Chapter 4: The Gift And The Warning
Sleep eluded her that night.
She tossed and turned, her sheets twisting around her legs like restraints. Her mind replaying Allesio’s words, his touch, his warnings.
By dawn, she’d resigned herself to wakefulness.
Padding to the kitchen to make strong coffee as pale morning light filtered through the blinds.
The apartment felt different somehow.
Smaller. Less secure.
She found herself checking the locks twice. Peering through the blinds at the street below where a dark sedan sat parked across the way.
One of Allesio’s men, no doubt. Keeping watch as promised.
The sight should have angered her. Should have reinforced her decision to end things.
Instead, she felt a conflicted tangle of emotions.
Resentment at the surveillance, yes.
But also a treacherous sense of security. Knowing someone was watching over her.
She carried her coffee to the small desk in the corner of her living room, where her half-finished paintings were stacked against the wall.
Art had always been her escape. Her way of processing emotions too complex for words.
She set down her mug and picked up the most recent canvas. A cityscape at dusk. Buildings silhouetted against a sky of deep blues and purples. Windows glowing like distant stars.
She’d started it two weeks ago after a night spent on the balcony of Allesio’s penthouse, watching the city lights flicker on as darkness fell.
Her phone buzzed from the coffee table.
Her regular phone. Not the sleek black one Allesio had left.
Another message from Michael. The third since last night.
She hesitated.
Then crossed the room to look at it.
*Ellie, everything okay? Let me know if we’re still on for coffee today. Need to talk about something important.*
Something important.
The words sent an inexplicable chill through her.
Allesio’s suspicions whispered at the back of her mind. Unwelcome, but persistent.
Was it possible?
Could Michael somehow be connected to Allesio’s enemies?
It seemed absurd. Michael was an artist. Passionate about installation art and multimedia experiences. Not the type to get involved with organized crime.
They’d spent countless hours in studios together. Shared cheap wine and cheaper takeout. Complained about professors and critiqued each other’s work.
He’d never shown any interest in her personal life beyond casual friendship.
Until yesterday.
Until he’d asked pointed questions about where she was living now. Whether she was seeing anyone. How she could suddenly afford tuition without working two jobs.
She set the phone down without responding.
Unease coiling in her stomach.
Turning back to her painting, she tried to lose herself in the work. But her hands wouldn’t cooperate. Every brush stroke felt wrong. Every color choice questionable.
After an hour of frustration, she set the palette down and walked away.
The delivery Allesio promised arrived mid-morning.
Enough groceries to last a week. Not just three days.
Fresh fruits. Vegetables. Imported pasta. Expensive wine. Specialty coffee.
The kind of provisions he kept in his own kitchen.
Along with the food came a small package wrapped in cream-colored paper.
Inside was a leather-bound sketchbook. Its pages thick and textured. And a set of charcoal pencils she’d admired in an art supply store window weeks ago. Casually mentioned but never purchased.
A note accompanied the gift.
Handwritten in his precise, elegant script.
*For when the paint doesn’t cooperate.*
*A.*
How did he know?
Had she mentioned her occasional creative blocks?
Or was this another example of his uncanny ability to read her? To anticipate her needs before she fully recognized them herself?
She ran her fingers over the creamy pages of the sketchbook.
Torn between gratitude and resentment.
Every gift from Allesio came with invisible strings. Every gesture of care a subtle reminder of his control.
Yet she couldn’t deny the thoughtfulness behind this particular offering. Not an expensive trinket to display his wealth. But something personal. Something that spoke to who she was beyond her relationship with him.
Her phone buzzed again.
Michael: *Ellie, please respond. It’s important we talk today.*
The urgency in his message sent another ripple of unease through her.
She picked up the black phone Allesio had left. Weighing it in her hand.
One call and Allesio’s men would investigate Michael. Would determine whether the threat was real or imagined.
One call and she would be yielding to Allesio’s world once more. Accepting his protection and all that came with it.
Instead, she set both phones down.
And reached for the new sketchbook.
If she couldn’t paint, perhaps she could draw. Perhaps she could find clarity in the smooth glide of charcoal across paper.
Hours passed as she lost herself in the rhythm of creation.
The apartment growing dim around her as afternoon faded into evening.
She’d filled nearly a dozen pages with shadowy cityscapes, abstract patterns, and most tellingly—dark eyes that stared out from the paper with an intensity that was unmistakably Allesio’s.
A sharp knock at her door jolted her from her creative trance.
She froze.
Charcoal suspended above the page.
It couldn’t be Allesio. He would have called first. Would have given her the three days he’d promised.
One of his men, perhaps. With an update or additional provisions.
Another knock.
More insistent this time.
“Ellie, it’s Michael. I know you’re in there. Your neighbor said you haven’t left all day.”
Her heart stuttered.
Michael. Here at her apartment.
How did he even know where she lived? She’d moved since they’d last been in regular contact. Hadn’t mentioned her new address during their brief cafe encounter.
