Chapter 19 - The New Head of the Table
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Standing over the groaning, bleeding Camorra boss on the rain-slicked concrete of Pier 90 before the federal vehicles crossed the final hundred yards of the dock, Lucian Bellini lowered the hot barrel of his assault rifle until it rested directly against Raffaele Costa’s cheek, burning a faint crescent into his skin.
"You sent men into my city, bought my father’s accountant, and put your hands on a sixty-eight-year-old professor to get to the woman I love," Lucian said softly in flawless Italian, his voice deadlier than the winter sea. "The feds behind me are going to put you in ADX Florence for the next forty years for Container 410, Raffaele. And if a single soldier from Naples ever crosses the Atlantic with Elena Mercer’s name in his mouth while you’re in that cell, I’ll buy the prison guard on your block and have you drowned in a mop bucket. Blink if you understand me."
Terrified, bleeding, and staring up into the merciless gunmetal eyes of the man who had dismantled his entire American operation in forty-eight hours, Raffaele Costa blinked twice.
Lucian stepped back, handed his rifle to Dante to lock inside the hidden floor compartment of the lead SUV before Agent Miller’s crew arrived, and turned immediately to the back of the ambulance van.
He reached in and pulled Elena out into the light drizzle, his arms wrapping tightly around her over her white lab coat as she buried her face against his shoulder, inhaling the scent of rain, gun smoke, and cedarwood.
The woman I love.
Even in Italian, she had heard every single syllable he had just spoken to Costa.
She tilted her head back to look up at him as the wail of federal sirens filled the pier behind them. "Did you mean what you just said to him in Italian, Mr. Bellini, or do I need a certified translation?"
A slow, devastatingly genuine smile broke across Lucian’s carved features—the first real, unguarded smile she had ever seen on his face.
"I’ll put it in writing on forty-three pages of parchment if you want, tesoro," Lucian murmured, bending his head to kiss her right there in the pouring rain as federal flashing lights painted the gray harbor sky in red and blue.
One month later, the autumn leaves in Central Park had turned a brilliant, fiery gold.
On the thirty-second floor of Bellini Global Logistics, the atmosphere had changed forever. With Arthur Donovan serving twenty-five years in federal prison alongside Count Sabatini and Raffaele Costa, and the Italian government having gratefully awarded Lucian an exclusive, state-backed fifty-year lease on the Genoa and Naples container terminals in exchange for his assistance in breaking up the Camorra smuggling ring, the company’s value had nearly doubled overnight.
Inside Boardroom A, the morning sun poured through the twenty-foot cathedral windows onto the black obsidian table.
Only today, Elena Mercer wasn't standing against the wall in a thrifted blazer holding a silver coffee pot.
Dressed in a bespoke cream silk blouse and charcoal tailored trousers, with her chestnut hair falling in soft waves over her shoulders and a breathtaking emerald-cut diamond ring sparkling on her left hand, she sat in the leather executive chair directly at Lucian’s right hand—her nameplate on the door outside reading DR. ELENA MERCER — VICE PRESIDENT OF EUROPEAN OPERATIONS & CHIEF ARCHIVIST.
At the far end of the table, a new temp from the agency quietly set down a tray of espresso cups.
Elena looked up from a Marseilles shipping contract, caught the nervous young girl’s eye, and gave her a warm, reassuring smile. "Thank you, Chloe. Take your time—and make sure you grab one of the almond croissants from the galley for yourself."
The young temp blinked in surprise, smiled gratefully, and slipped out the door.
Once the heavy oak doors clicked shut, leaving them alone in the sunlit cathedral of glass and marble, Lucian leaned back in his chair, reached across the corner of the obsidian table, and caught Elena’s left hand, running his thumb over the diamond on her finger.
"How was your father’s checkup at Columbia Presbyterian this morning?" Lucian asked softly.
May you like
"The new deep-brain stimulation therapy is working," Elena said, her hazel eyes shining with happiness. "His tremor is down eighty percent—and he asked the dean if he can teach a guest seminar on Renaissance maritime treaties in the spring. He told me to tell you that you’re invited to audit the class, provided you don't bring any bodyguards who snore."
Lucian chuckled low in his throat, pulling her hand to his lips. "Tell the professor I’ll take notes in the front row."
