Chapter 18: "For Security Purposes"
Aren’s final afternoon at the Lombardi Hotel was, luckily, uneventful. She sat in the lobby, Biscuit asleep next to her on the chaise lounge.
The receptionist had already called for her driver. Now, she was only waiting for Isabella.
At four in the afternoon, the lobby was unusually quiet.
Beyond the towering glass windows, Borgata glowed beneath a deep blue sky streaked with the first traces of dusk.
For a moment, everything felt strangely peaceful.
Then—
Ding.
The elevator doors slid open.
Isabella stepped out looking mildly exhausted, dark circles faint beneath her eyes. Yet the moment she spotted Aren, all fatigue instantly vanished.
She crossed the marble floor like a woman marching into war.
"Ahem, my lady."
Aren looked up immediately.
"Oh. Hello, Isabella."
Without preamble, Isabella pointed accusingly at the tiny black backpack sitting beside Aren’s feet.
"Please do not tell me that this is all you’re bringing to the Sartori estate."
Aren glanced down at the bag, then back at Isabella.
"Yes."
A long silence followed.
"...What do you even have in there?"
"Two sweaters. Two pairs of jeans. Two sundresses. My laptop. A notebook. Undergarments."
Isabella closed her eyes.
For one powerful moment, she considered tearing out her own hair in the middle of the hotel lobby.
This was Ariana Lombardi.
The same girl who once required three separate luggage carts for a two-night yacht trip.
The same girl who had packed emergency outfits for potential paparazzi angles.
And now...
Two sweaters.
Isabella inhaled slowly through her nose with the restraint of a saint being tested by God Himself.
’Do not scream at your employer. Do not scream at your employer.’
With tremendous willpower, she forced her attention back to the problem at hand.
"My lady."
She held out a cream-colored envelope trimmed with gold foil.
"This arrived for you earlier this morning. From Chiara Leone."
Aren accepted it with both hands.
Inside sat an elegant invitation written in flowing black ink. The stationery alone looked expensive enough to cover someone’s rent for a month.
Aren’s eyes moved slowly across the page.
"Oh, a luncheon."
She looked up at Isabella, eyes wide with curiosity.
"Will the food be nice?"
Isabella nearly sat down on the floor.
"The food will absolutely be nice," she replied with immense restraint. "There will probably be imported desserts, flower sculptures, gold leaf on everything. Very Chiara Leone."
Her expression then shifted into something far more complicated.
"However, the food is not the issue," she said, every syllable heavy. "Are you seriously considering attending a luncheon hosted by someone who has spent years publicly insulting you?"
Aren tilted her head.
"Is it very bad?"
Isabella stared at her in exhausted disbelief.
’Of course she doesn’t know!’
’I’ve been cleaning up those scandals for years while she was busy taking photos for social media!’
At last, Isabella let out a long, defeated sigh.
"Chiara insults you whenever she gets the opportunity. Interviews. Charity galas. Social media. If there’s an audience, she’ll use it."
Aren listened attentively.
Inside, however,
’...What is social media?’
The term had never entered her vocabulary in either life.
She opened her mouth, fully prepared to ask. Before she could, the receptionist hurried toward them across the lobby.
"My lady, your car has arrived."
Aren nodded and stood. She swung the tiny backpack over one shoulder before turning back toward Isabella.
"Please tell Lady Chiara that I accept the invitation."
Isabella stared at her.
"...You really are going."
"The envelope looks expensive," Aren said, sliding it into her backpack. "I shouldn’t waste her effort."
Then, without warning, she bowed — deep, formal, respectful.
"Thank you very much for taking care of me during my stay here, Isabella. Please continue taking good care of Don Gian while I’m away."
The receptionist froze.
Isabella froze harder.
A sound somewhere between a gasp and a sob escaped Isabella’s throat.
Before Aren could react, she suddenly lunged forward and wrapped her in a fierce hug.
"My lady—!" she choked out, tears already spilling down her face. "You can’t just suddenly become polite and emotionally functional like this! It’s terrifying!"
Aren blinked in startled confusion.
Carefully, she patted Isabella’s back the same way she would comfort a distressed teammate after a difficult mission.
"It’s alright," she said, voice calm. "I’ll still visit."
"That’s not helping!" Isabella wailed.
"I see."
Aren continued patting anyway.
Around them, several hotel employees quietly looked away to hide their expressions. Their eyes were already raw and reddened.
─ •✧• ─ ✿ ─ •✧• ─
A few minutes later, Aren finally stepped outside with Biscuit and the tiny backpack.
