A Taste of Control

Massimiliano's villa sat on twenty acres of perfectly manicured grounds forty minutes outside Manhattan. Built in the 1920s for a railroad tycoon, the stone mansion had been in De Luca hands for three generations. It was a testament to their permanence in a city where power changed hands like poker chips.

Dawn was breaking over the estate, soft golden light filtering through the windows of Massimiliano's study. He hadn't slept. The decanter of thirty-year-old Macallan on his desk was significantly emptier than it had been six hours ago.

Antonio and Marco stood before him, heads slightly bowed. The silence had stretched for almost five minutes, a psychological tactic Massimiliano had learned from his father. Let them stew in their failure. Let anxiety build until speaking becomes relief.

"She disappeared." Massimiliano's voice was dangerously calm, at odds with the storm brewing behind his eyes. "A bartender. Five-foot-four. In a cocktail dress and heels. Disappeared from under the noses of two of my most trusted men."

Neither spoke. There was no defense.

"For six hours, you've had our entire security force looking for her. And?" He raised an eyebrow.

Antonio cleared his throat. "She's not at the Chelsea apartment, sir. Hasn't returned all night."

"Of course she hasn't." Massimiliano stood, walking to the window. "Because it's not her real apartment."

He turned, surveying the two men he'd trusted with his security for years. Both were experienced, capable. Both had killed for him without question. And both had failed spectacularly at a simple task.

"Tell me again what the doorman said." 

Marco shifted his weight. "That she keeps irregular hours. Comes and goes, sometimes absent for days. Pays her rent on time, always cash, six months in advance."

"And neighbors?"

"Barely notice her. One mentioned seeing her with groceries occasionally. Another thought she might work in finance because of her hours." 

Massimiliano's lips curved in a humorless smile. "Perfect cover. Common enough to be forgettable, detailed enough to pass inspection." He moved back to his desk, fingers drumming against the polished mahogany. "The apartment is a shell. Has been for years, I'd wager."

"We've expanded the search to financial records, sir. Property holdings, bank accounts, employment history,"

The crystal decanter shattered against the wall, amber liquid streaming down imported wallpaper like blood.

"I don't want excuses!" Massimiliano's voice cut like a blade. "I want her found. I want to know who she is, who she works for, what game she's playing. I want every detail of her life laid bare." 

He stepped closer to his men, voice dropping to a deadly whisper. "And if you can't deliver that by tomorrow night, I'll find someone who can. Are we clear?"

"Yes, sir." They answered in unison, faces carefully blank despite the implied threat.

"Now get out. And send someone to clean this mess."

The door closed with a soft click, leaving Massimiliano alone with the wreckage of his temper and the lingering scent of expensive scotch.

He shouldn't be this angry. A woman playing games, keeping secrets…it was hardly unprecedented in his world. Yet something about Tatiana's defiance and her calculated risks had gotten under his skin in a way he found both infuriating and intoxicating.

The text message he'd sent her last night had been deliberately casual, a power play disguising his fury. But the truth was, he hadn't been so thoroughly outmaneuvered in years. Not since…

No. He wouldn't think of that now.

Massimiliano moved to the side table where another bottle waited. He poured two fingers of whiskey, his movements controlled despite the rage still simmering beneath his skin.

Whoever Tatiana Hayes really was, she'd made a critical mistake. She'd challenged him openly. Made it personal.

And Massimiliano De Luca always collected his debts. With interest.

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Nocturne hummed with the quiet energy of New York's elite. Politicians making backdoor deals, celebrities hiding from paparazzi, criminals laundering reputations alongside money. The usual Thursday crowd.

Massimiliano arrived later than usual, deliberately breaking routine. Testing.

He scanned the room, allowing his gaze to drift casually over the bar where Tatiana worked with practiced efficiency. If she noticed his arrival, she gave no indication. Just continued mixing a complicated cocktail, her expression neutral as she chatted with a regular.

He made his way to his usual booth, nodding acknowledgments to associates as he passed. The Russian contingent was celebrating something at their corner table. Senator Harrison was entertaining a woman definitely not his wife. Two hedge fund managers argued quietly over portfolio allocations that Massimiliano knew concealed money from three different cartels.

