Chapter 9: "Old Agreement"
Aren’s posture remained perfectly calm.
Inside, she was panicking.
’Old agreement?!’
She had scoured every message, note, and photo on the phone. There was nothing about any private deal between the original Ariana and Caio Sartori.
"Um... would you mind reminding me which agreement that was? I’m sure I’ve made quite a few..."
Caio’s eyes narrowed, tracking the slight shift in her expression with growing irritation.
"I provide you with supply for your own entertainment. In return, you entertain me. Whenever I demand it."
"...Entertain?" Aren echoed.
Concern hit her like a system error.
She could kill, eliminate, protect. Fire a missile. Snipe a target from a mile out. Distribute food rations to every staff member in the entire estate before anyone even realized they were hungry.
Entertaining people was not exactly part of her skillset.
"Entertainment of... what sort?"
Caio’s brow drew even tighter.
The girl used to throw herself at him. Now she was making him spell it out.
"The intimate sort," he said bluntly.
Aren tilted her head, face thoughtful as she tried to process his cryptic words.
’...Intimate?’
"Ah, you mean... You would like me to check your room for threats before you sleep? To stay close? Sit near you at events so you don’t feel vulnerable?"
She paused, trying to be thorough.
"Do you need emotional support as well? Or mainly company? I can also make tea."
Caio stared at her.
He searched for a smirk, a coy wink, any trace of mockery. He only found the earnest worry of someone treating his safety like a serious mission.
"Something like that," he said at last, voice thin.
Aren smiled, visibly relieved.
"Oh. That is not difficult at all."
As her pen started moving again, a new concern hit her. Her gaze wandered to the sharp lines of Caio’s face, and the way his expensive shirt hung a little loosely off his frame.
"Do you eat properly?" she asked. "I have read that people under sustained threat sometimes forget to eat. You look a little... thin. Under the jacket."
The silence that followed was deafening.
For as long as Caio Sartori had been alive, he couldn’t recall ever having been told that he looked thin. And certainly, no one had ever wondered if the man who controlled the city’s narcotics trade had eaten enough meals.
"I eat fine," Caio said, in the quietest tone he had ever used in his life.
"I see." Aren wrote in her notebook: Remind client about meals.
Satisfied that the negotiation was complete, she stood and walked over to his desk with a small smile.
"If that is everything, I won’t waste more of your time. I’ll finish discussions with the other Houses and inform you if any terms conflict."
She extended her hand toward him, formal and expectant.
Caio stared at the small, pale hand.
The floor felt like it had tilted forty-five degrees. At last, he stood and walked around the desk, coming to stand before her.
Aren’s smile grew warmer the closer he approached. When his hand finally shot out and gripped hers, she gave it a gentle, reassuring squeeze.
She let go.
Caio didn’t let go.
She tried to pull back gently.
Caio still didn’t let go. His grip was like a vise, his knuckles turning white.
Aren’s head tilted all the way backward as she looked up at him, the polite smile fading from her face. When she met his gaze, the blue of his eyes had cooled into a terrifying ice.
With a violent pull, he yanked her forward across the space between them.
Biscuit gave a startled yelp as Aren stumbled against the desk, the wood striking the back of her thighs.
Her notebook slid sideways.
Her second wrist was caught.
Caio pinned both of her hands above her head in one crushing grip. His other hand braced against the desk beside her as he leaned down until only inches separated them.
"What sort of game are you playing, Ariana Lombardi?"
Aren blinked twice, visibly confused.
"Eh?"
Caio’s jaw only tightened further.
"Don’t pretend you forgot!"
His voice dropped dangerously.
"This desk. That couch. The balcony outside. You used to beg me not to stop."
Aren’s brain stalled completely.
’Beg him not to stop what?’
Her eyes darted frantically toward the balcony.
’Reconnaissance? Surveillance? Secret meetings? Was there a helicopter on the balcony?’
She looked back at him, utterly bewildered.
"Wha— what do you mean?"
That answer only made something in Caio flared hotter. His instinct screamed at him that this wasn’t Ariana Lombardi, but some impossible double.