“Ellie, please. It’s important. I’m worried about you.”
She rose slowly.
Setting the sketchbook aside.
Instinctively wiping her charcoal-stained fingers on a cloth.
Her gaze darted to the black phone on the coffee table.
Should she call Allesio?
Was she overreacting?
“Eleanora.” Michael’s voice had dropped, becoming oddly formal. “Open the door. We need to talk about Allesio Moretti.”
Ice flooded her veins.
There it was.
Confirmation that this wasn’t just a friendly visit. Wasn’t just about an alumni exhibition.
Michael knew about Allesio.
Knew about them.
She moved silently to the door, pressing her eye to the peephole.
Michael stood in the hallway. Hands in the pockets of his worn leather jacket. His usual disheveled artist appearance unchanged.
But something in his posture seemed different.
More alert. More purposeful.
Than the laid-back friend she remembered.
“I know you’re there, Ellie,” he called, softer now. “I’m trying to help you. You have no idea what kind of man he is. What he’s capable of.”
But she did know.
That was the problem.
She knew exactly what Allesio was capable of. Both the darkness and the unexpected moments of tenderness. She knew the violence that simmered beneath his controlled exterior. The ruthlessness with which he protected what was his.
What she didn’t know was who Michael really was.
Or why he was suddenly so concerned about her relationship.
She reached for the black phone with trembling fingers.
Pressed the only number programmed into it.
It connected instantly.
“Eleanora.” Allesio’s voice was alert despite the late hour. “What’s wrong?”
“Michael’s here,” she whispered, moving away from the door. “At my apartment. He knows about you. About us.”
A beat of silence.
Then:
“Don’t open the door. Marco is already outside in the car. He’ll be at your door in seconds. Stay on the line.”
***(SỬA LỖI: Thay vì “Marco is 2 minutes away”, giờ là “Marco is already outside in the car” để phù hợp logic rằng Marco vẫn đang đợi từ lúc đưa Allesio về.)***
Another knock.
Harder this time.
“Eleanora, please. I’m with the FBI. We’ve been building a case against Moretti for months. You could be in danger.”
FBI.
The claim hit her like a physical blow.
She pressed the phone closer to her ear.
“Allesio. He says he’s FBI.”
“He’s lying.” Allesio’s voice was cold. Controlled. “The FBI has no active investigation into my legitimate businesses. This is the Donovans, Eleanora. Using your friend to get to you. To get to me.”
“How can you be sure?” she asked, her voice barely audible.
“Because I own half the FBI field office in this city.”
He replied matter-of-factly.
“If there were an investigation, I would know.”
The casual admission of corruption should have horrified her.
Instead, it merely confirmed what she’d already suspected about the extent of Allesio’s influence.
“Eleanora, listen to me.” Michael’s voice again, urgent through the door. “Whatever he’s told you, it’s not the whole truth. He’s dangerous. People who cross him disappear.”
She knew that, too.
Had seen glimpses of the ruthlessness behind Allesio’s carefully maintained facade. Heard whispered conversations cut short when she entered rooms. Seen the deference tinged with fear in the eyes of those who worked for him.
“Heavy footsteps in the hallway,” Allesio said in her ear. “That’s Marco. Stay away from the door, tesoro.”
A moment later, she heard Michael’s startled exclamation.
And the sound of a brief scuffle.
Then silence.
“It’s clear,” came Marco’s deep voice through the door. “Ms. Sullivan, please open up.”
She hesitated.
Then moved to unlock the door.
Keeping the phone pressed to her ear.
“Allesio?”
“It’s safe,” he confirmed. “Let Marco bring you to me.”
She opened the door to find Marco standing alone in the hallway. His imposing frame blocking her view of whatever had happened to Michael.
The bodyguard’s expression was impassive as always. But she noticed a fresh scrape across his knuckles.
“Where is he?” she asked, her voice shaking.
“Being taken care of,” Marco replied, his tone revealing nothing. “Mr. Moretti wants you brought to the penthouse immediately.”
The penthouse.
Allesio’s fortress in the sky. With its bullet-resistant windows, private elevator, and security system that would put most government buildings to shame.
Once there, she would be completely in his world.
Under his protection.
And his control.
“I need to pack some things,” she said, stalling.
Marco nodded once.
“Five minutes.”
She returned to the apartment, moving on autopilot as she gathered clothes, toiletries, her sketchbook.
The phone was still connected to Allesio’s line.
“Are you there?” she asked softly.
“Always,” came his immediate response. “You did the right thing calling me, Eleanora.”
“What’s going to happen to Michael?”
A pause.
“That depends on what we learn from him.”
The implication sent a chill through her.
“Don’t hurt him, Allesio. Please. Whatever he’s involved in, he was my friend once.”
“Your safety is my priority,” he replied, neatly sidestepping the request. “We’ll discuss everything when you arrive.”
—
