DELUCA

NINE

"Andreas?"

The voice pulled him from the fog of his thoughts, and he turned to see Jemma standing at the bar's entrance.

She was dressed oddly conservatively for someone of her reputation, though the low-cut blouse still teased at her cleavage, as was her signature.

Despite the formal attire—a silk blouse tucked into tailored slacks—she still exuded the provocative allure she was known for.

For a moment, Jemma looked unsure, as if she hadn't expected him to remember her. Snapping out of his surprise, Andreas rose from his stool, his usual confident grin plastered on his face.

"Jemma," he greeted, leaning in for a half-hearted hug that barely touched her. "Good to see you."

Jemma's smile was thin, like a snake's. She didn't sit, hovering instead, her hands clutching an expensive handbag, a shimmering symbol of her status.

"I should have known I'd run into you here. This is your spot, yes?" she asked, her tone casual but with a hint of something more—an undercurrent of knowing.

Jemma had always been more entangled with the DeLucas than most realized, whispering in ears and playing games behind the scenes.

Andreas shrugged, holding up his glass of whiskey as though it were an extension of himself.

"Every night," he said. His voice was gruff, the words half-hearted. He didn't have the energy for pleasantries with Jemma.

His eyes scanned her face, noticing she hadn't moved to sit down, maintaining a poised and calculated distance.

Jemma quickly ordered her drink, her eyes darting around the room as she spoke.

"I'm here with friends tonight. Just moved back to the city." She gestured over to a group of women at a distant table, all equally glamorous and detached.

"Bought an apartment near my father in Florence."

"Oh really?" Andreas said, trying his best to sound interested but failing.

Small talk bored him to death, especially with people like Jemma, who spoke more for appearances than actual conversation.

He took another sip of his whiskey, barely able to suppress a sigh.

"Yeah, figured it was time for a change. I thought you'd be busy helping with the wedding." Jemma's gaze flicked towards him, eyes gleaming with curiosity.

"I always imagined you'd be the first one to settle down."

Andreas felt a pang of something cold in his chest at her words. His lips curled in a bitter smirk.

"I'm the only one who actually bothered to fall in love," he shot back, unable to keep the resentment out of his voice.

These days, bitterness was his closest companion.

Jemma's smile didn't waver, but her eyes narrowed slightly, as though she were trying to decode his meaning.

Before she could dig deeper, a short, disheveled-looking woman appeared at Andreas' side. She was clutching two glasses, her bangs messy and her demeanor jittery, like a rabbit lost in a wolf's den.

"Excuse me," the woman stammered, glancing nervously between Andreas and Jemma.

"I was told you provide... tourist incentives?"

The tension shifted in an instant. Andreas' sharp instincts kicked in, reading the woman for what she was—an opportunity.

Jemma, sensing she was no longer needed, smirked, tossing back the last of her drink.

"Well, it was nice seeing you, Andreas," she said, her voice laced with amusement as she turned on her heel.

Andreas caught the mocking glint in her eyes as she walked away, no doubt enjoying the unease in the stranger's voice.

Andreas returned his attention to the nervous woman in front of him.

"What kind of incentives are you looking for?" he asked, his voice smooth, though his thoughts had already drifted to the transaction ahead.

"We want to... have a long night of partying," she whispered, glancing around as if every shadow in the bar held a pair of watching eyes.

"Estasi?" he asked, his tone casual as if discussing the weather.

The woman's reaction was instant and loud. "No! Ew, no." She shook her head vigorously, her eyes widening in exaggerated horror, before lowering her voice to a whisper again. "No."

Despite himself, Andreas almost chuckled. He nodded, understanding.

He had dealt with enough of these types to know when they wanted to appear innocent while indulging in their vices.

Without another word, he motioned for her to follow him, leaving the club and heading out into the cool night air.

His car was parked two streets away, nestled in a shadowed corner.

He never carried anything on him when dealing with strangers—one could never be too careful, especially in a business where the wrong step could land you in handcuffs, or worse.

As they walked, the woman grew noticeably more anxious, her footsteps faltering.

"Should I be worried?" she asked suddenly, her voice higher than before. "You're not like... a killer or something, right?"

Andreas froze for a split second, the word "killer" hitting him harder than it should have.

His mind flashed back to the man from the night before, the innocent bystander who had bled out because of Andreas' greed. The guilt gnawed at him, a dark presence lurking in the corners of his mind.

But he pushed it down, locking the regret away. Not now. Not here.

