Chapter 4: Into the Wolf's Den
Aria:
Isabella's arm tightened on mine. "My sister has family obligations. If the Don wishes to speak with her, he can arrange a proper meeting through our—"
"It wasn't a request, Miss Rossi." Matteo's tone stayed polite, but his eyes were flat. Dead. "The Don is waiting."
Shit.
I saw them then—three black Cadillacs idling at the curb, engines purring like predators. More suits flanking the vehicles, hands resting too casually near their jackets.
My purse. I'd left my purse in the exhibition hall—wallet, keys, everything.
"I forgot my purse inside," I said quickly, already turning. "My wallet, my ID—I need them to get home. Just give me two minutes—"
"Aria—" Isabella started.
"Go ahead, Bella. Father will lose his mind if you're late." I forced a smile, backing toward the entrance. "I'll be right back. I promise."
Isabella hesitated, glancing between me and Matteo. Finally, she nodded and headed to the family car.
The second it pulled away, I bolted.
Only an idiot would walk into that psycho's car willingly. I've got a brain, and I'm using it.
My heels hit linoleum in a frantic staccato. I kicked them off mid-stride, bare feet slapping concrete as I tore through the employee corridor.
Three years. The families will tear each other apart in three years—everyone knows the balance is cracking. When the war starts, when they're all too busy killing each other to notice one missing bastard daughter, that's when I disappear. Switzerland. Neutral ground. No Dons, no bullets, no—
My dress snagged on a pipe bracket—riiip—the whole side giving way.
—no chance of any of that if I'm dead before then.
I burst through the exit into humid night air and froze.
Three Cadillacs. Perfect formation. Blocking every angle like pieces on a chessboard.
Fuck.
The center window descended with mechanical precision. Those ice-blue eyes locked onto mine, and every muscle in my body went rigid.
"Miss Rossi." Vito Castellano stepped out, all tailored perfection and lethal grace. "Going somewhere?"
My throat closed. He was standing there in a three-piece suit without a single wrinkle, not a hair out of place, like he hadn't been hallucinating with a gun three hours ago.
Alright, fine. You caught me. Congratulations on having enough money to buy half of Manhattan and station cars at every exit. Must be real nice being able to corner people like this, you smug bastard.
"I need to get home," I managed. "My father—he has rules about curfew—"
"This morning." He took a step closer, and I pressed back against the wall. "On your knees. Crying. 'Don, please don't kill me.' Remember?"
Heat flooded my face.
How could I forget, you psychotic—
"You promised to disappear." Another step. His voice dropped lower, almost conversational. "Yet here you are. On stage. Winning competitions. Very visible. Very memorable."
His hand came up, fingers closing around the back of my neck. Not hard enough to hurt, but firm enough that I couldn't pull away without making it obvious I was trying to escape.
If our positions were reversed, I'd make your life hell. See how you like being the one with no choices.
"Get in the car," he said quietly. "We need to talk."
"I can't just—I have commitments—"
"The Velvet Room is always accepting new talent." His thumb pressed against my pulse point. "Your choice."
The Velvet Room.
I'd heard the whispers in the Rossi estate's dark corners. No one—man or woman—came out of there the same. Most didn't come out at all. The ones who did were... broken. Fundamentally destroyed in ways that made death look merciful.
My legs went weak.
"I'll come," I whispered.
The leather interior smelled like expensive cologne and barely concealed violence. I pressed myself against the far door, watching the city lights blur past as the car pulled smoothly into traffic.
Vito sat across from me, perfectly still, watching me with those ice-blue eyes that missed nothing.
His phone buzzed. He glanced at the screen, then tapped speaker without looking away from me.
"Don." Matteo's voice filled the car, crisp and professional. "The investigation is complete. Sophia De Santis. Confirmed."
"Old rules," Vito said flatly.
"Understood. Fifty tonight. After services are complete, we'll send her grandfather one of her fingers with your regards."
The call ended.
My stomach lurched violently.
Fifty. Fifty in one night. And then they'll cut off her finger and—
If I had money like yours, you bastard, I'd make you service fifty too. Every single one. See how you like being used until there's nothing left.
The car swerved suddenly—some taxi cutting across lanes without signaling. I pitched sideways, my forehead connecting hard with Vito's shoulder.
Panic flooded through me, cold and electric.
The cleanliness thing. Oh God, the stories—three fingers for brushing against his jacket. That capo who sneezed near him. Found in the river.
My hands. I need my hands. Can't make perfume without them. Can't make money. Can't escape.
"I'm sorry!" The words tumbled out as I scrambled back to my side. "I didn't mean—the driver swerved—please, I need my hands, I didn't—"
He laughed.
It was barely a sound, more exhale than actual mirth, but it stopped my spiraling panic completely.
"Traffic accidents don't cost fingers." His hand found my shoulder, pressing me firmly back against the seat. Not gentle, but not violent either. "Relax, Miss Rossi."
His fingers lingered for half a second on my collarbone before he reached for the seatbelt I'd forgotten in my panic. He pulled it across my body with practiced efficiency, his knuckles brushing my ribs as he clicked it into place.
"Stay put," he said, voice flat again. "We're almost there."
I nodded mutely, not trusting myself to speak.
At least I still have all ten fingers. Small victories.
We descended into an underground garage beneath a building that screamed old money—the kind of place where doormen wore white gloves and knew better than to ask questions. The elevator was all mirrors and gold trim, making it impossible to avoid my own reflection. Barefoot, dress torn up one side, mascara probably smudged to hell.
Great. I look like I crawled out of a dumpster. Very professional.
Matteo cleared his throat. "Don Castellano's sister, Miss Caterina, experienced severe trauma two years ago. She was raised primarily by her nanny—the nanny had a passion for perfumery. After the nanny's death six months ago, Miss Caterina has withdrawn completely. She rarely leaves her room. The Don believes your skills—your victory tonight—might help draw her out."
The懊悔 hit like a physical blow.
So that's it. That's why he noticed me.
Because I won first place. Because I stood on that goddamn stage with Isabella and let them announce my name. Let them shine a spotlight on "Aria Rossi, the bastard daughter with the magic nose."
I had a plan. A good plan. Slip the evidence to the tech crew backstage—let them "accidentally" project Camilla's fraud on the big screen during the announcement. She gets destroyed, Isabella wins, and I stay completely anonymous. Invisible. Safe.
But no. I saw those vultures circling my sister, heard Camilla's smug voice, and my brain just—shut off. I walked right into that spotlight like an idiot. Made myself memorable. Made myself a target.
And now he knows my face. Knows my name. Knows exactly what I can do.
Stupid. So fucking stupid.
The elevator doors opened onto a penthouse that was all clean lines and expensive emptiness. Floor-to-ceiling windows overlooked Manhattan, the city lights scattered like diamonds on black velvet.
"Twenty thousand a month," Vito said abruptly, turning to face me. "Cash. No records. Three visits a week—you help Caterina with her perfumes, keep her talking, keep her engaged."
Twenty thousand dollars.
My brain stuttered to a halt.
