Chapter 3 Midnight On Lake Como

The wrought-iron gates of the Bellini estate were locked, towering twenty feet against the mist rising off Lake Como. I didn't care. I parked my beaten sedan in the tree line, grabbed my kit bag, and found the low stone boundary wall near the edge of the property, hauling myself over into the dark pines.

I didn't have an invitation. After I had called Marco Bellini a coward in his Milan office six hours ago, he had had his security team escort me to the pavement. But Rodriguez had given me the address of Marco’s private residence, and I wasn't leaving Italy without forcing his hand.

The estate’s detached sports pavilion sat set into the hillside a brutalist structure of dark slate, steel, and frosted glass. It was completely dark.

I found a side maintenance door near the physical therapy wing, jammed my credit card into the latch, and popped the frame. The heavy door swung open with a quiet hiss of climate control.

I walked down the dark corridor, reached the main hall, and slammed my hand against the master lighting bank.

Click. Click. Click.

Blinding halogen spotlights burst to life overhead, illuminating a pristine, Olympic-spec court. High-speed camera arrays hung from the ceiling trusses; force-plate sensors were embedded directly into the gleaming maple parquet.

I didn't warm up. I shed my heavy coat, pulled a fresh leather ball from the rack, and walked to the baseline.

My left knee clicked a dull, familiar ache in the joint as I tossed the ball high into the rafters. I drove off my right foot, airborne for a split second, and slammed a cross-court serve into the far corner. The sound cracked through the empty arena like a rifle shot.

I caught another ball. Crack.

"You're trespassing, Signorina Romano."

The baritone voice cut through the echo of the leather hitting wood.

I turned, wiping sweat from my forehead. Marco stood at the edge of the dark access tunnel. He wasn't in his bespoke armor tonight. He wore a dark charcoal crewneck sweater with the sleeves pushed up his forearms, dark trousers, and no tie. His hair was unstyled, slightly damp, and his dark eyes burned with dangerous, unpolished fury.

"The gate was locked," I panted, holding the ball against my hip. "I improvised."

"You broke into my home," Marco said, stepping onto the court. His presence immediately stripped the massive gym of its scale, crowding the air between us. "If I press one button on this wall, private security will have you in a holding cell in Como before two in the morning."

"Then press it," I said, stepping up to the net. "Or evaluate me."

Marco stopped two feet away. The scent of rain, cedar, and expensive tobacco drifted off him, thick and suffocating. He stared down at me, his jaw clenched so tight the muscle leaped under his skin.

"You think this is a game," he murmured, his voice dropping into a raspy, lethal register. "You think you can insult me in my boardroom, jump my fence, and demand my resources?"

"I think you're hiding behind your billions because you're terrified I'll prove you wrong," I countered, looking him dead in the eye.

A dangerous, quiet shift passed over his face. Without a word, Marco reached out, his thick fingers locking firmly around my upper arm. He didn't hurt me, but his grip was iron. He pulled me toward the high-performance diagnostic area beside the bench.

"Sit," he commanded.

I sat on the padded treatment table.

Marco dropped to one knee directly between my legs. The sudden, unyielding proximity hit me like a physical blow. My pulse spiked, a thick wave of heat rushing up my neck as his broad shoulders filled my entire field of vision.

"If we do this, we do it right," Marco rasped, looking up into my eyes for a long, agonizing second before his hands moved to my left leg.

His bare palms were warm, rough, and heavy against my skin. He slid his hands up from my calf, his fingers digging firmly into the muscle tissue around my knee joint, testing the lateral stability. Every touch was clinical, yet the raw, undeniable electricity flowing between us turned the air dense.

I held my breath, my knuckles gripping the edge of the leather table as his thumb brushed over the jagged surgical scar on my inner knee. He applied pressure, forcing my leg to extend, watching my face for the slightest flinch.

"The quad tendon is tight," Marco murmured, his voice low, his fingers sliding higher along my thigh to feel the muscle activation. The heat of his hand burned through my leggings. "You're holding tension in the hip to protect the joint. It's sloppy."

"It's functional," I rasped, my breath coming shallow as I stared down at his dark head bent over my leg.

"Functional gets you destroyed against Bianca Rossi," he said. He gripped my knee with both hands, rotating the lower leg inward. The pressure was intense, bordering on painful, but I refused to give him a sound.

His dark eyes snapped up to mine, caught in the quiet, charged space between us. For three seconds, neither of us breathed. His hands remained locked around my thigh, his thumb resting inches from the hem of my shorts, his dark gaze dropping to my lips before rising back to my eyes.

Before the silence could break, a small, sleep-thickened voice drifted from the dark doorway of the corridor.

"Papa?"

Marco disengaged instantly, standing up in one fluid movement, his body shielding me from the entry.

A little girl in pink flannel pajamas stood at the edge of the wood floor, rubbing her eyes and clutching a stuffed grey rabbit. She looked bewildered by the blinding lights.

Just then, a loose volleyball on the top rack slipped off its chrome rail, bouncing hard off the metal frame and veering directly toward the toddler's head.

Instinct overrode the ache in my knee.

I launched off the treatment table, sliding across the polished parquet floor. I threw my arm out, cupping the underside of the ball a split second before it could strike the little girl. The leather bounced harmlessly off my palm, soaring into the air, as my hip slammed against the wood beside her.

Sofia blinked, looking down at me in surprise.

I stayed on the floor, breathing heavily, resting on one elbow. "Hey there, shortcake," I murmured softly, forcing a gentle smile through the adrenaline. "You okay?"

Sofia gave a shy nod, stepping closer to lay a tiny hand on my shoulder.

Marco reached us a second later, scooping his daughter into his massive arms. His face was pale, his breathing unusually ragged. He held Sofia against his chest, looking down at me on the floor at my bruised shoulder, my damp hair, and the fierce, protective fire in my eyes.

The cold, corporate armor around him fractured completely.

He carried Sofia to the bench, wrapped her in his dark sweater, and walked back to where I was standing up. He stepped into my personal space, backing me until my shoulder blades hit the heavy steel support pillar of the net.

Marco placed his right hand flat on the pillar beside my head, trapping me. He leaned down, his face inches from mine, his warm breath fanning across my cheeks.

"Listen to me very carefully, Signorina Romano," Marco growled, his voice a dark, possessive whisper that vibrated in my chest. "If we do this, it is taboo. If the Federation, or the press or your rivals find out the CEO of the league's primary corporate sponsor is privately rebuilding the blacklisted player, they will tear us both to pieces. They will call it corruption. They will try to destroy your license and my firm."

He leaned in closer, his eyes burning into mine with an intensity that made my knees weaken.

"You enter a war the moment you step back onto this floor," he whispered, his eyes dipping to my mouth before locking back onto mine. "You obey my medical staff. You obey my training regimen. And you stay away from Lorenzo Vani. Am I clear?"

"Clear," I breathed, my heart hammering wildly against my ribs.

Marco stared at me for one more agonizing beat, his fingers twitching against the steel pillar. He pulled back slowly, taking his daughter into his arms once more.

"Six o'clock sharp tomorrow morning," Marco said flatly, turning toward the residential exit. "If you're one minute late, the gates stay locked for good."

He walked out into the shadows, leaving me standing alone under the blinding gym lights, my pulse racing, my body burning, and the comeback officially ignited.