Chapter 5: The Antechamber Interrogation

The small antechamber was suffocatingly close. It smelled of expensive cedarwood and ancient secrets.

“How do you know that name?” he asked immediately, the very second the heavy door clicked shut securely behind them.

His voice was incredibly low, but it vibrated with intense, dangerous energy. He deliberately positioned his massive frame between her and the only exit, effectively trapping her in the small space.

Arya backed up until her spine hit the wall. “I heard the kitchen staff mention it,” she stammered.

“Do not lie to me,” he said, stepping closer. “And how do you fluently speak that particular, highly specific Sicilian dialect? It is a dialect from a very remote village in the mountains. Most native Italians couldn’t even locate it on a map.”

Arya’s mouth went completely, horribly dry. She clutched her silver serving tray tightly against her chest, holding it up like a pathetic, useless shield.

“My grandmother raised me in Castellammare del Golfo until I was twelve years old,” Arya answered honestly, her voice shaking.

She saw absolutely no point in lying to a powerful man who clearly knew vastly more than he should.

“She taught me the regional dialect before I ever learned English or standard Italian,” Arya explained, her eyes darting toward the locked door.

His blue eyes narrowed into dangerous slits. He studied her face with a renewed, terrifying interest that felt exactly like being dissected alive on a cold table.

“Your grandmother’s full name?” he demanded. He took another deliberate step closer, forcing her to press even harder against the rich mahogany paneling of the wall.

“Francesca Cardellini,” Arya whispered, terrified of the answer.

She watched closely as sudden, undeniable recognition flashed brightly across his face. It was followed immediately by something that looked almost like profound wonder.

“She moved to America with me after my parents died,” Arya rambled nervously, filling the heavy silence. “They died in the ferry accident off the coast of Palermo.”

For several highly tense, terrifying seconds, he said absolutely nothing. He just stared down at her face, his eyes mapping her features as if he were actively recalculating everything he thought he knew about the world.

“The nurse you just spoke to,” he finally stated, his tone dropping from an interrogation to a statement of fact. “Your grandmother is currently dying.”

His voice softened almost imperceptibly, shedding a fraction of its lethal edge.

“Yes,” Arya said, a fresh tear escaping her eye. “I have been saving every penny for a plane ticket home. But between my tuition and the skyrocketing rent—”

Arya abruptly stopped herself. She clamped her mouth shut, utterly horrified. She was actually rambling about her pathetic financial struggles to a highly dangerous, wealthy mafia boss who had absolutely no interest in her personal problems.

“I am so incredibly sorry for the interruption,” Arya said quickly, trying to step around him. “I will return to my serving duties immediately.”

He blocked her escape path instantly. He raised a single hand, never actually touching her, but the implied threat was more than enough to freeze her in place.

“Your full, legal name,” he commanded softly. He reached into the inner breast pocket of his perfectly tailored suit jacket and pulled out a sleek, encrypted smartphone.

“Arya Cardellini,” she answered, her voice breaking on the syllables.

She watched in total confusion as he rapidly typed something into his phone. He read a message, nodded to himself, and then returned his full, undivided attention back to her terrified face.

“Is there a specific problem with my service tonight, Mr. Castellini?” Arya asked, her panic finally giving way to a desperate need for answers.

“No, Arya,” he replied. A ghost of a dark smile touched his lips, but it utterly failed to reach his icy blue eyes. “And I am not Mr. Castellini. That was my late father’s title. I am Lucas Castellini.”

He studied her raw reaction incredibly closely. He was clearly expecting the famous name to mean something significant to her.

But it held absolutely no significance to Arya. It meant nothing beyond what Paulo had whispered frantically to her before her shift: that the powerful owner of Valentino’s would be dining tonight, and he must not be disturbed.

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