Page 17 of Indigo Deception
"Nervous, Ms. Bennett?" Angelo asks, but his voice carries none of the warmth I'd grown accustomed to. Instead, there's a clipped formality to it. The smirk is there, but it doesn't reach his eyes.
“I'm just being curious," I counter, keeping my voice flat. "I'm eager to see how the infamous Bellantis live when they're not terrorizing Wall Street."
He laughs, but it's hollow, performative. "We prefer to think of it as 'educating' Wall Street. Come on. My father hates tardiness."
The space between us is filled with tension. Ever since that kiss, when his lips met mine with a hunger that mirrored my own, he has changed. Colder. More distant.
I've also been avoiding being alone with him, making excuses, leaving rooms he’s in, ensuring that other staff members are always present. But his withdrawal hurts more than I want to admit, even to myself.
When he announced his father wanted to meet the consultant overhauling their Asia-Pacific operations, I couldn't exactly say no. So here I am, walking into the lion's den with a man who now treats me like a stranger.
Discreet cameras track our movement while priceless art hangs on walls. I catalog everything, filing mental notes for my report back to Martinez.
From the grand foyer, I hear a child’s voice—high-pitched and excited. Not what I expected in the home of New York's most feared crime family.
Angelo's face transforms when a small girl with dark pigtails rockets around the corner. His hard edges soften, smile genuine instead of calculated as he scoops her up. The transformation is jarring, and it deeply contrasts with the cold treatment he's been giving me.
"Uncle Angelo!" she squeals, throwing her arms around his neck. "You're late! Daddy said you got distracted by a pretty lady again."
Angelo's eyes catch mine, and for a moment, I see something flicker there—something warm and familiar—before it's replaced by that same cool detachment. "Your daddy knows me too well, Lina. This is Ms. Bennett. She works with me."
The little girl studies me with green eyes that remind me so much of her uncle's. "Are you Uncle Angelo's girlfriend?"
My face flushes. "No. I'm just—"
"She's helping me with some very boring grown-up business," Angelo interrupts smoothly, setting his niece down. His tone is dismissive, as if I'm nothing more than a temporary inconvenience.
"Where's Grandpa?"
"In the garden with everyone else. There's tiramisu!" The girl races off, pigtails bouncing.
Angelo watches her go with affection in his eyes. It's weird. This glimpse of humanity in a man I've spent months building into a villain in my mind. A man who can show such warmth to a child while treating me with such indifference.
"My brother Lorenzo's daughter," he explains, not quite meeting my eyes. "She has him wrapped around her finger. Me too, if I'm honest."
We step into a sprawling garden where a large table is set under pergolas draped with wisteria. It's not what I expected. No hushed conversations about territory disputes or money laundering. Just a family—albeit one that runs a criminal empire—enjoying Sunday dinner together.
Luca Bellanti rises from his seat at the head of the table, leaning on his cane. He looks older than the photos in his files, but his eyes—the same piercing green as Angelo's—miss nothing.
"So this is the woman who's been keeping my son working late," he says, his voice carrying the rough cadence of Brooklyn layered over his Italian accent.
"Father, this is Sarah Bennett," Angelo introduces, his voice professional and devoid of any warmth, "our risk management consultant."
I extend my hand. "It's a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Bellanti."
His grip is firm, but his eyes narrow slightly. "You seem familiar."
My heart stops. Does he recognize me? Has my cover been blown?
But then he smiles. "You remind me of one of my best workers. She had the same... what's the word? Backbone."
Relief floods through me as we all settle down for dinner. Matteo Bellanti, the current head of the family, discusses his daughter Fiona's dance recital with fierce pride, while complaining about how much he misses his son, too.
Olivia Bellanti, who once ran the family's legitimate firm but left to create her own company, argues politics with her father but lights up when discussing her pro-bono work with domestic violence victims.
Lorenzo doesn't say a word. His attention is solely fixed on his daughter, his mouth curving into a smile. His phone pings, and he picks it up, his eyes lighting up, perhaps texting his wife, Sophia, according to my intel, is currently on a trip with Matteo's wife Elena and IsabellaBellanti, the oldest Bellanti daughter. Olivia is only here because of a case she’s working on that requires her presence.
And Angelo—the man I've watched destroy business rivals without blinking—patiently helps his niece cut her pasta and wipes sauce from her chin with gentle hands.
