You'd Do Pizza Girl.

Before she could say anything; defend her father or even figure out what the bastard meant, a hand clamped onto her arm. Firm, unyielding. Cara snapped her head up, and there he was.

Edmondo.

“Aho!” she protested, but he wasn’t having it. He just grabbed her and started walking.

What the hell was his problem now?

Cara stumbled to keep up as he dragged her outside the estate and toward the car. His grip was tight... not painful, but strong enough to make her feel like a wayward kid caught stealing some Rafaello (coconut filled chocolate truffles). He didn’t say a word, and the silence was doing a number on her.

She shot a glare at Giovanni, hoping he’d have an answer or some clue about what was going on. But he just stood there at the doorway, watching.

And then the two of them, Edmondo and Giovanni, locked eyes. Their gazes were sure, like swords clashing. There were no words, none opened their mouths to talk, but she knew they were having some sort of conversation with their eyes.

“Can someone tell me what’s going on?” she hissed, but Edmondo wasn’t slowing down. Before she knew it, she was shoved into the car.

He slammed the door shut and circled to the driver’s seat. The car rumbled to life, and off they went.

She sat back, fuming. Her arms were crossed, her lips pursed. He was acting all mysterious and broody, and it was starting to get on her nerves. But what could she expect from a man who captured her!?

“He was supposed to bring his family,” she thought bitterly. “Play happy house with me while I play the wife role, wasn’t that the plan?” But instead, they were driving further and further away from everything she could call familiar.

She stole a glance at him.

His jaw was set, his expression harder than she’d ever seen it. And not the sexy kind of hard. This was cold, like he’d just had the worst day of his life and she was the one who caused it.

The farther they went, the more uneasy she became. They weren’t heading home to Sicily, that much was obvious. The city skyline loomed closer, and her mind started spinning.

'What if he’s taking me to kill me thinking I'm Agata?' she thought, her stomach sinking. 'No, not yet. If I'm Agata and I have his firearms then he shouldn't kill me now, right?'

Or worse… what if he was planning to get rid of her by selling her off?

'Okay, no,' she shook her head. 'He wouldn’t… would he?'

The silence was unbearable, so she finally broke it. “Aho.” Her voice came out sharper than she intended.

He didn’t answer, just glanced at her briefly. His gaze cut her courage into two before it returned to the road.

“Aho,” Cara said again, louder this time. With all the courage she had. “Where are you taking me? At least have the decency to tell me that.”

He exhaled, long and slow, like she was testing his patience. “You were very much closed-off and shy when you first got here,” he said. “Have you really changed so much in 14 days?”

That shut her up.

Her cheeks burned, and she sank back into her seat. Of course, he had to twist things around. Make her feel like the weak one.

They pulled up to a sleek, modern building that looked way too fancy for whatever this was supposed to be. Edmondo parked the car, got out, and opened her door without saying a word.

“Grande,” (great) she muttered as she followed him inside.

The place was huge, all glass walls and polished floors. But they didn’t stop to admire the architecture. He led her down a maze of hallways until they came to… an arena?

She froze.

The sounds hit her first; thuds of gloves against punching bags, grunts of effort, sharp commands being shouted. And there they were. Women. Dozens of them. Sparring and training like it was the Olympics.

Cara's jaw dropped. “Mamma mia!”

It was mesmerizing.

The energy, the strength, the focus… it was beautiful. She couldn’t help but feel a surge of excitement as she took it all in.

She turned to Edmondo, grinning. “So, what am I supposed to do here? Watch them? Train them? I could teach them a few moves, you know. I’m not bad.”

He didn’t answer.

His hands were in his pockets, his face carved out of stone. And not the nice kind of stone, more like burnt, barbecued rock.

“Fine,” she muttered, crossing her arms. “What then? You want me to go in there and box with them? I can box a little, no problem.”

Instead of answering, he motioned to someone. A man stepped forward, holding a bundle of clothes. Yellow. Blindingly yellow.

“What is this?” she asked, narrowing her eyes.

Edmondo didn’t even blink. He walked to a table, grabbed something, and turned back to her. In his hands was a pizza costume.

A. Freaking. Pizza. Costume.

He shoved it into her arms without a word.

“You’d do Pizza Girl,” he said. His tone was flat, almost bored.

Cara stared at him. “You’re kidding, right?”

He wasn’t kidding.

“What does this even mean?” she demanded.

“You’ll wear it. Take these,” he ordered, handing her a stack of flyers, “and go to the outskirts. Hand them out to everyone. Mothers, fathers, children… anyone who’ll listen. Tell them to come to the tournament hosted by the Don.”

Her mouth fell open. “Are you insulting me?”

He didn’t answer. Just gave her one of his trademark glares, the kind that said, 'I don’t have time for your nonsense.'

“Fine,” she snapped, shoving the costume under her arm. “But don’t think for a second I’m happy about this.”

Beside Cara, a girl in jeans and a ponytail pointed to a door labeled Female Restroom. She didn’t even bother speaking, just tilted her head like she was saying, 'Get moving.'

Cara glared at her, then at Edmondo.

“Unbelievable,” she muttered as she stomped toward the door. “Freaking pizza girl. This isn’t over.”