Chapter 4

CHIARA

Present Day

R io paused, staring at the tumblers for a lengthy moment.

I studied him from behind, my eyes raking his lean, muscular silhouette.

From the fitted jacket that hugged his torso like a glove to his thick thighs encased in tailored perfection.

When he’d moved to the sideboard, he showcased the quiet precision of a wolf, every step calculated, prowling on the hunt.

But beneath that ferocious agility, I perceived something more primal that hummed with raw power—the cunning of a predator.

His presence carried an undercurrent of dominance, a silent warning that I’d be a fool to underestimate him.

I sensed his loyalty was fierce, but it’d be earned, not easily given.

I imagined his predatorial instincts gave him the foresight to see the enemy coming, the strength to defend what was his, and the unwavering fearlessness to stand his ground when the moment called for it.

He gave off the energy of a hunter, with the acute prescience to strike with subtlety and precision with which to unleash the full power.

Fotto ! I was close to panting for him. Hard.

With a twist of his lips and a shake of his head, as if dragging himself from an old memory, he turned and stalked to me and handed me one of the two tumblers.

His eyes stormed, and I wondered what he’d been thinking.

In seconds, however, they shuttered down to coldness, evidence of his superb self-control.

It still made me shiver.

The first was from the ice in his eyes.

The second was from the heat bolt when our fingers touched as he passed the drink to me.

I bit my inner lip to keep from sighing at the unexpected jolt.

‘Drink.’

I did, taking a long swallow and gasping as the pure alcohol hit hard.

I wiped my mouth with the back of my hand. ‘Damn, how do people stand that stuff?’

He smirked. ‘It’s the fire in it we seek, to flame us on the inside and awaken our deepest desires.’

Intelligence lurked behind those eyes—cunning and quick, the kind that dissected a problem in seconds and found the one crack no one else did.

I sensed in him the patience of a wolf on the hunt, waiting, watching, always one step ahead, his mind working in unpredictable, unfathomable computations.

‘Your last name?’

He arched a brow and crossed hands over his chest. ‘Ciprioni. I run The Ciprioni Group, a security firm. We do well protecting the wealthy from organized crime for the most part. The Mafiosi game is not what it used to be, with street shootouts and bombings. Instead, the mob now operates with more subtlety. Spectacular assassinations are out of fashion, but illegal drugs, shakedowns of legitimate businesses, less blood, less death—are in. We work in the shadows, mafia adjacent, to ward off the darkness within.’

His voice was deep and raw, and his words were soft yet edged with menace, like a blade hidden beneath velvet.

In a dangerous mood, I stared at him for a long moment, placing the tumbler in my hand on my desk.

The one he still sat at, like he owned the place.

‘I must look into you. Make sure you’re legit. Also, because Signore Avenaldi recommended you, doesn’t mean I’ll take you on board. Talk is cheap. To get my business, you’ll need to blow my mind. Furthermore, I plan to shop around.’

He shrugged. ‘Blowing you won’t be a problem.’

I took a shocked inhale at his ballsiness. ‘ Sei arrogante !’

‘Is that all you’ve got, bella ?’

He sounded amused.

‘ Che palle !’

What a freakin’ pain.

‘I’ll be in touch,’ I clipped.

‘That’s if you find me,’ he rasped.

‘What the fuck?’ I breathed. ‘You know, on second thoughts, I want nothing to do with you.’

He unfurled himself from my desk with predatory grace.

‘Do you, woman.’

‘I intend to,’ I flashed back. ‘ Conosco i miei polli !’

I was well aware of what I was fucking doing, and it wouldn’t be hiring him.

‘ Arrivederci , Chiara,’ he growled as he exited, his steps so silent that a moment after his exit, I wondered if he’d even been there in the first place.

His cologne, however, lingered, and I breathed him in, bristling in anger, nostrils flaring, body thrumming.

Until a thought tore through me.

He left me with no number or any way to contact him.

It’s not that I wanted to, but just in case.

With a jolt, I rose and darted through my office, chasing after him.

I rushed through the gallery, eyes searching, hair flowing behind me as I swiveled my head.

The dim-lit showroom stood silent, empty.

I ran for the front glass entryway, pushed it open, and stepped into the night.

My eyes searched the shadow, peering up and down in a 360 sweep.

The street was deserted.

Apart from the occasional passerby.

One gazed at me with curiosity as I lifted my hands in frustration, chest heaving, annoyed.

He was gone.

Not a trace remained.

Like a phantom.

Cazzo!

The following morning, I woke up to the warm rays of the Neapolitan sun streaming through the windows, bathing my bedroom in golden light.

I stretched, loving the delicious lengthening of my limbs and letting the sun’s warmth sink into my skin before slipping out of bed.

