Rome hadn't changed. The sky still bled gold by dusk, throwing elongated shadows across the cobblestoned streets. The city shifted with its ageless grace — slow, purposeful, infinite. But for Matteo Romano, it all was different.
Matteo sat on the balcony of his Trastevere office and watched the city ebb and flow below him. The distant buzz of Vespas, the patter of pedestrians, the occasional tolling of a church bell — it had all meshed into a symphony he once relished. Now, it was just background noise in his turbulent mind.
Four years.
Four years since the fire that devoured the Caruso estate.
Four years since anyone within these walls said Isla's name.
Over his shoulder, the austere portrait of his late father, Carlo Romano, loomed like a silent sentinel. The artist had captured Carlo's penetrating gaze in a look that seemed to bore into Matteo's very soul. He could nearly hear his father's voice, laced with disappointment and undared expectations.
The burden of leadership had draped heavily upon Matteo's shoulders. Taking control over the Romano empire had been a foregone conclusion, however the way it was done had not been at all the way he had imagined it. The absence of Isla was a void he could not fill, no matter how many deals he cut or enemies he took out.
A gentle knock on the door pulled him from his reverie.
"Come in," Matteo said in a flat voice.
Nico, his trusty no-nonsense assistant, arrived with a tablet. "Sir, the arms dealer is here." Luciana has set up a private meeting."
Matteo arched an eyebrow. "Here?"
"No, sir. At Palazzo Montieri. The private lounge has been booked."
Palazzo Montieri. A study in lavish excess and discretion, its deals struck over well-aged whiskey and the disapproving gaze of centuries-old portraits. Matteo had passed many long nights here, reading the currents of Roman politics and business.
"Very well," he nodded. "Have the car prepared."
As Nico left, Matteo's eyes were drawn to the edge of his desk. Under a pile of papers was a photograph, the edges frayed from years of being handled. He waited before drawing it out.
Isla.
Her smile was luminous that day, a photo taken on a summer vacation to the Amalfi Coast. Her hair was ruffled by the wind and looked mischievous, her eyes were sparkling. A finger skimmed over the image, a pang of longing piercing his heart.
He set the photo face down with a sigh before smoothing his tie. There was no place for sentimentality. Not now.
The ride to Palazzo Montieri had been short but endless. The city's landmarks rushed by, each a vessel that contained memories he wished to forget. Matteo was about to submit to an hour of mingling, and he took a breath as the town car came to a rolling stop under the gargantuan stone entryway.
The doorman acknowledged him with a slight bow, and he wended his way to the private lounge. The room had old-world charm — mahogany paneling, crystal chandeliers and the distant smell of cigars.
A woman stood by the fireplace. She was composed and had this swagger that was at the same time sexy and scary. A fitted black suit clung to her thin frame, her dark hair slicked back in a chignon. The firelight sprawled over her face, throwing shadows that carved out the sharp cuts of her cheekbones and the tufts of her full lips.
She had turned as Matteo neared her, and for a split second he was filled with shock. But it was impossible. Isla was gone.
"Mr. Romano," she said, reaching out a gloved hand. "Elena De Luca. I'm the voice for the Corsican channel."
Her voice was smooth, touched with an accent he couldn't pinpoint. He returned her handshake, noting the strength of her grip.
"Ms. De Luca," he said, acknowledging her. "Luciana has told me great things about you."
She had a slight smile on her lips. "I feel like I'm in a position to over-deliver."
She pointed to the seating area, where a bottle of whiskey stood in a decanter. "Shall we?"
Matteo sat across from her with a nod. She poured them both a measure, the amber fluid catching the light.
"To new partnerships," she said, lifting her glass.
He did the same, the whiskey scorching a path down his throat. "Indeed. What does that Corsican channel deal that others don't?"
"Discretion. Efficiency. And results," she answered without skipping a beat. "We know the sensitive nature of your business, and we can facilitate transactions without attracting unwanted scrutiny."
Matteo looked at her, taking in how she returned his gaze without flinching. There was an intimacy in the way she composed herself that unsettled him.
"You come very highly recommended," he said and put his glass down. "But trust is earned."
"Agreed" Elena leaned forward a little. "Give us a chance to show what we can do. A trial run, perhaps?"
He considered her proposal. There were always risks (in aligning with a new broker), but something about her intrigued him.
"Very well," he conceded. "We will commence with a small shipment. Terms to be discussed."
Her lips curved into a real smile. "You won't be disappointed."
As they worked out the details, Matteo couldn't shake the feeling that he'd met her before. But where?
Back at the Romano estate that evening Matteo stood on the terrace, gazing at the sprawling gardens. The moonlight cast a silvery glow over the meticulously manicured hedges and fountains.
The estate had been a fortress, a tribute to the power and legacy of the Romano family. But inside its walls, Matteo was a prisoner of his own making.
The click of heels on the marble floor heralded Luciana's arrival. She caught up with him, just as commanding as ever.
More about "How did you get on with Ms. De Luca?" she asked, as she lit a cigarette.
"Productive," Matteo said, his eyes glued to the horizon. "She's confident."
Luciana blew a cloud of smoke and smirked, red lips curling. "Being confident is risky."
He turned to face her. "You recommended her."
"I did," she admitted. "But that does not mean that we shouldn't be cautious."
Matteo nodded, feeling the burden of leadership return to his shoulders.
"There's a charity gala tomorrow night," Luciana said at random. "Villa Miani. The Smile Project is presenting."
He raised an eyebrow. "And?"
"The Romanos got an invitation. It's a chance to demonstrate our ongoing sway and… stability."
Public-facing moments became a necessary evil, a means of upholding the appearance of legitimacy. Matteo loathed them.
"Fine," he acquiesced. "Arrange it."
Luciana's eyes sparkled with pleasure. "Excellent. And Ms. De Luca will also be there."
Matteo's interest piqued. "Will she now?"
"Yes," Luciana brushed ash from her cigarette. "It appears our new associate is eager to throw herself into Roman society."
He considered this new development. The gala would be an opportunity to see Elena De Luca again, to solve the puzzle she was.
As Luciana saunter