Page 292 of Rosetti Family New York
Her jaw tightens, but she doesn't deny it. "I'm telling you because people will die if that shipment comes in. Innocent people, not just Rosettis and Callahans."
"Since when do you care about innocent lives?" The question comes out harsher than I meant, full of bitter, unanswered questions. "You left without a word, Mara. Vanished like you never existed. If you cared about anyone but yourself—"
"You don't know anything about why I left," she snaps, eyes blazing with sudden anger. "You think because you can watch me through cameras, you know me? You know what I've been through? What I've had to do?"
The raw emotion in her voice silences me for a moment. This isn't her usual calculated act. This is real, breaking through the careful facade she's kept since coming back to New York.
"Then tell me," I say, softer now. "Help me understand."
She turns away, looking at the city lights blurring past. "I can't."
"Can't or won't?" I ask again, echoing our earlier exchange.
"Both." The word sounds torn from her, ragged and reluctant. "There are things you're better off not knowing, Emilio. Safer not knowing."
"I decide what risks are worth taking. Not you."
She laughs, a short, bitter sound with no humor. "That's always been your problem. You think you can control everything. Information, systems, people." She glances at me, pity flickering in her expression. "Some things can't be controlled, no matter how many plans you make."
Her words hit closer to home than she knows. I've spent so long building systems to track her, analyze her movements, predict her steps. Yet she still manages to surprise me, stay ahead at crucial moments. Even tonight, her revelation about the Callahan arms shipment wasn't in any intelligence reports. She still has information I don't, access I haven't duplicated.
We drive in silence for several minutes, her eyes glued to the side mirror, checking for anyone following us while I steer toward our destination.
"Why is Chase targeting you?" she finally asks. "Why target you specifically? Why not Domenico or Rafaele?"
A good question, one I've thought about a lot. "Because I'm the one who knows everything. Every Rosetti operation, security measure, financial route. Take me out, and the family loses its eyes and ears. Its defenses."
"Its Ghost," she murmurs.
"Exactly."
We fall into quiet thoughts as I drive through Manhattan's streets, eventually turning onto Central Park West. Her presence next to me feels unreal after so long tracking her through digital means. Her scent fills the car, sharper than I remember, with metallic hints showing how much she's changed. How much we both have.
I sneak glances at her profile, lit by passing store lights. Her sharp bob frames her face, highlighting her cheekbones and determined jaw. Different from the woman who left my bed, yet somehow more captivating for the strength she's gained. For the secrets I can see weighing on her.
A sense of possessiveness flows through me, a dark satisfaction that after all this time, all the chasing across continents, she's finally here. In my car. Under my protection. Where I can see her without screens, keep track of her without algorithms and cameras. Keep her.
I reach across the console, not quite touching her but close enough that she can feel the warmth of my hand near her thigh. A message without words: I see you. I've always seen you. And I've finally caught you.
8
Mara
Consciousness gradually returns, pulling me from deep, exhausted sleep to the soft silk sheets that speak of luxury and safety. My mouth still tastes like last night's wine, a sharp reminder of our escape from Il Lusso.
The ceiling is unfamiliar. It's not the cramped car where I remember drifting off against Emilio's shoulder but instead a pristine, high white ceiling with crown molding fit for magazines. Sunlight pours through large windows, bathing everything in golden light.
Bits of memory come back: the Callahan men in the VIP lounge, our rushed escape through service corridors, the crash of adrenaline as Emilio drove us to safety. I must have dozed off during the drive, worn out once the danger was over.
The bedroom around me feels like an expensive tomb. Dark sheets, a sitting area for private chats, wardrobes that could fit entire families. Everything suggests a refined, masculine taste backed by endless resources, but it's the small details that get my heart racing. The room is a perfect sixty-seven degrees, despite his past complaints about the cold. There's Europeanbottled water, the same brand I drank in Prague. White orchids, arranged with precise care, reminding me of ones I photographed in Tokyo.
He's been observing closely. Not just tracking my movements but noting my preferences and habits, gathering the details that turn a place into a home. The extent of this watchfulness makes my skin crawl, even as I sense a twisted kind of devotion behind it.
Getting up takes effort after such deep sleep, my body stiff from finally relaxing after weeks of tension. But as I look around, unease starts to replace relief. This isn't just safety. It's something more complicated.
The windows might reveal where he's brought me. As I reach them, my reflection halts me. Hair tousled from sleep, still in last night's clothes, like someone who was carried to bed. Beyond the glass, Central Park lies forty stories below, with Manhattan's skyline stretching out.
"You're awake." His voice holds satisfaction with a touch of something softer, maybe relief. I turn to see Emilio in the doorway, his hair slightly messy as if he's been up all night, watching over me while I slept.
