Chapter 2 - The Santini ConnectionThe helicopter banked sharply, turning northward away from the city lights into the dark, forested expanse of upstate New York.
My mind spun in chaotic circles. Marco Santini? Lila’s fiancé? The charming, impeccably tailored real estate developer who had swept my oldest friend off her feet during a six-month whirlwind romance in Europe?
“You’re lying,” I said, though the conviction in my voice was rapidly eroding. “Marco is an investment developer. He loves Lila. They’re getting married in two months.”
“Marco Santini is a mid-tier capo in the Sicilian faction operating out of Brooklyn,” Adrian stated matter-of-factly, as if he were reading off a grocery list rather than blowing up my best friend’s life. “His family has been trying to muscle into my port logistics for eighteen months. When he saw you walk into that room tonight, he didn't see an innocent guest. He saw my soft spot.”
“Your soft spot?” I stared at him, my disbelief turning into defensive anger. “I told you, I met you tonight!”
“You think you met me tonight,” Adrian muttered, standing up and walking toward the small kitchenette at the back of the cabin. He poured two fingers of amber liquid into a crystal tumbler, not offering any to me. “Three years ago, you dropped your sketchbook on the steps of the New York Public Library. A courier picked it up and handed it to me. I spent forty-eight hours tracking down its owner because your charcoal sketches were scattered across every page—sketches of architecture, of crowds, of shadows. And in the corner of almost every page, hiding in plain sight… were my buildings. My offices. My security details.”
My breath caught in my throat.
My sketchbook.
I remembered that day vividly. I thought I had lost it forever. When it was mysteriously returned to my apartment doorstep two days later with a brand-new leather cover, I had thought it was a miracle.
“You… you’ve been watching me?” I whispered.
“Protecting you,” Adrian corrected, turning around to face me, his dark eyes softening just a fraction before hardening back into obsidian steel. “Because in my world, if an enemy knows you matter to me, they use you to break me. Which is precisely what Marco tried to do the moment you walked past me in that dress.”
“If you knew he was dangerous, why did you let him near Lila?” I demanded, anger overriding my fear. “Why didn’t you warn her?”
“Because Lila is a grown woman who made her own bed,” Adrian said coldly. “And right now, Lila is safely tucked away in a suite at the Plaza under my private guard, while Marco is currently discovering what happens when you touch something that belongs to the Moretti family.”
The helicopter’s rotors slowed their frantic pitch, the cabin vibrations smoothing out as we began our descent. Through the glass, I saw a sprawling stone estate perched on a high cliff overlooking a dark, moonlit lake. Wrought-iron gates swung open automatically as we touched down on a private helipad surrounded by tall pines.
Two men in dark tactical gear stood waiting at the base of the ladder, their posture rigid and vigilant.
Adrian stepped down first, turning to offer me his hand.
I looked at his outstretched hand—strong, calloused, the hand of a man who commanded violence without blinking—and then up at his face. I didn't take it. I unbuckled my seatbelt myself, stood up on shaky legs, and descended the metal steps under my own power.
May you like
“Where are we?” I asked, wrapping my arms around myself as the cold mountain wind whipped my hair across my face.
“Home, Ella,” Adrian said quietly, falling into step beside me as we walked toward the heavy oak doors of the stone fortress. “At least, until I figure out how to clean up the mess you made by refusing to listen to a single word I said.”
