I finish reviewing the menu. Approve Matteo’scitrus notes. Text Valentina to publish the single-sentence statement and lock down the messaging.
Then I head back to my office to prep for the afternoon. Because pickup is at three thirty. And I promised Ben I’d be there.
And unlike some people, I keep my fucking promises.
25
Jess
I’m standing in a park that’s technically “out of town” but still close enough to Manhattan that I can see the skyline if I squint, and Marco Fiore is explaining survival protocols like we’re about to trek through actual wilderness instead of a manicured nature preserve.
And it’s making me nervous.
Really nervous.
“So the satphone,” Marco’s saying, holding up a chunky device that looks like it survived Y2K. “Pre-programmed with 911, ranger station, and Filepe’s direct line.”
My palms are already sweating. The tree line behind him is making my chest tight and I’m counting breaths without even meaning to. One, two, three. One, two, three.
Focus. I need to focus on something. Anything.
Marco’s hands, for instance. The way they move when he explains things. Very capable hands. Very distracting hands.
Yes. That works.
Ben’s sitting on a picnic table swinging her legs, Frederick clutched in one hand. She’s wearing tiny hiking boots and a slightly puffy vest that makes her look like a very serious, very small mountaineer.
“Why do we need a special phone?” she asks.
“Because regular phones don’t work everywhere,” Marco explains with dad-level patience. “So if we’re ever somewhere without cell service, we can still call for help.”
And okay, here’s the thing about panic management: sometimes you have to work with what you’ve got. And what I’ve got right now is a billionaire in a Henley who’s rolled his sleeves up to reveal those absolutely ridiculous forearms.
But more importantly, staring at those forearms means not staring at the woods pressing in behind us.
My face heats up, though whether from anxiety or attraction at this point, who the hell knows. I busy myself checking the laminated card Filepe printed with all the emergency numbers and GPS coordinates. It’s color-coded and weatherproof because of course it is. Marco doesn’t do anything halfway.
“Okay, let’s practice the call,” Marco says, handing me the satphone. “Pretend something went wrong. What do you say?”
I hold the phone like it might explode. “Uh, ‘Help, we’re lost?’”
His mouth twitches. Almost a smile. “More specific. Name, location, nature of emergency.”
Right. Because in a crisis I’ll definitely remember to be articulate instead of screaming incoherently.
“This is Jessica Riley with Marco Fiore and Benedetta Fiore,” I recite, reading off the card. “We’re at these coordinates.” I rattle off the numbers. “We need immediate assistance for—” I pause. “What’s the emergency in this scenario?”
“Injury,” Marco supplies. “Someone twisted an ankle.”
“We need immediate assistance for an ankle injury. One adult, one child, all moving and able to walk.”
“Good.” He takes the phone back. “Now the gear check.”
He pulls out a ziplock bag from his pack. Inside: three whistles on bright orange lanyards, two cans of bear spray, and the laminated rules card I’m already holding.
When you realize this man has color-coded emergency preparedness like it’s a Michelin kitchen.
“Whistles first,” Marco says, handing one to Ben. “Three short blasts means distress. Practice.”
