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I survey the scene, drinking in the details. The moon hangs low in the inky night sky, obscured by wispy clouds, its pale light barely illuminating the towering stacks of crates and containers. The air is damp with brine, the gentle lap of the dark water against the pier punctuating the low murmurs of conversation between Rafael and the buyer's men. I stand back, silently observing, hands folded behind my back to resist the urge to check my watch. This deal needs to happen on schedule. No delays or complications.
Rafael handles the negotiations, his gruff baritone echoing across the empty space as he confirms quantities and logistics. The buyer is new, an upstart trying to leverage control on the docks, but the subtle tension in Rafael’s shoulders tells me he doesn’t fully trust the man’s intentions. My own muscles tighten in response, senses poised for any sign of deception or threat. It's a necessary caution in our world. Trust can be lethal.
As the talks intensify, the details blurring into white noise, my mind wanders despite my best efforts, returning again and again to thoughts of Clara. Her chestnut waves tumble through my mind, her emerald eyes flickering like a flame, a stark contrast against the cold efficiency of the mission. I imagine her here, on this pier, her petite frame dwarfed by the looming stacks of metal containers, the salty wind whipping through her hair. She would seem lost, so out of place among the posturing criminals and burly henchmen. A lamb among wolves.
The thought makes my chest constrict, a pang of protectiveness surging through me. I tamp it down quickly, irritated at myself for the distraction. This is no time for weakness. I force my focus back to monitoring the proceedings, watching for any subtle cue that things are about to go south. It's a delicate dance, these negotiations. Cool tension simmers beneath polite words and handshakes, violence always a hair's breadth away. Daydreams have no place here.
As the talks conclude with terse agreements and transaction details finalized, I feel my muscles loosen slightly in relief. Another deal completed, our influence cemented. Rafael inclines his head toward the black SUV idling nearby, and I follow without a word, sliding into the backseat while one of our trusted men, Marco, situates himself behind the wheel. Only once the pier lights disappear behind us do I relax fully, rolling the tension from my shoulders with a quiet sigh.
Rafael glances at me, one dark brow arched. "You seem distracted tonight, my friend."
I bristle at his knowing look. Rafael sees too much, despite his thuggish reputation. "It's nothing. Just restless after a long night," I reply dismissively.
He snorts. “Be careful, Antonio. Women are dangerous when power is at stake.”
My hackles rise further at his insinuation. "What makes you think it has to be a woman?" I snap.
His grin widens, white teeth flashing in the passing streetlights. "It's always a woman. I've seen that look before."
I stay silent, jaw clenched, watching the nighttime city lights stream past the window. Rafael is right to be concerned. Attachments are liabilities in our world, where lives often depend on clear heads and harder hearts. But I'll be damned if I confirm his suspicions.
At the sprawling Ricci family mansion, I dismiss Rafael’s offered nightcap and make my way upstairs, the day's fatigue sinking into my bones. But as I pass the formal lounge on my way to my private quarters, a flash of chestnut catches my eye through the open doors. Clara. Awake at this late hour, seated on an antique loveseat near the fireplace with a book in her hands and a tumbler of amber liquid on the table beside her. Scotch, likely pilfered from Father's cabinet to steady her nerves.
I pause, calculating. She hasn't noticed my arrival, too absorbed in her novel. I should turn away, retire for the evening like I intended. Instead, I find myself moving silently into the lounge, sinking into a leather armchair across from her spot at the hearth. The warm firelight plays over her delicate features.
“Evening, Miss Thomas.”
My voice comes out low, nearly a purr. Clara startles violently, the book tumbling from her hands as she presses back against the cushions.
“M-Mr. Ricci. I didn't hear you come in.”
I sweep my gaze over her, taking in the rapid flutter of her pulse at her throat, the way she presses her knees together and folds her arms over her chest. Seeking to hide her trembling. She recovers quickly, though, meeting my gaze with a defiant lift of her chin. My lips twitch in amusement. Such a brave girl.
“Burning the midnight oil?” I ask mildly.
Clara smooths her hands over her lap, regaining her composure. “I couldn’t sleep. This house takes some getting used to.” Her fingers pluck nervously at a loose thread on her jeans.
I nod knowingly. Our lavish home can be intimidating. “I imagine it’s quite an adjustment, being ripped so suddenly from one’s normal life.”
She flushes, dropping her gaze. “I just want to keep my head down until my father’s debts are paid. Then I can...I can go back.” Her voice wavers on the last words, belying the sinking sensation that her old life is gone for good. I feel that strange urge to comfort her again, even knowing it’s foolish sentimentality.
“A wise choice, Miss Thomas. I apologize that your father’s poor decisions have impacted you so severely. Perhaps with time, this situation can reach an equitable resolution.” It’s as close to reassurance as I can offer while maintaining distance. But seeing her shoulders relax slightly eases that persistent ache in my chest.
Clara searches my face for a moment as if gauging my sincerity, then sighs softly. "Thank you, Mr. Ricci. I appreciate your understanding." She reaches again for her fallen book, a 19th century romance novel judging by the cover. I'm curious despite myself.
"What are you reading?" I ask, keeping my tone light.
She looks up, surprise etching her delicate features. But she quickly clears her expression before answering. "Just a novel. Pride and Prejudice." She lifts her glass and swirls the amber liquid, taking a fortifying sip. "Have you read it?"
I shake my head. "I can't say that I have. Reading for pleasure has never been my forte."
Her lips quirk up at that, mischief glinting in her emerald eyes. "Somehow, that doesn't surprise me. It doesn't seem like your usual type." She arches a brow at me, as if analyzing my response. Bolder now.
Intrigued, I lean back and cross one long leg over the other casually. "Oh? And what do you presume to know about my ‘usual type’, Miss Thomas?"
She tilts her head thoughtfully. "Hmm...I imagine business ledgers, news reports, things that relate to expanding your family’s power and reach.” Her gaze sharpens. “Nothing frivolous like novels or poetry.”
I chuckle low in my throat. "You have me pegged already, it seems." I steeple my fingers. "So what makes this particular novel worthy of the late hour?"