"Just keep your wits about you," Andreas replied, his tone more clipped than before. "People out here can be evil, but not me." The words felt hollow, more of a reassurance to himself than to her.

They reached his car, and he popped open the trunk, pulling out the small plastic bags the woman was after.

She stood nervously by the curb, eyes flickering to the shadows, clutching a stack of bills in her hand—far too much for what she was buying. Andreas grunted his approval as she handed over the money.

"Thank you," she chirped, her voice almost cheery as she scurried off, disappearing into the night.

Andreas turned back to his car, ready to lock up when the sudden wail of sirens filled the air. The blue and red lights flickered ominously, cutting through the night like a blade.

Panic surged through him as he realized what had happened. His blood went cold. No. Not now.

Without a second thought, Andreas turned and bolted into the dark streets. He could hear the shouts behind him, the heavy footsteps of officers closing in.

"Polizia! Fermare!" they yelled, but Andreas didn't slow.

His mind raced, calculating every possible escape route.

He turned down an alley, his heart pounding in his chest as he leaped for the fence halfway down.

His hands caught the barbed wire, the metal slicing into his palms as he hauled himself over, gritting his teeth against the pain.

Behind him, he heard the curses of the officers as they stopped, unwilling to follow him over the dangerous barrier.

For a brief, fleeting moment, he thought he might have gotten away. But when he reached the other end of the alley, hope died as fast as it had come.

Police cars lined the street, their lights flashing like a death sentence. At the front of the group stood a familiar figure.

The short, disheveled woman was gone, replaced by a stern, formidable officer with blonde hair pulled into a tight ponytail, her glasses discarded, her stance rigid. In her hands was a gun, aimed directly at Andreas.

He froze, his mind blank with realization. There was no way out.

No escape.

"Mi arrendo," Andreas called out, his voice barely audible over the chaos.

I surrender.

The words tasted like ash on his tongue.

Eleanor couldn't decide which was worse: the throbbing in her skull from last night's hangover or the suffocating tension in the air as she sat in the silent dressing room with Cara DeLuca.

The older woman sat across from her, perfectly poised in her designer suit, her back impossibly straight, her legs crossed at the ankle.

The cool, disapproving aura she radiated made the small room feel even smaller.

Since Eleanor had arrived at the DeLuca estate, Cara—Francesco's formidable mother—had kept a calculated distance from her.

Busy, always busy with the wedding preparations... Eleanor's wedding, a fact Cara had not approved of from the beginning.

It was no secret to anyone that the matriarch disapproved of Eleanor, but until now, the woman had remained aloof, letting others handle the finer details.

Today, though, with Giselle wrapped up in last-minute arrangements and the other family members mysteriously absent, Eleanor had found herself with no other company but Cara. It was an uncomfortable fate that had led them both to this boutique.

When Eleanor had found Cara alone in the kitchen earlier that morning, something in her had snapped—she had seen an opportunity, or perhaps desperation had taken over. She had invited Cara along, hoping that spending time together might thaw the icy barrier between them.

"Yes," Cara had replied when Eleanor extended the invitation, barely sparing her a glance. Her coldness hadn't dissipated since.

Now, Eleanor stood in the dressing room, stepping into yet another gown, feeling more like a mannequin than a bride.

The dress—an elaborate concoction of lace and silk—was the seventh one she had tried that morning. Each time she had stepped out from behind the curtains, nervously waiting for Cara's approval, it had been the same.

A dismissive wave of the hand, a clipped "No," and Eleanor would be sent back to try on the next dress.

This time was no different.

As Eleanor stepped forward, her heart sinking as the too-long hem of the gown dragged across the floor, she didn't even bother looking into the mirror.

Instead, her eyes darted to Cara, hoping for a change in expression—anything to suggest a hint of approval. For a brief moment, Eleanor thought she saw something flicker in the woman's eyes, a glimmer of—what was it, admiration? But it was gone in a blink.

"No," Cara said yet again, standing briefly to touch the fabric with disinterest before returning to her seat as if she were a queen upon her throne.

Eleanor suppressed the urge to roll her eyes. It seemed that Cara was determined to make her try on every single dress in the boutique, even if it took all day. The poor assistant helping them was visibly worn out, her polite smile faltering more and more with each rejection.

"Is there a specific look you're aiming for?" the assistant asked carefully, her voice strained with polite desperation.

"A wedding gown," Cara replied, her thick accent laced with sarcasm. It was the kind of response that left no room for further questioning, and it had the assistant scurrying back to fetch another dress.

Bitch.