The black car waiting at the entrance pulled away smoothly from the Lombardi Hotel, carrying her toward the Sartori estate.
By the time the estate came into view, the sun had already begun sinking behind the distant hills.
Mrs. Pecora awaited them at the grand staircase of the Sartori estate, posture rigid, black uniform immaculate. Two maids stood silently behind her, hands folded neatly in front of their aprons.
Aren stepped out of the car with Biscuit tucked beneath one arm.
"Mrs. Pecora," she greeted, offering the same formal bow she had given during her first visit.
This time, Mrs. Pecora managed not to react to the bow itself. Unfortunately, her composure lasted only until she noticed the backpack.
Her eyes slowly lowered to the tiny black bag hanging from Aren’s shoulder.
Then to the small dog tucked against Aren’s side.
Then back to the backpack again.
Her mind stalled for one second.
’...Where are the rest of the belongings?’
Mrs. Pecora had personally arranged three additional storage rooms in preparation for Ariana Lombardi’s arrival.
Three.
Now, the girl stood there carrying a bag fit for a weekend school trip.
Mrs. Pecora slowly exhaled through her nose, summoning every ounce of professional strength.
"Miss Lombardi," she greeted. "Welcome. Your suite has been prepared in the east wing."
"Thank you," Aren replied with a small smile.
Mrs. Pecora turned and led her through the sprawling estate halls, the two maids following silently behind.
The interior remained just as luxurious as Aren remembered.
Towering ceilings.
Oil paintings framed in gold.
Corridors so massive they could probably house government offices.
Eventually, Mrs. Pecora stopped before a pair of double doors near the end of the eastern wing.
"This will be your suite."
The doors opened onto a room so large it barely resembled a bedroom.
A king-sized canopy bed rested beneath silk curtains.
Tall windows overlooked the gardens beyond the estate grounds.
Every piece of furniture looked handcrafted, polished to perfection, and absurdly expensive.
"This is very beautiful," Aren said.
Mrs. Pecora inclined her head, proud despite herself.
"I’m glad it meets your expectations."
Biscuit immediately trotted onto the carpet, spun in one happy circle, then collapsed onto the floor as though claiming the territory for himself.
Aren, however, remained standing near the doorway.
She turned to Mrs. Pecora, voice hesitant.
"May I ask something?"
"Of course, Miss."
"Why am I located so far away from Don Caio’s domain?"
Mrs. Pecora stiffened.
"...Excuse me?"
Aren grew thoughtful.
"I remember Don Caio’s study and bedroom being located in the west wing. This seems many corridors away."
Mrs. Pecora recovered quickly.
"The Don specifically requested that you stay in the east wing."
"Oh."
Aren considered for a moment.
Then, very politely, she asked,
"Would it be possible to move me closer to his quarters? The closer, the better."
A small realization passed behind Mrs. Pecora’s eyes.
’Ah...’
’So she’s still hopelessly infatuated with the Don.’
Mrs. Pecora folded her hands neatly, expression perfectly neutral.
"This suite was prepared according to Don Caio’s wishes. May I ask why you would prefer another?"
"For security purposes."
Mrs. Pecora froze.
"...Security purposes?"
"Yes." Aren nodded earnestly. "If something dangerous happens to Don Caio, it would be inefficient if I need to cross several sections of the estate to reach him."
Silence swallowed the room.
One of the maids nearly choked.
The other stared at Aren as though trying to determine whether this was devotion or insanity.
Mrs. Pecora somehow maintained her professionalism, through what could only be described as divine intervention.
"...I will inform Don Caio of your concerns."
Aren brightened immediately.
"Thank you very much."
"Dinner is served at eight in the main dining hall," Mrs. Pecora informed stiffly. "Your attendance is expected."
"I understand."
Mrs. Pecora gave one final nod, before turning to leave with the two maids.
The moment the doors shut, she dismissed both maids and immediately reached for her phone.
Her fingers moved rapidly across the screen.
Mrs. Pecora: Sir. Lady Ariana has arrived safely.
Mrs. Pecora: She has requested reassignment to a suite closer to your quarters.
Mrs. Pecora: She stated the request was made "for security purposes."
Mrs. Pecora fully expected the message to remain unanswered for at least an hour.
Instead, her phone began ringing almost immediately.
Ring. Ring.
She stared at the screen for one terrible second.
’Could it be... the Don is the infatuated one?’
She answered the phone at once.
"...Yes, sir?"
