Maybe that nightmare shook him, because the next morning, he didn't let me out of his sight. He insisted on driving me himself, the armored sedan pulling out of the compound gates with a trail car following, like he was afraid I'd disappear the moment he blinked.
The moment we stepped into Marcello's office at the Castellano headquarters, I froze. His entire desk was covered in pictures of me. Different angles, different days, some I didn't even know he'd taken. They were arranged with an almost ritualistic precision, fanned across the dark mahogany like surveillance photos pinned to a war board, except every single one was of his wife.
I felt a chill run through me. Before I could say anything, I felt him behind me. His arms slid around my waist, his lips brushing my neck.
"Arianna," he whispered, voice low and smooth, "a lot of women throw themselves at me. But when I look at these, I remember who I belong to. You don't have to worry. I'm all yours."
I kept my eyes on the pictures, my lips pressed tight. I couldn't bring myself to answer. The room smelled of his cologne and old leather, and somewhere beyond the heavy office door, I could hear the muffled rhythm of the building, soldiers and associates and accountants keeping the Castellano machine running. None of them knew what their Don's desk looked like. None of them would have believed it.
A knock came at the door. Mateo's voice followed. "Boss, the sit-down's about to start."
Marcello sighed, reluctant, and held me a moment longer before letting go. "Stay here, baby. Walk around, make yourself comfortable. I'll be back soon."
I nodded, though my chest was heavy. The last thing I wanted was to sit in his office surrounded by my own face. So I wandered. Floor after floor, pretending to look, pretending to care. Past the legitimate offices that laundered the Family's reputation, past conference rooms where men in expensive suits discussed shipping routes that never appeared on any manifest.
By noon, my phone buzzed. I picked it up quickly, my heart racing when I saw the caller ID.
"Ms. Arianna Cooper," the woman said politely, "your application for immigration has been approved. Please come to the consulate to collect your visa."
I opened my mouth to answer, but a voice I knew too well cut in from behind me.
"Visa?"
My blood ran cold.