Page 17 of Be With Me
I looked out the window so that I didn’t have to watch them. I hated seeing her affectionate with him—the way she'd never been with me or my brothers. She pretended in public—she was a great actress—but it was all an act.
Vita Ferraro wasn’t who people thought she was. Not even close.
I dragged my tongue over my teeth and turned back to them. The sooner I told them what I'd discovered, the sooner I could get the fuck out of here and prep for the meeting I had planned this afternoon. “I have an update. Harper was a bust, but I’ve found a better target.”
“We’re all ears, Romolo,” Mother said, her fingers drumming against the desk. Her voice was smooth but threaded with impatience. Because of my failures to get us something we could use against Morales over the last six months, I was teetering dangerously close to the useless category she despised so much.
“Mia. His daughter. She was at Cosimo’s party last night.”
The drumming stopped.
I savored the stunned look on my mother’s face. It was like I’d detonated a bomb in my father’s office. Catching her off guard was rare. Satisfying.
Rising from my seat, I buttoned my jacket. “She’s friends with Fabiana, apparently. But from the look on her face, I don’t think she had any idea what she was walking into. I found her hiding in one of the bedrooms.”
Cosimo let out a dry laugh. “Unbelievable.”
I brushed a bit of lint from my sleeve. “If she’s that naïve about her friend’s family, she might be a weak spot. And given how tight she seems with her dad, she could have insight into who’s backing him.”
As they absorbed that, I headed for the door, eager to be gone.
“Where are you going?” my mother called after me.
“To introduce myself properly,” I said over my shoulder, stepping into the hall.
The door clicked shut behind me, and I exhaled, tension easing from my spine. It always felt like I could breathe better once I was out of Mother’s line of sight.
Now onto the fun part.
I rolled my shoulders, letting the anticipation take over—the memory of wide, frightened eyes and trembling lips humming in my blood. A slow smirk curved my mouth.
Let’s see what Mia Morales is really made of.
CHAPTER6
MIA
It turned out that shortly after Nina had left me in the bedroom yesterday, she ran into Fabi’s sister-in-law. Cleo Messero cornered Nina for a full twenty minutes, grilling her about Fabi’s likes and dislikes for the bachelorette party she was planning. It was long enough for Nina to miss the entire fiasco with Romolo.
When Nina finally called me, panicked after finding the room empty with a broken lamp on the ground, I told her I was fine and already in a cab. What I didn’t tell her was how shaken I was—how I’d clawed at the front door of that house like my life depended on it.
And I definitely didn’t tell her a word about Romolo. That story would have to wait until tonight, when I met up with her, Fabi, and Zo. They were finally going to explain to me, in person, why they’d kept me in the dark.
Right now, I had more immediate problems to deal with. Another client was ghosting me. She was more than an hour late for our meeting and hadn’t responded to my texts.
I leaned back in my office chair. I’d rented this studio in SoHo three years ago. It was small, but I’d made it work.
The space had high ceilings and exposed brick that was softened by a vintage Persian rug and warm pendant lighting. A floor-to-ceiling mirror leaned against the far wall, framed in antique gold. Closer to where I sat was a sleek rack where I kept my latest styling pulls—handpicked outfits curated for clients based on their personalities, their lifestyles, and the images they wanted to project.
A few blocks over, the high-end boutiques buzzed with life, but Broderick Lane was quieter. Most of the storefronts here were short-term rentals for pop-ups. Some weeks, the street pulsed with energy, and lines of people snaked around the block for the latest "it" brand. Other weeks? Ghost town.
This space wasn’t cheap, but I’d told myself I’d be able to cover the rent in no time. Back then, I’d been so full of hope, so sure of myself.
For a while, everything had gone according to plan. I’d built a solid roster of clients, carving out a name for myself in a city where the competition was ruthless.
Then my father announced his run for mayor.
His campaign advisors decided his messaging needed to lean into his family values and his unwavering commitment to fighting organized crime. Since my stepmom was too sick to be by his side, I took her place—attending campaign rallies, shaking hands, smiling for cameras.
