site inspection."

"I came to see if you were serious," he replied, his gaze sweeping over my hard hat, my high-vis vest, and the tablet clutched against my chest. "Or if you were just trying to make a point at the gala."

"I don't make points with my career," I said, taking a half-step back until my heel hit the base of the stone column. "I'm a professional. Arthur invited me to assess this building because he believes I'm qualified, not because of whatever happened between us two weeks ago."

Alessandro watched me in silence for three long seconds. The gray afternoon light from the high windows caught the silver in his hair and the faint scar along his jaw.

"I know you're good at what you do," he said softly. "I read your Soho hotel proposal this morning. Your structural analysis is cleaner than the engineering firm's."

The unexpected compliment caught me off guard. My pulse gave an involuntary flutter, but I set my jaw, refusing to let him soften me.

"Then why are you here?"

"To tell you to withdraw your application," he said flatly.

I stared at him, genuine disbelief replacing my nerves. "What?"

"Step back," Alessandro repeated, stepping an inch closer. His tone wasn't angry; it was cold, deliberate, and entirely serious. "Tell Vance you have a scheduling conflict. Tell him you can't take on a project of this scale right now. I'll make sure you're compensated for the time you've already invested."

A hot surge of anger flared in my chest.

"Are you out of your mind?" I demanded, my voice rising in the quiet hall. "This is a two-million-dollar restoration project! Being considered for it could establish my independent practice for the next five years! And you're telling me to throw it away because you can't stand seeing me in a hallway?"

"I am telling you to step back because you don't understand what this building represents," Alessandro said, his dark eyes narrowing slightly. "The Old Exchange isn't just an architectural landmark, Bella. It is a political battleground. The people competing for control of this board aren't businessmen looking to preserve history. They are men who look for every crack in my armor."

"And you think I'm a crack in your armor?" I asked bitterly.

"You are here," he said, his voice dropping into a low register. "Which means if anyone starts asking why Arthur Vance brought an independent designer into a restoration this politically sensitive, they'll start asking questions about you. They will look at where you go, who you talk to, and why you spent an evening at my house."

"Nobody knows about the penthouse!" I snapped in a furious whisper, stepping directly into his space, my chest inches from his. "Nobody knows anything! We lied to Sofia, we lied to Marco, and we pretended we were strangers! The only person making this complicated is you!"

Alessandro didn't pull back. He stood his ground, looking down at me with a controlled intensity that made the air feel suddenly too thin to breathe.

"You think you can keep a secret in this city?" he asked softly, his hand rising slowly.

For a second, I thought he was going to grab my arm, but his fingers stopped a fraction of an inch from my face. With agonizing slowness, his knuckles lightly brushed against the stray lock of hair that had fallen out of my chignon, tucking it behind my ear.

The touch was barely a whisper of skin against skin, sending a jolt straight down my spine.

My breath hitched. My anger stalled in my throat, competing against the terrifying, familiar pull that had consumed me in the penthouse suite.

"I have spent twenty years keeping secrets, Bella," Alessandro murmured, the pad of his thumb coming to rest against the side of my jaw, his warm palm lightly framing my neck. "I know how they rot from the inside out. I know what happens when the wrong person finds a vulnerability."

"I am not your vulnerability," I breathed, my voice trembling despite every ounce of willpower I possessed. "I'm just your daughter's best friend."

Alessandro’s eyes darkened. His thumb stroked the skin beneath my jaw, a slow, possessive gesture that completely contradicted the distance he had maintained for two weeks.

"That," he whispered, his face dipping until his lips were an inch from mine, "is precisely why you are the most dangerous thing in this city."

For three agonizing seconds, neither of us moved. The drip of the water from the ceiling felt miles away. The cold gray light of the trading floor vanished, shrinking the entire universe down to the heat of his hand on my neck and the dark intensity of his eyes.

I wanted to push him away. I was furious at his arrogance and his need to control my choices.

Yet my hands remained tightened around the edges of my tablet, my breath hitching as I held his gaze.

The sound of a car horn honking sharply on Broad Street shattered the silence, echoing through the heavy oak doors.

Alessandro froze. In an instant, the warmth in his eyes vanished behind a shutter of iron discipline. He withdrew his hand, stepping back two paces, his posture straightening back into the untouchable posture of an executive.

He took a slow, deep breath, adjusting the cuffs of his dark shirt.

"The board meets on Thursday," Alessandro said, his voice flat and professional. "If your application is still under consideration at five o'clock, I'll use the foundation's approval rights to have you removed from the shortlist."

I stared at him, the sudden shift from intense intimacy to a cold ultimatum leaving me completely stunned.

"You wouldn't," I whispered.

"Try me," Alessandro replied softly.

He turned, picked up his overcoat from the balcony railing, and walked toward the heavy oak exit without looking back.

I stood alone in the dark, silent trading hall, my skin still burning where his fingers had touched me.

He had given me until Thursday to choose between the opportunity I'd worked for and the secret that could destroy my friendship with Sofia.

I looked up at the restored ceiling I could already picture in my mind.

I had spent years fighting to build a career that belonged to me. I wasn't going to surrender it because Alessandro De Luca had decided he knew what was best for me.

If he wanted me off that shortlist, he would have to explain his decision to the entire board.