With a suck of my teeth, reality hit. The worry about my father, the Tirone family business, my brothers, and my freakin’ lack of protection - all of my shit moroseness washed over me.

Panic jolted through me, and I took a shaky inhale.

I needed to find peace prior to heading out today.

After changing into leggings and a tee and taking my exercise mat, I went downstairs and outside into my garden.

The morning draft, cool and crisp, carried the scent of damp earth and the faint sweetness of jasmine blooming.

Early light filtered through the trees, casting dappled shadows on the ground. As I stepped barefoot onto the soft grass, a sense of calm began to wash over me.

The yard burst with life, from the occasional bird trill to the dainty rustling of leaves stirred by a passing breeze.

I closed my eyes and breathed in, letting the fresh air fill my lungs and center me. With its wildflowers and creeping vines, this space had always been my sanctuary.

Gossamer-winged butterflies—small, fragile creatures with pinions painted in pale blue and orange—fluttered in and out of the sunlight as if performing a delicate dance. They drifted between the flowers, their wings flapping.

I smiled, my gaze on their gentle flight.

It took me a minute to center, and then I launched into my yoga poses with slow, deliberate effort.

With every stretch, each bend came release, the tightness in my body unwinding as I held my poses.

I focused on the sensation of my muscles lengthening, my joints loosening, and my breath deepening with every movement.

Inhaling again, the sweet oxygen filled my chest, and with it, my thoughts quietened.

Exhaling, I let go of the tension gripping me for days.

In minutes, my troubles lifted from my shoulders.

The sun rose higher, its warmth touching my face.

I sank into my final pose—seated, cross-legged on the mat.

My hands rest on my knees, palms facing upward, fingers relaxed. Tilting my face toward the light, I welcomed the gentle kiss of sunshine against my closed eyelids and a deep gratitude filling my soul.

Each breath drew me further away from the chaos that consumed me in recent months. It was as if the garden was breathing with me, pulsing with shared energy and nourishing my weary soul.

After a quick shower, I dressed in my typical attire for the gallery: sleek linen cream trousers, a silk blouse with a wild print, and my favorite pair of leather heels.

Simple, elegant.

The echoes of the city distilled through my open window—people chatting on their morning commutes, scooters buzzing by on cobblestone streets.

I prepared my usual breakfast in the kitchen: an espresso and a slice of whole wheat toast with peach conserve. I ate, savoring the coffee’s bittersweet flavor and fruity tang.

Outside, in my midsize garden, my citrus plants budded, and so did the tomatoes, and I couldn’t wait for a bumper harvest.

All so familiar, so comforting, my home wrapping me in goodness.

But when I stepped outdoors, the day took a strange turn.

I walked toward my car.

Jolting, I narrowed my eyes on a black vehicle idling a few houses down the road.

Sleek and inconspicuous, it shrieked of understated style, not unlike many of the cars on my street—if it weren’t for the fact I’d spotted it the last couple of mornings, too.

My heart began to race, a quiet, uneasy thrum in my chest.

I sensed the driver’s eyes, invisible behind the tinted windows. Though the engine noise was too far away to be audible, I tagged steam curling from its bumper.

It was idling, waiting. For me?

I slipped into my car, trying to shake off the unsettling sensation crawling up my spine.

‘It’s a coincidence,’ I told myself as I started the motor.

Yet, as I pulled away from the curb, I caught the black SUV inching forward in my rearview mirror. I tried to stay calm, taking deep breaths, but tension tightened its grip on me.

I drove the familiar route to my gallery, my fingers tightening on the steering wheel as I made each turn.

With every glance in the rearview mirror, the ebony car came closer, nosing in before hanging back when I tapped my brakes, making their tailing me obvious.

Taunting me, almost.

My pulse quickened.

Maybe it was nothing. Perhaps it was everything.

By the time I reached the Galleria Gisela, my nerves were frayed, on edge, and I was fuckin’ annoyed.

When I parked, the unidentified SUV shot past me and accelerated, engine throbbing and growling, tires screeching as it rounded a corner and disappeared.

Cazzo !

I parked and shot from my car, fumbling with my keys to unlock the door.

Once inside, I breathed a sigh of relief but still sensed eyes on me from outside, even as the black automobile disappeared.

I rushed to open the door, turned the lights on, unlocked the office, and set up for the day.

Attempting to ignore the lingering anxiety gnawing at me, focusing instead on my work.

A new series of canvases from a young artist was arriving that morning. I wanted to be ready to curate each piece and have them hung by opening time.

‘ Buongiorno !’ Lucia, my assistant, chirped as she walked in. Her presence broke through my tension, bringing a welcome relief.

‘ Buongiorno ,’ I replied, trying to smile.

I didn’t mention the black car. What could I even say?