Business as usual.

He settled into his booth, dismissing the waitress who approached. Instead, he watched Tatiana, curious to see how she'd play this.

She finished serving her customer, wiped down the bar, then reached for a bottle of his preferred whiskey without looking in his direction. With practiced movements, she prepared his drink, neat, two ice cubes, and began making her way toward his table.

Not rushed. Not hesitant. As if nothing had happened between them.

"Your usual, Mr. De Luca." She placed the crystal tumbler before him, her expression professional and detached.

"You left in quite a rush last night," he observed, voice deceptively casual.

The corner of her mouth quirked up. "I had matters to attend to."

"In the middle of traffic?"

"Plus," she continued as if he hadn't spoken, "I don't sleep with men on the first date." The emphasis on 'sleep' made it clear exactly what she was referring to.

"What about the second date?" He maintained eye contact, challenging.

"There won't be one." She turned to leave, but he caught her wrist,gentle enough to avoid causing a scene, firm enough to make his point.

"You're playing a dangerous game, Tatiana."

She looked pointedly at his hand, then back to his face. "I wasn't aware we were playing anything, Mr. De Luca."

The formality was deliberate, a reminder of their supposed positions: employer and employee. Nothing more.

He released her, allowing her retreat. For now.

Throughout the next hour, Massimiliano conducted his business with the Chechen delegation while maintaining peripheral awareness of her movements. She worked with practiced efficiency, never lingering too long with any patron, never standing idle.

Perfect cover. Calculated movements. Always aware of sightlines, exits, potential threats.

Not a bartender. Something else entirely.

The meeting concluded with handshakes and promises of continued cooperation. As the Chechens departed, Massimiliano signaled to Antonio, murmuring instructions to give him space. Then he made his way to the bar, sliding onto a stool at the far end where Tatiana was restocking glassware.

"Another?" she asked without looking up.

"Please."

She prepared his drink with the same unhurried precision he'd observed before, placing it before him without comment.

"How long have you been tending bar?" he asked, swirling the amber liquid.

"Five years, give or take."

"And before that?"

"College. Briefly." She met his gaze evenly. "Is this part of the employee background check I apparently failed?"

He smiled thinly. "Consider it professional curiosity."

"About my bartending skills?"

"About why someone with your... particular skill set... is playing at being normal."

Something flickered across her features,too quick to identify, gone before he could analyze it.

"Not everyone is playing a game, Mr. De Luca."

"But you are." He leaned forward slightly. "The question is: whose game? And to what end?"

She continued polishing glasses, her movements never faltering. "Has it occurred to you that you might be overthinking this? That perhaps I'm exactly what I appear to be?"

"A bartender who can execute a perfect tactical extraction from a moving vehicle? Who maintains a shell apartment? Whose employment history is impeccably documented yet mysteriously unverifiable when pressed?" He took a slow sip of his whiskey. "No, Tatiana. You're not what you appear to be."

For a long moment, she said nothing, just studied him with those unreadable hazel eyes. Then she leaned closer, dropping her voice.

"And what if I'm not? What would you do about it?"

The directness of the question surprised him. Most people caught in deception doubled down, denied everything. Her semi-acknowledgment was... interesting.

"That depends on your intentions." He matched her quiet tone, his eyes gazed intently into hers. "If you're undercover law enforcement, we'll have a problem. If you're working for a competitor, we'll have a different problem." He paused, eyes never leaving hers. "If you're pursuing your own agenda... well, that could be negotiable."

"Quite confident you can handle any scenario."

"I didn't build and maintain what I have by being unprepared."

"What exactly do you think you've built, Massimiliano?" The use of his full name was deliberate, intimate. "An empire? A legacy?"

"Both." He studied her, trying to read behind the careful mask. "What about you? What did your father build?"

The question was a calculated risk, a shot in the dark based on instinct. For a fraction of a second, a second so brief he might have imagined it, something raw flashed in her eyes. Pain. Fury. Then nothing.

"My father was an accountant," she said smoothly. "Built nothing more exciting than tax shelters for mid-level executives."

Lie. But he didn't press. He'd file that reaction away, add it to the growing dossier of Tatiana's mysteries.

