Page 7 of From Italy With Love

I hung up and stared at the phone in my hand. Whatever it takes. Easy words. Harder execution.

I caught the first flight out the next morning.

The Kelley house looked exactly the same as it had two weeks ago. Same imposing, brick façade, same cameras watching the street. But something felt different this time. The air was heavier, charged with the weight of decisions made and consequences pending. I’d spent the drive from the airport rehearsing the arguments in my head, knowing that if Kelley refused, everything I had worked for would unravel. The stakes pressed in on me. I was walking a tightrope, and one misstep could cost us everything.

Marco pulled up to the curb and killed the engine. He looked at me in the rearview mirror, his face tight with concern.

“You want me to wait?” he asked.

“Two hours,” I said. “Same as last time.”

He nodded. We both knew what that meant.

I got out of the car and walked up the steps, checking my surroundings. My palms were slick, nerves on edge as each step brought me closer to the unknown. The front door opened before I reached it. The same guard, the same dead eyes, the same barely concealed shoulder holster.

“Arms out,” he said.

I complied. My heart thudded in my chest, a familiar anxiety rising as I remembered how last time had nearly gone sideways. Every touch of his hands during the pat-down reminded me I was vulnerable here, exposed in more ways than one. His pat-down was thorough, professional, and impersonal. When he was satisfied I wasn’t carrying anything, he stepped back and jerked his head toward the interior.

“He’s waiting.”

I followed him through the house. Same vanilla smell with that rotten undertone. Same expensive furniture and family photographs. Same sense I was walking into a trap with my eyes wide open, but this time, the stakes felt even higher, my thoughts racing with the memory of all that could go wrong.

This time, we didn’t go to Kelley’s office. Instead, the guard led me to an unfamiliar room, a study or library, lined with bookshelves and dominated by a large mahogany table. Kelley sat at the head of the table, a stack of papers in front of him and a pen in his hand. The shift in setting wasn’t lost on me; this was no longer routine. This was a negotiation, or maybe judgment.

He looked up when I entered, and I saw something in his face I hadn’t seen before. Not quite respect, but acknowledgment. I’d called his bluff with the Russian threat, and he knew it.

“Valentinetti,” he said. “Sit.”

I took the chair opposite Kelley, the edge of the mahogany table biting cold against my knuckles. The air in the study was thick with the scent of aged paper and stale cigar smoke. Light from a distant lamp threw warped shadows across the shelves, and somewhere, the muffled tick of a grandfather clock counted down the seconds. The guard stationed himself by the door, boots planted, gaze steady—alert, watching. I focused on the rise and fall of my breath, pulse drumming against my collar, trying to wrestle control over the unease twisting in my gut. Everything hinged on how I played this, and the stakes felt heavier than ever.

Kelley didn’t waste time. His voice was a gravel scrape in the hush. “I talked to Braesal. He’s willing to consider the arrangement. With conditions.”

“What conditions?” My voice strained through the silence.

“Twenty percent, as you offered. The favor’s good for one request. Nothing that puts the O’Malley family in the crosshairs with the Feds or any of the other families.”

I gripped the armrest, the leather slick against my palm. He was locking this down tight. No leeway, no second chances. The calculation ran through my mind: twenty percent was steep, but survivable. One favor only. The real risk was the family. If anything went south with the law, we’d be burned, and he’d have cover to pull the plug. I weighed our options: walk away and lose everything, or take the deal and try to stay one step ahead. Necessity tasted like battery acid. We needed his ports. Simple as that.

“Acceptable,” I said, steadying my tone.

Kelley shifted forward. The chair creaked. His eyes stayed fixed on mine, a predator’s patience. “If your product draws heat—if the Feds so much as sniff at my docks—the deal’s off. No negotiation.” His words were low, heavy, a warning wrapped in threat, breath close enough that I caught the bite of whiskey on it.

I held his stare, pulse hammering. He was daring me to blink, to show even a flicker of doubt. But if I hesitated, Giovanni lost. My nerves screamed for caution, but resolve steadied my reply.

“Agreed,” I said. “On one condition. If it ends, we get thirty days’ notice. We clear our shipments. No one gets exposed.”

Kelley’s jaw tensed. The pen in his fingers stilled. He nodded, a single jerk of his chin. “Thirty days. But if you cross us, if the Feds come or you step out of line, all bets are off.” He leaned in, voice dropping to a distant murmur. “Don’t test the Irish.”

My resolve was iron. I didn’t blink as I replied, “Understood.”

The papers rasped as he slid them across the polished surface. “Contract. Read it. Sign if you mean it.”

I dragged the contract closer. The paper felt rough beneath my fingertips. The words blurred for a moment as my adrenaline cooled. Everything we discussed was there. All careful language, sharp edges hidden in the legalese. The intent was unmistakable. In the hush, every page turn echoed like a shot.

I was halfway through the second page when the door hinges groaned.

I looked up, bracing for trouble. Instead, I saw a woman.