Lucia would only worry and fuss if I shared more. I required her to be focused, not distracted, as we tried to up our cash flow and make much-needed sales.

We unpacked the fresh paintings together, discussing each with enthusiasm that usually calmed my consciousness.

Lucia was vibrant as ever, her energy contagious, but even her chatter could not shake the unease in my mind.

It plagued me, played with me, sucking energy from my soul.

The gallery opened at 11 a.m., and a few of my wealthier clients dropped in, keen to purchase the latest pieces.

I greeted them with practiced ease, making small talk and guiding them through the recent deliveries and additions to our collection.

A man walked in.

I spotted him the moment he entered.

He wasn’t like my usual clientele—he didn’t have the air of our regular buyers.

I didn’t discriminate, for I’d had pop stars and hip hop rappers walk in my doors and buy my art, but something about him threw me.

I tagged him with more menace than most street thugs and a cold, dead expression that told me he’d be one not to mess with.

Tall and broad-shouldered, dressed in a sable coat, with dreadlocks caught up in a bun, he gave me the shivers.

His styling and sensibility were Neapolitan, but his features and skin screamed Moorish.

His aura unsettled me as he prowled like a predator in my gallery.

Sucking the air out of the room with the way he moved in silent prowl among the paintings, his eyes darting from piece to piece, never lingering.

I approached, and his dark eyes sliced and raked over me, leaving me cold to the bone.

‘Can I help you with anything?’ I asked, my voice steady, though my heart hammered in my chest.

He didn’t answer.

He didn’t even glance at me.

I took a step closer. ‘Excuse me, sir—’

Before I finished, he turned on his heel and walked out without a word.

I stood frozen, the primary door closing behind him with a soft whoosh.

‘ Cos’è ? Who is that?’ Lucia asked, her brows furrowed as she came up beside me.

‘I don’t know,’ I muttered, still staring at the entrance.

My stomach churned, and I experienced genuine fear for the first time in months.

Damn, Claudio.

Life had become murkier since my loser fratello had begun making decisions on behalf of our ailing father.

Without fail, some shady operator or capo wandered into the gallery each week, searching for him and stating that he owed money.

I refused to pay them off, letting them know all our transactions were electronic and that I held no cash on the premises.

Most believed me, some didn’t, and I was weary of the threats, cursing, and promises to harm the Tirone family if Claudio didn’t settle what was outstanding.

I was also sick and tired of calling my brother to berate him for putting me in such a vulnerable position.

All I wanted to do was to create, curate, and sell my art.

‘I’ll be in my office,’ I murmured, excusing myself before Lucia asked any more questions. I needed a moment to regain composure.

My mind raced with thoughts of the cars following me around, the strangers haunting my gallery, and the neverending niggling sensation that I was under surveillance.

Seeking privacy, I closed the door and sat at my desk, staring blankly at the scattered papers. My hands trembled as I tried to push away the fear, but my efforts were useless.

Something wasn’t right.

Fuck, nothing had ever been in my life.

I was a scion of one of Naples’s more influential criminal families, the only girl among two boys.

My father, Olivio, was the son of the legendary 1970s gangster Nino Tirone.

A mafioso masquerading as a local businessman, Nino had built a reputation for ‘looking out for others’ in his neighborhood.

Which meant working for the Neapolitan underworld and aiding in its devastating violence.

Nino had cultivated relationships with corrupt business people and judges.

He’d died in a glorious gun battle on the streets of Naples in the early 1990s.

Olivio inherited the family enterprise, collaborating in secret with international drug traffickers and significant criminal figures as part of a shadowy syndicate clan.

Even as a woman, often an invisible ghost in the mafia world, my life has always been spent living on the edge of terror - caught in a coercive, inconsistent, and contradictory relationship with my father and brothers.

My mother went through shit, too, before she passed away.

When Olivio put one of his companies under her name to hide its illegal profits, she was forced on the run, caught by the police, and served time in prison. While my father, who’d facilitated the crimes, walked free.

She died of a broken heart in jail, unable to reconcile herself with my father’s cruelty and his involvement in narcotics trafficking and other criminal activities.

The loss hit me hard, and for months, I existed on a drug-fueled binge, trying to ward off the excruciating pain, fear, and suffering of grief.

When I was about to OD, I’d forced myself into rehab and cleaned up.

In recent months, my father’s health declined.

My brothers, Claudio and Aldo, became more involved in the business, running extortion, drug, and counterfeit goods operations.

They had become savvy about social media and the potential for new commerce opportunities such as online fraud.

I suspected they’d fallen in with even more ruthless cartels, some the foulest of them all. The man who’d visited and the strange cars following me was proof that my life and gallery were on the line.

With my heart beating hard, I upped my search for a security service to watch my back.