Eleanor watched as the assistant darted away, feeling a stab of pity for the girl. She was caught in the crossfire of a battle she hadn't signed up for.

When the assistant looked at Eleanor, it was with a silent plea for help, but Eleanor felt equally powerless. It didn't matter what she wore—Cara would hate it.

This entire ordeal seemed like some sort of drawn-out punishment, a slow, meticulous torment to remind Eleanor that, in Cara's eyes, she didn't belong.

"Could you give us a moment, please?" Eleanor asked, her voice tight with forced calm. The assistant nodded gratefully, disappearing behind the curtains that separated the dressing room from the main floor.

The room fell into an uncomfortable silence, the tension thick enough to cut with a knife. Cara, perched like a bird of prey, lowered her reading glasses, glancing at Eleanor with expectant eyes.

It was clear she was waiting for something—perhaps a confrontation, perhaps a surrender. Eleanor wasn't sure which.

Gathering her courage, Eleanor took a deep breath. She had been rehearsing what to say all morning, and now was the moment to speak her piece.

"Look," Eleanor began, her voice surprisingly steady despite the nerves knotting her stomach. "I know that your issue with these dresses isn't really about the style. It's about me, right?"

Cara's expression didn't change. She merely raised an eyebrow, waiting.

Eleanor pressed on, undeterred by the lack of response. "Francesco and I are getting married in three days. I know you don't know me, and I know I'm not what you had in mind for him, but... I want us to get to know each other. I'm not perfect, and I'm sure I've made mistakes, but I'm not like the others."

Cara's gaze remained unyielding, but she placed her magazine down on the table, crossing her arms as if granting Eleanor permission to continue.

"I'm not here to replace anyone," Eleanor said, her voice softer now. "I know about Francesco's ex, and I understand how much she hurt him. But I'm not her. I'm not here to take anything away from him—or from you. I just want... I just want us to get along. My mother's across the world, and you're the closest thing I have to family right now. I don't want us to be at odds."

For the first time since they'd sat down, Cara shifted. She patted the space next to her on the velvet bench, a silent invitation for Eleanor to join her.

Surprised, Eleanor carefully made her way over, trying not to trip on the gown as she sat.

Cara's voice, when she spoke, was low and deliberate. "Do you have children, Eleanor?"

The question caught Eleanor off guard. "No," she replied, shaking her head.

Cara nodded slowly, as if that one word had answered a thousand unspoken questions. "Then you don't know the love of a mother," she said. "But one day, you will. When I had Giuseppe, I was a newlywed—married only because I was pregnant. It was a loveless marriage, and in my sorrow, I was not the best mother."

Eleanor listened intently, unsure where this conversation was headed but too invested to interrupt.

"But over time," Cara continued, her voice softening with a hint of nostalgia, "I began to fall in love with their father. God, in His mercy, brought me Francesco as if to apologize for the hardships I endured with Giuseppe. Francesco was my blessing—my light. I remember his first steps, his first cry. Every dream he ever had, I made sure to carve into reality for him."

Cara's eyes grew distant, her gaze fixed on a point somewhere beyond the room. "And then, one day, a woman came along. A woman who was sweet, charming, like you. She nearly destroyed my son. Francesco, who never complained, who did everything I asked of him. And this woman, someone like you, almost ruined him."

Eleanor stiffened. "I am not like Jemma," she said, her voice firmer than before. She refused to be lumped into the same category as Francesco's notorious ex.

Cara's eyes snapped back to Eleanor, cold and sharp. "Do not interrupt me, child." The words were as cutting as a slap.

"The woman was not Jemma. Women like Jemma are obvious in their deceit. No, this woman was like you. She played innocent, acted like she didn't care about the money, about the lifestyle. But she did. And Francesco... he fell for it."

Eleanor clenched her jaw, biting back the retort that was burning on her tongue.

Cara's lips curled in something that might have been a smile, but it didn't reach her eyes. "I've heard about you, Eleanor. You drink too much. You let my son leave his home in the middle of the night to care for you. You're already wrapping your hands around him, pulling him closer, making him responsible for your mistakes."

"I—" Eleanor started, but Cara raised a hand, silencing her once again.

"I have no desire to get to know you, Eleanor," Cara said coolly, standing and straightening her designer skirt. "I'm here to pick up the pieces when you decide this game is too much for you." She turned on her heel, heading for the door. "Now, change out of that dress. I'm ready to go home."

Eleanor sat in stunned silence, the weight of Cara's words hanging heavy in the air long after the door closed behind her.