Chapter 8 - The Morning Aftermath
When I woke up the next morning, the kitchen was empty.
The white bakery box sat neatly on the counter, empty except for a single slice of chocolate cake left untouched for Lily’s breakfast. Next to the box rested Giovanni’s black business card, and beneath it, a handwritten note scrawled in bold, elegant ink:
“Call me if your daughter’s cough returns, or if you ever need someone to clear a room for you again. – G.”
I stared at the note for a full minute, my thumb tracing the heavy paper, feeling a strange, hollow flutter in my chest that terrified me more than Tyler’s cruel remarks ever could.
By 9:00 a.m., reality came crashing back in the form of a buzzing smartphone.
It was my mother.
“Jessica! Have you lost your absolute mind?!” my mother’s voice shrieked through the speaker before I even had the phone pressed fully to my ear.
“Good morning to you too, Mom,” I sighed, rubbing my temples as I poured a cup of black coffee.
“Don't give me that attitude! Do you have any idea what kind of earthquake you caused last night?!” My mother sounded genuinely hysterical. “Sophia has been crying for six hours straight! Her new husband’s family called him this morning demanding to know who ‘Giovanni Fierro’ is and why he threatened to pull their municipal development contracts over a wedding seating chart!”
I took a slow sip of coffee. “I didn't threaten anyone, Mom. Giovanni did.”
“And who the hell is Giovanni to you?!” my mother demanded. “Tyler came by the brunch hotel this morning looking like he’d been hit by a truck! He told everyone you’re sleeping with a ruthless billionaire to spite him!”
I let out a sharp, incredulous laugh. “Tyler thinks the entire universe revolves around his ego. Tell him to get over himself.”
“Jessica, listen to me,” my mother’s voice dropped into a frantic, pleading tone. “Giovanni Fierro is not a man you play games with. People say he bought out a shipping conglomerate last year just because their CEO insulted his grandfather. If he was just using you to make a point last night, you need to stay away from him before you get crushed.”
“I wasn't using him, Mom,” I said quietly. “And he wasn't using me. We just... shared a dance.”
“A dance?!” my mother shrieked. “People like Giovanni Fierro don't just dance, Jessica! They conquer!”
She hung up before I could answer.
I lowered the phone, staring out the small kitchen window at the grey Chicago drizzle starting to streak against the glass. My mother was right about one thing: Giovanni Fierro was a conqueror.
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And whether I liked it or not, the ripple effect of our twelve-minute dance at the Bellmont Grand had just set a massive, unstoppable machine into motion.
By Monday morning, I was going to find out just how deep the rabbit hole went.
