Chapter 7 - The Empire RebuiltThree weeks later, the snow outside Ferraro Tower had melted into a cold, steady spring rain.
The city of Chicago had settled into a new, uneasy peace. With the Valkov Group dismantled and Ashford’s venture capital firm liquidated, Alessio Ferraro wasn't just a powerful businessman anymore—he was undisputed royalty.
Inside the executive office on the top floor, everything looked identical to how it had always looked.
The mahogany desk. The rows of financial ledgers. The quiet hum of the climate control system.
Except for one thing.
Giana Costa was no longer sitting at the small desk outside the double doors.
Her desk was gone.
In its place, inside Alessio’s massive private office, sat a brand-new, custom-built mahogany partner desk, positioned directly adjacent to his.
Giana sat there, reviewing a portfolio of newly acquired real estate holdings on the North Side. She wore a charcoal blazer, her hair pinned back in its usual professional knot.
The door opened softly, and Alessio walked in carrying two cups of black coffee. He set one down beside her laptop without a word, pulling his chair a fraction closer to hers than standard business etiquette permitted.
“You’re staring,” Giana said without looking up from her screen, though a small, involuntary smile tugged at the corner of her lips.
“I have a good view,” Alessio replied, leaning back in his leather chair and sipping his coffee. “And you’re avoiding the question I asked you this morning.”
Giana stopped typing. She turned her head, meeting his intense, unblinking gaze.
“You didn't ask a question, Alessio. You gave an ultimatum.”
“Call it what you like,” he said, setting his cup down. He reached across the desk, his large, warm hand covering hers, completely halting her work. “Saturday night. The annual mayoral charity gala at the Drake Hotel.”
Giana’s breath hitched slightly. “The Drake Hotel again? Are you trying to give the society pages a collective heart attack?”
“I’m trying to set a precedent,” Alessio murmured, his thumb brushing her knuckles. “Last time, you wore red by accident because Marcy panicked.”
“And this time?” Giana challenged, raising an eyebrow.
May you like
Alessio stood up, walking around the desk to stand right beside her chair. He leaned down, his lips brushing the shell of her ear, sending a delicious, familiar shiver down her spine.
“This time,” Alessio whispered, “I want you to wear it on purpose.”