He searched her features — it was the same nose, same lips, same jaw.
He checked the skin on her neck — the bruises he had left just a day ago were still there, fading to a dull yellow-green.
His stomach twisted sharply.
’This is truly Ariana’, his mind insisted.
Yet when he looked into her eyes, there was no seduction there. No recognition of the intimacy he was throwing in her face.
Only growing concern.
"...Don Caio?" Aren asked carefully. "Are you unwell?"
The words hit Caio like multiple slaps.
His grip loosened instantly. He pulled her upright, fingers trembling as he reached out to adjust the collar of her sweater, pulling it back over her shoulder.
"My apologies," he said, voice rough. "I... overstepped."
He turned away abruptly, shielding his face with one hand.
His cheeks were burning with a hot, unfamiliar shame. Though he wasn’t sure if it was visible, he couldn’t let her see even a hint of it.
Aren rubbed her wrists, assessing his state.
’High stress. Sleep deprivation. Unresolved grief. Possible hypervigilance.’
"It’s... okay," she said softly. "People under active threats can get jumpy. I understand."
Caio shut both eyes completely.
What she said only made it worse.
"You can leave now," he said, voice flat again. "Mrs. Pecora will escort you out."
Aren nodded immediately.
"Of course, I will contact you once I finish reviewing the other contracts."
She bent to retrieve Biscuit, who was now staring at Caio with open distrust, and headed toward the door.
The heavy oak closed behind her with a soft click.
Caio remained motionless for several seconds after she was gone. Then he sank into his chair and pulled open the top drawer.
He took out a small piece of paper and stared at it.
Hi Mister,
I am very sorry for using your scissors without asking. They are very sharp and good. Thank you.
— A., the note said.
It had been left on the vanity of his bedroom, written in a neat handwriting he couldn’t recognize.
Caio read it twice.
Then a fourth time.
He’d already memorized every word.
A few minutes later, the silence of the study was interrupted by a knock at the door.
"Boss, it’s Leo."
Caio immediately slipped the note back into the drawer and shut it.
"What."
"There’s a new request from House Leone."
Irritation crossed Caio’s face. His head tipped back against the chair for a second before he spoke again.
"Come in."
The door opened.
Leo entered with the calm caution of a man who had worked for Caio long enough to recognize dangerous moods on sight. He was older by several years, with light brown hair streaked faintly at the temples.
Unlike most men in House Sartori, Leo carried himself without fear or bravado.
Only infinite patience.
He closed the door quietly behind and inclined his head.
"House Leone has extended interest in placing a major order."
Caio’s brow instantly furrowed.
"And this required my personal attention because?"
"There is a complication." Leo spoke carefully, already aware the timing was terrible. "Lady Chiara requested a private meeting with you personally. A dinner arrangement."
Caio’s expression turned visibly colder.
"And?"
"She claims the order will not proceed otherwise."
"Turn her down."
Leo blinked once.
"Boss, the volume she’s requesting is unprecedented."
"Must I repeat myself?"
The room chilled several degrees.
Caio leaned back in his chair, eyes sharp with annoyance.
"House Leone traffics labor. We make drugs. There is no operational overlap requiring my presence. Chiara Leone is wasting my time."
Leo inclined his head without protest. He already understood the reasoning; everyone in House Sartori did.
If this had been House Lombardi, the situation would be different. They possessed hotels, clubs, and distribution infrastructure — assets that actively benefited House Sartori’s operations.
Chiara Leone’s request carried no strategic necessity. Only personal interest.
Still, something else lingered in Leo’s thoughts.
"I saw Lady Ariana leaving the estate just now," he said cautiously. "You truly intend to use her as part of your security detail?"
"She’s not Ariana."
Leo’s brows shifted slightly.
He understood exactly what Caio meant. He had also attended the Summit.
"...She has changed," Leo admitted.
Caio gave a short, humorless laugh.
"That is one way to describe it."
His gaze drifted briefly toward the closed drawer. Then, his expression hardened again.
"Investigate her. Whatever happened to Ariana Lombardi, I want answers."
Leo nodded at once.
"Already underway."
