Chapter 5 The Pickup
Valentina
The knock comes at exactly 8:00 a.m.
Not a minute early. Not a second late.
I’ve been ready for fifteen.
Hair pinned. Makeup understated. Tailored coat over a soft silk blouse, high-waisted trousers, and ankle boots sharp enough to kill with. No jewelry except the Maranzano crest ring tucked under a leather glove.
My bag is already by the door.
I open it to find a man too large for the hallway.
“Morning, sweetheart.”
Rosco Benetti.
Same rolled-up sleeves. Same blank expression.
Like he hasn’t slept. Like he never does.
“Don’t call me sweetheart,” I say.
His lips twitch like I just passed a test. “Fair enough.”
He nods to the bag, but doesn’t offer to carry it.
I like him a little more for that.
We ride the elevator down in silence. I catch our reflection in the mirrored walls—me, composed and elegant; him, a brick wall dressed in black with no give in his spine. We look like opposites. We are. But we’re also two people who know exactly what this morning means.
Outside, a matte-black SUV idles at the curb. The kind of car that blends into cities and vanishes in forests.
Rosco opens the rear passenger door. “After you.”
I slide in without hesitation. No use pretending I’m not going. I made the bet. Now I play the consequence.
He shuts the door, then moves to the driver’s side and climbs in.
We pull away from the hotel, the city rising around us like a steel skeleton. I let the silence settle, heavy and measured.
Ten blocks later, I break it.
“Seems like a task beneath your pay grade.”
Rosco grunts. “It is.”
I glance at him. “Then why are you here?”
He doesn’t look at me. Just changes lanes with an effortless sweep of the wheel.
“Matteo only trusts me to deliver you.”
The words sit between us for a beat.
Only trusts me.
Not his assistant. Not a chauffeur. Not even a soldier with rank. Me.
I tuck that away.
“So I’m precious cargo now?”
“You’re a risk,” he says without hesitation. “Same thing in his book.”
I smile faintly. “Good to know where I stand.”
“You don’t,” Rosco says. “Not yet.”
I glance out the window. The skyline is thinning—buildings giving way to warehouses, the roads turning quiet.
“Still,” I say, “I can understand why he thinks I’d be a flight risk.”
Rosco doesn’t reply. He doesn’t need to. The tension answers for him.
“But I’m not so stupid,” I continue, “to dangle my existence by a thread, trying to run from a man like Mr. Genovese.”
That gets a flicker of a reaction. Not quite a smile—but something. Approval, maybe. Or surprise.
“So rest easy, Mr. Benetti.” I lean back in the leather seat and cross one leg over the other. “You won’t have to chase me down or shoot me today.”
He grunts. “I wasn’t planning to.”
“Were you hoping to?”
Rosco chuckles, the sound dry as sandpaper. “If I had a preference, sweetheart—” He catches himself. “Valentina—I’d prefer not to scrape you off the sidewalk.”
The city slips away one neighborhood at a time.
We pass through industrial zones, then into quieter streets lined with bare trees and gated communities. The air feels cleaner out here. Less noise. Less eyes.
Rosco doesn’t speak again, and I don’t fill the silence. I watch the landscape flatten, then rise again in sculpted waves of wealth—long driveways, security cameras, and stone fences wrapped in ivy like elegant cages.
Finally, we turn onto a narrow road with no signage. Just two black pillars and a gate that opens before us without a sound.
Beyond it, the estate unfolds like a secret.
Not ostentatious. Not flashy.
Old money.
Three stories of pale stone and dark shutters, carved balconies, and a roof that looks like it was imported from a gothic cathedral. Every window is blacked out. Every corner is monitored. It’s less of a house and more of a fortress with taste.
It doesn’t welcome you.
It watches you.
Rosco parks near the front steps but doesn’t get out immediately. Neither do I.
The air between us still feels like a scale being weighed.
“This is it?” I ask.
He glances at me. “You sound surprised.”
“I expected marble floors and gold statues.”
“You’ll get those,” he says. “Eventually.”
He steps out and opens my door. I take his offered hand—not because I need help, but because I want to feel the strength of it. Concrete fingers. A handshake that could crush a throat if necessary.
The front doors open before we reach them. Two men in suits stand on either side like sentinels. They don’t speak.
Inside, the air is cool. Scented faintly with something earthy—leather, tobacco, cedar.
It smells like power that doesn’t need to announce itself.
Rosco leads the way. I follow, heels echoing off stone and wood.
We pass through a vaulted foyer, down a hallway lined with oil paintings that don’t look like reproductions. There’s no artifice here. Only confidence and control.
He stops in front of a tall double door.
“This is you for now,” he says. “Someone will come by to give you instructions.”
“Not Matteo?”
Rosco snorts. “He’s already given them.”
He starts to turn away, then pauses. “Don’t wander. And don’t open any doors you didn’t walk through.”
Then he leaves.
And I am alone.
For now.
Just as I reach for the handle, the sound of footsteps echoes down the hall behind me—quick and purposeful.
A woman rounds the corner, breath slightly rushed. “Miss Rossi!”
I turn.
She slows, composing herself in an instant. Her voice smooths into something professional.
“I’m so sorry I’m late greeting you. Rosco got back here much sooner than I expected. There must not have been much traffic.”
Before I can answer, she gently lifts the handle of my suitcase.
“My name is Carol,” she says. “Let me show you your rooms.”
I blink.
“Rooms?”