We exit the car into the cool Chicago evening. I place my hand at the small of her back as we walk up the stone steps. The doors open before we reach them.
Riccardo Sartori stands in the entrance, commanding even in his own home. His salt-and-pepper hair is perfectly styled, his tailored suit impeccable. Beside him stands Ava, elegant in a deep burgundy dress that complements her olive skin.
"Damiano." Riccardo's voice fills the foyer as he extends his hand. "Welcome to Chicago."
I take his hand, feeling the firm grip of respect between equals. "Riccardo. Good to see you."
"And this must be your bride." His dark eyes turn to Zoe, assessing.
"My wife," I correct, my hand tightening slightly on her waist. "Zoe, this is Riccardo Sartori."
Zoe offers her hand with practiced poise. "A pleasure to meet you, Mr. Sartori."
Riccardo takes her hand, bowing slightly. "The pleasure is mine. And please, call me Riccardo."
Ava steps forward, her warm smile directed at Zoe. "We've been looking forward to meeting you. I'm Ava."
The two women exchange greetings as Riccardo guides us inside. The mansion opens into a grand foyer with marble floors and a crystal chandelier that catches light like scattered diamonds.
I follow Riccardo's stride through his home, acutely aware of Zoe beside me. The living room opens before us—a space of calculated luxury with leather furniture and original artwork adorning the walls. A Caravaggio hangs above the fireplace, its dramatic shadows fitting for a man of Riccardo's standing.
"Please, make yourselves comfortable," Riccardo gestures toward a leather sectional. "What can I offer you? I've acquired an excellent Barolo from Piedmont that would be worth your attention."
"You know me well," I say, settling next to Zoe. My hand finds her hand as we sit, a gesture both possessive and reassuring.
Ava takes a seat across from us, her movements graceful and deliberate. "Damiano, Zoe must have been quite the woman to finally capture the elusive Feretti bachelor."
Zoe shifts slightly beside me. I feel her body tense, then relax.
"Sometimes the right person arrives when you least expect it," I reply, my eyes never leaving Zoe's profile.
Riccardo returns with crystal glasses and pours the deep ruby liquid with practiced precision. "To new alliances," he says, raising his glass.
We touch glasses, the crystal singing softly. The wine coats my tongue—rich, complex, with underlying notes of tobacco and leather.
"I hear the expansion in Queens is proceeding well," Riccardo comments, his tone casual though his eyes remain sharp.
"Steady progress," I reply. "The arrangement has benefits for all involved."
The conversation drifts to safer topics—a new restaurant in Manhattan, the disappointing performance of the Yankees, the merits of various Italian vineyards. Zoe plays her part beautifully, offering intelligent comments and asking appropriate questions. She's a natural, and I find myself watching her more than necessary.
Footsteps sound in the hallway, quick and determined. The door swings open, and Vittoria Sartori enters like a burst of energy. Her short pixie cut frames striking green eyes, and despite her petite frame, she commands attention immediately.
"Sorry I'm late," she says, not sounding particularly apologetic. "Traffic was murder—literally. Someone decided to crash on Michigan Avenue." Her eyes find me, and a smile breaks across her face. "Damiano Feretti. It's been too long."
I stand, and she embraces me with genuine warmth—something rare in our world. "Vittoria. Still causing trouble?"
"Always," she laughs, then turns to Zoe. "And youmust be the woman who finally tamed this one." She extends her hand. "Vittoria Sartori."
Zoe takes her hand with a genuine smile. "Zoe Feretti."
Something in my chest tightens when she says my name so naturally.
The conversation flows around me, but I find myself watching Zoe more than listening to Riccardo's discussion about the new casino legislation.
Riccardo glances at his watch and rises from his seat. "Shall we move to the dining room?"
Ava links her arm through Zoe's. "Come, I want to show you the Monet on our way to dinner."
