[BL] Bound to My Enemy: The Billionaire Who Took My Girl-Chapter 133: Trapped

CASSIAN

The Marchetti representative led us to a black sedan idling at the curb. We drove for less than five minutes, deep into a side street that felt centuries older than the glittering hotels of the waterfront. We pulled up in front of an understated restaurant with an olive-green façade. No neon, no grand signage. Just Il Traguardo etched into the glass.

The man opened the car door. "Mr. Marchetti is inside. He’s requested a private audience." He paused, looking at my men. "Your security will need to wait here. The establishment is private, and Mr. Marchetti has his own people. Your men would make the other guests... uncomfortable."

It was a blatant lie. The street was empty. The restaurant looked closed.

"Sir, " Lake, my lead guard started, his hand moving toward the holster concealed by his jacket.

"Wait here," I commanded.

"Mr. Wolfe, with all due respect, I don’t advise entering a closed location without back-up."

"I said wait," I repeated, my voice leaving no room for argument. I wanted to see the endgame. I wanted to see how they planned to kill me.

The interior was a sharp contrast to the cold street. It was dim, lit by the flickering orange glow of a dozen candles. Classical music, something somber and Italian, drifted from hidden speakers. The walls were lined with dark wood and oil paintings of stormy seascapes.

There were no other diners. Just the staff, who stood like statues against the walls, and the security. There was a lot of security. Men with thick necks and bulges under their arms stood at every exit.

The man led me to a private dining room in the back. Lorenzo Marchetti was seated at the head of a long, lace-covered table. He was older, with a shock of silver hair and eyes that looked like they had been polished by the sea.

His guards, four of them, were positioned in the corners of the room. They didn’t look like gala security. They looked like soldiers.

"Mr. Wolfe," Marchetti said, standing and extending a hand. "What an honor. I’ve heard much about the Wolfe legacy."

I shook his hand. His grip was firm, the skin like parchment. "Mr. Marchetti. You have a strange way of inviting guests to dinner."

"I believe in hospitality," he said, gesturing to the chair across from him. "Especially when discussing business of this magnitude. Please. Sit."

I sat, my eyes never leaving the guards. On the table, a multi-course meal was already laid out. It was a traditional Italian spread, antipasti, wine, and a steaming bowl of Zuppa di Pesce in front of each chair.

Marchetti began to talk. He talked about port acquisitions in Marseilles, about real estate ventures in Rome, about the "brilliant" move I’d made with Hendrix. He spoke with the measured cadence of a man used to being listened to. He talked numbers, projections, and ROIs. It was all perfectly legitimate. It was exactly the kind of conversation I should have been having.

But as he spoke, I caught a scent.

It was faint, buried deep beneath the aroma of garlic, saffron, and saltwater. A sharp, chemical tang. It was the smell of bitter almonds and something metallic.

The soup had been laced. A sedative, likely. Or perhaps a slow-acting toxin.

"Please. Eat," Marchetti said, gesturing to my bowl. "My chef spent three hours on the broth. It’s a family secret."

I picked up the silver spoon, the weight of it familiar in my hand. I brought it toward my face, pausing just below my nose as if to savor the aroma. The chemical scent was unmistakable now.

Marchetti was watching me. He hadn’t touched his own soup. He was waiting for the first swallow.

I had a choice. I could stand up, flip the table, and try to fight my way out. Or I could see how far this rabbit hole went. I was reckless, Cyan was right about that.

There was a part of me that wanted to feel the poison hit. A part of me that wanted to prove I could survive whatever they threw at me.

Besides... I had absolutely nothing to lose.

I dipped the spoon in. I lifted a small, controlled amount to my lips.

I took a sip.

The taste was there, a slight metallic bitterness that coated the back of my tongue. I swallowed it.

I met Marchetti’s eyes and leaned back, a small, cold smile touching my lips. "Delicious. Your chef is talented."

Marchetti’s smile widened. He relaxed, his shoulders dropping an inch. "I’m so glad you approve, Cassian. It would be a shame for your last meal to be anything less than perfection."

He continued to talk, his voice becoming a background hum as I monitored my heart rate. My pulse was steady. Whatever was in the soup, it hadn’t hit my bloodstream yet.

"Your father must be very proud," Marchetti mused. "Building such an empire from the bones of his enemies. He has high expectations for you, I’m sure."

"He has expectations," I agreed, my voice remaining level.

"And you’ve exceeded them." Marchetti’s eyes went dark, the warmth vanishing like a blown-out candle. "But even the greatest empires eventually have to pay their debts."

Then, I felt it.

The sudden, cold weight of a gun barrel pressing into the base of my skull. One of the guards had moved with the silence of a ghost, circling around the table while I was focused on Marchetti.

"Don’t move," a voice hissed behind me.

"Hands on the table, Mr. Wolfe," Marchetti said, his voice now devoid of any hospitality. "Slowly."

I complied. I flattened my hands against the white tablecloth, feeling the vibration of the restaurant’s quiet music through the wood.

Marchetti didn’t look like a businessman anymore. He looked like a judge. "I’m afraid, Mr. Wolfe, this meeting isn’t about real estate. It’s about a debt that started four years ago. It’s about a son who wants his father’s blood."

The gun pressed harder into my spine. I was trapped, poisoned, and staring at a man who wanted me dead.

"And here I thought the soup was the main event," I said, my voice dangerously calm.