Chapter 3 - An Offer Wrapped in Silk
The Maybach didn't stop at an Italian restaurant in Little Italy or a trendy bistro downtown. It swept into a subterranean garage beneath a discreet limestone tower overlooking Central Park South. A private elevator, keyed exclusively to Matteo’s fingerprint, whisked us directly to the penthouse.
The apartment was vast, minimalist, and breathtaking. Walls of glass framed the shimmering sea of Manhattan lights. Polished herringbone floors led into a dining room where an older woman in a pressed linen apron was setting down covered silver platters.
Before I could take in the art on the walls or the grand piano in the corner, a high-pitched shout broke the quiet.
""Nadia!""
Little Marco came skidding around the marble corner in flannel pajamas with little embroidered airplanes on the chest. He crashed into my legs with the same unreserved force he had shown in the park.
Instinct took over. I dropped to my knees, meeting him at eye level, wrapping my arms around his small shoulders. ""Ciao, piccolo,"" I whispered in Italian, smoothing back his wild curls. ""Look at you. Are you feeling better today?""
Marco nodded vigorously, speaking a mile a minute about his toy trains, how his nurse had made him drink bitter herbal tea, and how he had told his father that the kind lady in the park was an angel who spoke proper Milanese.
Matteo stood a few paces back, watching the interaction in utter silence. There was something raw and unguarded in his eyes as he looked at his son—a father who had peered into the abyss of losing his only child and hadn't yet recovered from the view.
""Marco,"" Matteo said gently, stepping forward. ""Time for bed. You promised Mrs. Rossi you would sleep if Nadia came to say goodnight.""
Marco pouted, his lower lip protruding, but he didn't argue. He leaned up, kissed both my cheeks in the European fashion, and allowed the older housekeeper to lead him down the wide corridor toward the nursery wing.
Once the boy was gone, the penthouse felt impossibly large again.
""Sit,"" Matteo said, gesturing to the dining table.
I sat down. The dinner was roasted branzino with lemon and wild herbs, accompanied by fresh focaccia that smelled like heaven. For a girl who had lived on instant noodles and stale bagels for six months, the food was intoxicating, but I could barely take two bites.
""You said someone saw my face,"" I said, putting my fork down. ""Are they watching me?""
""They were,"" Matteo answered, pouring a glass of deep red Barolo into a crystal goblet. He didn't offer me wine; he gave me sparkling water with lime. ""My men caught two associates of the Moretti family staking out your apartment building in Queens yesterday afternoon.""
My breath caught in my throat. ""The Morettis?""
""A rival faction from Naples that believes they can seize control of my shipping lines if they destabilize my household,"" Matteo said bluntly. ""They saw you hold Marco. They saw my elite security team surround you with deference. To them, you are not a random Good Samaritan who happened to study Italian at NYU. To them, you are an asset. A woman close to Matteo Ferrante. A weak point.""
""I don't know you!"" I protested, my voice rising. ""I work forty hours a week pulling espresso shots! I have student debt and a landlord who threatens to evict me every month! I have nothing to do with your family or your wars!""
""I know,"" Matteo said softly. His eyes locked onto mine, completely unshaken by my outburst. ""Which is why I am giving you a choice, Miss Bloom. I can give you fifty thousand dollars in cash tonight and put you on a flight to Seattle or Austin. You can change your name, start a new life, and hope the Morettis don't trace your social security number.""
""Or?"" I asked, terrified of the alternative.
""Or you move in here,"" Matteo said calmly. ""You become Marco’s private tutor and companion. You live behind bulletproof glass and twenty-four-hour armed protection. You receive twenty thousand dollars a month, full medical coverage, and the complete, unconditional protection of the Ferrante name.""
May you like
""You want me to become your son's governess?""
""I want you alive,"" Matteo said, his voice dropping to a gravelly, intimate register. ""And for reasons I cannot explain, my son hasn't slept through the night without screaming since his mother died three years ago—until you held his hand in Bryant Park.""
