Chapter 7 The Quiet Flame

Isabella Vitale......

The kitchen of Inferno was the one place untouched by smoke and seduction. Stainless steel gleamed beneath harsh fluorescent lights, knives laid out in neat rows, and the scent of garlic and heat filled the air. It was organized. Predictable. Safe.

Or so I thought.

I was meant to meet Sofia here. She'd sent a message through a waiter that she wanted help with something in the restaurant before opening hours. I didn't trust her-Sofia had perfected the art of frostbite-but she held just enough warmth when talking about food that I thought maybe, just maybe, this would be her olive branch.

It wasn't.

Because when I walked in, Sofia wasn't there.

Someone else was.

Leaning against the counter, a black hoodie pulled over a dark T-shirt, knuckles bruised and lips curved in something halfway between a grin and a snarl.

Marco Gerardo.

He didn't move. He didn't speak.

He just watched me, eyes like slow-burning coal, like a wolf trying to decide if you were prey or puzzle.

"Expecting someone else?" His voice was rough, low-like he didn't use it often.

"I was told Sofia needed help."

He tilted his head. "She does. But she sent me instead."

"You cook?"

"No," he said, pushing off the counter. "But I like the smell of blood and tomatoes."

My breath caught.

He was joking. Probably. Maybe.

"What is it you do, Marco?" I asked, keeping my voice level.

He shrugged. "Whatever Alessandro tells me."

"And when he doesn't?"

His lips twitched. "Then I find something to do."

I should've walked away. I didn't.

Something about Marco felt... off-balance. Not cruel, but capable. Capable of violence, silence, and loyalty so deep it looked like madness. The kind of man who would slit a throat and then offer you his coat because it was cold outside.

He stepped closer.

I didn't flinch. Barely.

"You're the bartender," he said.

"I am."

"I've seen you."

"Noticed something you like?" I tried to make it a joke. But my throat was dry.

He didn't answer. He just looked. Really looked.

Then: "You're not like the others."

My stomach knotted. "What others?"

"The ones who work here. They're all afraid."

"And you think I'm not?"

"I think you're good at hiding it."

A long silence stretched between us.

Then the back door swung open, and Sofia swept in, pristine in a white dress shirt and jeans, apron folded under one arm. She froze when she saw us.

"Marco," she said tightly. "You weren't needed here."

"I was bored," he said, without turning.

"Well, now you're not," she snapped. "Go."

He gave me one last glance, unreadable, then sauntered out like a shadow disappearing into the wall.

Sofia exhaled sharply and turned to me.

"Stay away from him," she said.

I raised a brow. "Why?"

"Because Marco only plays nice when he's bored. And if he ever stops being bored with you, Bella... he might stop being nice."