Turning The Page
Bowling alleys weren’t typically Diamond’s scene—something about the smell of shoe spray, old nacho cheese, and overcompensating men in sleeveless hoodies. But tonight? She could get used to this. Especially with Adriano Greco strutting up to the lane like it was a goddamn catwalk.
“You ever actually played this before?” she asked, arms folded, hip cocked, watching him like a hawk as he wiggled his fingers over a shiny green bowling ball.
Adriano turned to her with that smirk—the one that meant trouble or orgasms, depending on context. “Bella, I’m Italian. We practically invented the ball.”
“That’s not even remotely true,” she deadpanned.
“Prove it.” He winked and spun back around.
He lined up, shifted like he was about to tango with the lane, and hurled the ball with zero aim. It veered left, bounced off the gutter, and made the saddest little clunk at the end.
Diamond clapped slowly. “Bravo. Michelangelo would be proud.”
“That was practice,” Adriano said with way too much confidence. “Didn’t want to humiliate you off the bat.”
“Uh huh. Just like your dad didn’t want to ‘humiliate you off the bat’ when he handed your empire to your big bro, huh?”
Adriano froze halfway into picking up a fresh ball. He looked over his shoulder, mouth twitching. “Wow. Right to the trauma, huh?”
Diamond laughed and walked up beside him. “Come on, Scarface. Let me show you how it’s done.”
She picked up a lighter ball, took a couple of casual steps, and released. It rolled straight and smooth down the lane and knocked over seven pins.
“Oh damn!” she grinned. “That’s what we call stripper precision. Years of heel balance, baby.”
Adriano laughed . “I’m sorry. Did you say years of… ‘heel balance?’ Diamond you were a stripper for less than a day.”
“But I still got better core strength than you’ll ever have,” she said, poking his stomach. “I could crush a watermelon with these thighs.”
“I accept the challenge,” he said too fast.
She narrowed her eyes. “Not what I meant.”
“Too late. It’s already a fantasy now.”
They went back and forth for three full rounds. Adriano got marginally better after dropping a ball on his own foot and blaming “American weight distribution.” Diamond cackled every time he missed, which only made him more determined to win, which made him worse.
By the end, they were sweaty, laughing, and not paying attention to the final scores—which Adriano would’ve claimed were rigged anyway.
They ended up at a 24-hour diner with plastic red booths and a grumpy waitress named Janet who had zero time for Adriano’s flirting and threatened to spit in his coffee.
“She loves me,” he whispered after Janet walked off. “She’s just playing hard to get.”
“She’s also married and probably carries a taser,” Diamond replied, sipping her milkshake. “So maybe tone it down, Casanova.”
They shared fries, chicken tenders, and a grilled cheese sandwich that Adriano swore was better than sex. Diamond challenged that, of course. The debate escalated until he asked if she wanted a side of “proof,” which earned him a ketchup packet thrown at his forehead.
But as the food dwindled and the diner emptied, the atmosphere shifted. The laughter faded into silence, and Diamond noticed Adriano staring at his coffee like it held all the answers.
She leaned her cheek into her hand. “So… what now?”
He looked up slowly.
“I mean, your dad basically told you to fuck off. Your brother took over your operation. You’re still here, but…” she paused. “What are you gonna do next?”
Adriano didn’t speak for a moment. His jaw clenched. He leaned back in the booth and stared out the window at nothing.
And for the first time since she’d met him, Diamond saw something she hadn’t before.
Sadness.
Real. Heavy. Crushing.
He looked down at their table. “I don’t know,” he admitted.
Her fingers reached across the table and curled into his.
“You’re gonna give up?” she asked softly. “Just like that?”
He looked at her again. Something in his green eyes cracked. Not enough to fall apart but enough to bleed.
“I tried, you know,” he said. “To do something different. Flashier, yeah. But smart. Expanding. Making moves. Building something from the ground up. I gave everything to this—my time, my mind, my goddamn blood.”
She squeezed his hand.
Adriano exhaled hard, jaw tight. “And it wasn’t enough. The old man… he’ll never see me as good enough. To him I'm just a kid with a gun and a dream. He doesn’t trust me.”
Diamond leaned in. “Then prove he’s wrong.”
“I don’t give a fuck about him anymore,” Adriano said. His voice was hard and final. “Fuck the old man. If I do anything now, it’s for me. Not for Il Serpente Dorato. That chapter’s closed.”
“You sure?” she asked.
“Dead sure,” he said. “I’m not crawling back to be some obedient son in the snake pit. I’ll build something better. Something mine.”
Diamond gave him a slow smile. “There’s the Adriano I like.”
—
It was nearly 1 a.m. when Adriano pulled up to her apartment complex in his black Ferrari. The rumble of the engine felt hilariously out of place in front of cracked pavement, flickering lights, and broken mailboxes.
He got out with her and leaned against the car as she came around.
He looked up at the building and grinned. “Huh. So this is where you live?”
She shrugged. “It’s not a mansion with marble statues and silk sheets, but it’s got charm.”
“I’m not judging,” he said. “Place has character.”
“And bullet holes.”
“Adds to the vibe,” he said, pulling her closer by the waist.
She smirked. “Oh, so now you’re into danger?”
“Bella,” he whispered. “I am danger.”
Their lips met slowly, soft at first, then deeper. His tongue danced with hers as his hands slid lower, grabbing a handful and squeezing her ass, pulling her against him like he didn’t want to let go.
When they finally pulled apart, he rested his forehead against hers. “Good night, Bella.”
She smiled. “Good night.”
She stepped back, and he climbed into the Ferrari, rolling down the window.
“I’m gonna dream about you!” he called out.
She laughed, waving him off. “Go home, Romeo!”
He grinned and bit his lower lip as he watched her walk up the steps.
—
Diamond yawned as she climbed the stairs, heels in hand. Every muscle in her body screamed exhaustion. She finally reached her door, dug through her purse, and found the keys.
She unlocked the door and stepped inside. Once the lock clicked into place,
“Hello, Diamond.”
Her body froze. Every hair on the back of her neck stood up.
That voice.
That cold, composed, unforgiving voice.
She turned slowly, fingers trembling as they flicked the light switch.
And there he was.
Sitting on her couch like he owned the place.
Alessandro Greco.