Chapter3
1098 Words
The elevator to DeLuca Holdings smelled like money.
Not the kind carried in worn leather wallets or crumpled in coat pockets—but the sterile, polished scent of generational wealth. Steel and citrus, ambition and threat. Elena smoothed her dark gray blazer and tried not to fidget as the floor numbers ticked upward like a slow countdown to her execution.
She didn’t want to be here. Every fiber of her told her to turn around, to run back to her studio and find another way to fight the eviction. A petition, a protest, legal aid—anything but this.
But pride didn’t keep the lights on. And it certainly didn’t pay lawyers.
The elevator chimed, and the doors slid open to reveal a lobby bathed in white marble and brutal efficiency. A receptionist with impossibly high cheekbones looked up from her desk, her expression practiced and unreadable.
“Elena Rossi,” Elena said, voice even. “I have a 10 a.m. appointment with Mr. DeLuca.”
The woman checked her screen, then nodded. “He’ll see you now. Last office on the left.”
Elena crossed the hallway, her heels clicking against the glossy floor. Her pulse quickened with every step. She tried to prepare herself—for what he might look like now, how he might speak, the possibility that he might not recognize her at all. It had been ten years. People changed.
She paused outside the door for a brief moment, gathering herself.
Then she knocked twice.
“Come in.”
The voice that answered was smooth, clipped—American now, though still tinged with something Mediterranean underneath. It sent a shiver up her spine.
She pushed the door open.
Luca DeLuca stood behind a sleek, black desk, backlit by a wall of glass overlooking Lower Manhattan. He was taller than she remembered, broader. His navy suit was tailored to brutal perfection, his jaw clean-shaven, his dark hair trimmed short at the sides but thick on top.
And he was devastatingly, infuriatingly, exactly as handsome as he'd been at twenty-one—except now, the boy was gone. Only the man remained.
He looked up from a folder, eyes flicking over her in a quick, impersonal sweep. No recognition. Not even a flicker.
“Elena Rossi?”
She nodded once. “Yes. Thank you for seeing me.”
He gestured to the seat across from him. “You’ve requested a meeting regarding the Mercer Street acquisition.”
“I have,” she said, sitting upright, her tone carefully neutral. “I’ve been operating my studio out of 143B for nearly ten years. I understand that you’ve acquired the property, but I’d like to discuss the possibility of a lease extension.”
Luca leaned back in his chair, fingers steepled. “The building will be undergoing complete demolition and redevelopment starting early next year. We’ve already notified all tenants with the standard sixty-day vacate notice.”
“I received it,” she said. “Which is why I’m here. My studio specializes in museum-grade restoration. I have over twenty antique works in process—some dating back to the Renaissance. Relocating on such short notice risks damaging the art. Not to mention my business has deep roots in that community.”
Luca’s eyes narrowed slightly, but not with recognition—only calculation.
“You’re a restorer?” he asked, with mild curiosity.
“Yes,” she said. “My clients include private collectors, museums, and historical institutions. I’m not asking for permanent exemption. Just six more months.”
He opened a drawer and pulled out a thin dossier. He flipped through the pages as he spoke.
“I’m familiar with your work. The Haverford Collection restoration—impressive detail. You revived the Montagna crucifixion panels when everyone else had written them off as irreparable.”
Elena blinked. “You’ve done your homework.”
“I do my homework on anyone occupying my real estate,” he replied without irony. “Especially tenants who request exceptions.”
She sat straighter, surprised by the flicker of respect in his tone. But she reminded herself that Luca DeLuca didn’t respect people. He valued assets.
“Then you know,” she said, “this isn’t just about sentiment. It’s about protecting irreplaceable pieces of history. I’m offering to continue paying full rent, even accept a rent increase, if you’ll allow me to remain for six more months.”
He studied her in silence for a long beat. It made her skin crawl—not because of discomfort, but because she still remembered what it felt like to be under that gaze when it had once been filled with wonder, with affection.
Now, it was a cold calculation.
“I appreciate your professionalism,” he said finally. “But the Mercer project is already behind schedule. Granting extensions sets a precedent we can’t afford. The timeline is not negotiable.”
Her throat tightened. “So that’s it? You’re uprooting ten years of work without even considering compromise?”
Luca’s expression didn’t change. “It’s not personal, Ms. Rossi. It’s business.”
She stood, too quickly. “Is that what you tell yourself so you can sleep at night?”
He arched a brow, surprised by her tone. “Excuse me?”
“You may not remember me,” she said, voice rising ever so slightly, “but I remember you. And I remember when you used to care about more than just profit margins and demolition permits.”
A pause.
Something flickered in his eyes then—something old, buried. A shadow of memory trying to claw its way to the surface.
“Elena…” he said slowly. “Have we met before?”
She froze.
This was it. The moment of recognition. Or at least the edge of it.
But her instincts screamed at her to shut it down. Not yet. Not like this. Not when her dignity was still bleeding out across his cold marble floor.
“No,” she said quietly. “We haven’t.”
He watched her carefully, but she kept her expression neutral.
“Then I must’ve confused you with someone else,” he said, too smoothly. “In any case, my position remains the same.”
She nodded stiffly. “Of course it does.”
Elena turned and walked to the door.
But before she left, she paused—hand on the handle, back straight.
“For what it’s worth, Mr. DeLuca, I hope someday you rememb
er what it feels like to create something… instead of just tearing things down.”
Then she walked out.
- Writer