"And he taught his daughter to roll out of moving vehicles? Practical skill for tax season, I suppose."

She smiled, cold and sharp. "You'd be surprised what daughters learn when fathers want them prepared for the world."

Before he could respond, she was called away by another customer. Massimiliano nursed his drink, processing their exchange. The woman was a puzzle, each piece revealing contradictions rather than clarity.

He observed her for another hour, noting the careful distance she maintained with patrons, the way her eyes periodically swept the room, assessing threats, cataloging changes. Hyperawareness disguised as casual attention. Military training? Intelligence background? 

When the crowd thinned slightly, he returned to the bar. She acknowledged him with a slight nod but continued preparing a complex cocktail for another patron. He waited, letting the silence build between them.

Finally, she approached. "Another?"

"Not yet." He studied her face, searching for cracks in the facade. "You interest me, Tatiana."

"Dangerous position to be in."

"For you or for me?"

"Both, probably." She wiped down the bar, her movements precise and efficient. "Men like you don't appreciate mysteries they can't solve."

"And women like you?"

"We don't appreciate men who think ownership is the same as understanding."

The statement hung between them, loaded with implication. He smiled slowly, recognizing the barb for what it was.

"You think that's what I want? To own you?"

"I think men like you collect people like others collect art. To be possessed, displayed, controlled." Her voice remained casual, but her eyes had hardened. "I'm not a collection piece, Massimiliano."

"No," he agreed, leaning closer. "You're something else entirely."

The air between them charged with something beyond suspicion,something heated and dangerous that neither acknowledged directly.

She broke the tension first, stepping back slightly. "Was there something specific you needed, Mr. De Luca?"

He noted the deliberate return to formality, another boundary she was attempting to establish. He decided to let her have it. For now.

"Actually, yes." He gestured toward the premium bourbon on the top shelf. "The Pappy Van Winkle. Neat."

She reached for the bottle, her movements graceful, practiced, and controlled. The deep amber liquid cascaded into the glass, releasing the scent of aged oak, caramel, and the slightest whisper of charred vanilla. This bourbon that wasn't just rare. It was literally quite impossible to find unless you had power, connections, or both. Distilled only in limited batches, aged for over two decades, coveted by collectors, hoarded by the elite. This wasn't a drink people ordered on a whim.

As she poured, his gaze flicked to her wrist, catching the faint discoloration just as the sleeve of her blouse shifted. A bruise. Subtle, but there. A reminder of last night's escape.

"Your technique last night was impressive," he commented as she placed the drink before him. "But flawed. You favored your right side during the roll. Military would have trained that out of you."

Her expression didn't change, but something shifted in her posture…the barest tensing of shoulders.

"I'll keep that in mind for the next time I need to escape unwanted company."

"Private training, then." He took a contemplative sip. "Expensive. Not the kind of thing bartender salaries typically cover."

"I'm frugal."

"You're prepared." He set his glass down with deliberate precision. "The question is: for what?"

The bar had emptied considerably, the late hour thinning the crowd to the usual die-hards and those conducting business that couldn't wait for morning. Tatiana glanced at her watch, a modest Tissot that nonetheless cost more than a month of bartending wages. He raised his eyebrow, filing the Tissot away in his memory.

"Closing time approaches, Mr. De Luca. Is there anything else you need?"

He studied her for a long moment, then leaned forward, voice dropping to a near whisper.

"You know what happens to people who don't belong in my world?"

Tatiana met his gaze without flinching, a slow smile spreading across her lips. Not fear, not deference,something closer to anticipation.

"They learn to adapt," she replied softly. "Or they die."

The words hung between them, a challenge and acknowledgment wrapped in one. Neither looked away, the tension stretching taut as a garrote wire.

Finally, Massimiliano nodded once and stood, placing several hundred-dollar bills on the bar. Always cash, never cards. Cash never leave traces. Calculated as always, as expected of a De Luca, she thought.

"Good night, Tatiana. I look forward to seeing which path you choose."

As he strode toward the elevator, he felt her eyes tracking him. Good. Let her watch. Let her wonder.

The game was just beginning, and Massimiliano De Luca never lost at games he chose to play.

Even if the opponent proved far more interesting than he'd anticipated.