Chapter 225: "No Emails"

Jeremiah set two cups of chamomile tea on the low table in his studio, then settled onto the sofa beside Aren.

"My apologies, darling, but this is all I have to offer tonight." He picked up his cup. "Fortunately, I happen to make exceptionally good chamomile tea. I’m certain you’ll love it."

Aren accepted hers with both hands. The tea was still steaming, its floral fragrance oddly out of place after the story Jeremiah had just told her.

"So, if I understand correctly..." She looked down at her tea, considering how best to phrase the question. "...You’ve been living as a Castellano ever since that day?"

Jeremiah smiled.

"An excellent conclusion, my dear."

"And since you said you painted that portrait of your mother..." Her gaze moved toward the wall. "I assume you also painted the ones displayed near the Pit."

His smile grew warmer.

"Another excellent observation."

She turned toward him.

"Would you please stop smiling like that?"

"Would you prefer that I cry instead?"

Aren sighed and took a sip of tea.

’This new agreement is going to be troublesome.’

Before tonight, Jeremiah Castellano had merely been a man whose motives she couldn’t understand. Now, she knew where some of that cheerfulness came from.

The knowledge hadn’t made him easier to deal with. If anything, it had made her feelings about him more complicated.

"Truthfully, I still don’t understand how someone like me could help you become Don." She set her cup down and turned fully toward him. "But I’m here now. So tell me what you need."

Jeremiah looked delighted to have her undivided attention.

"Ah! So we’re finally getting to the heart of the matter."

After another leisurely sip, he rose from the sofa and began pacing through the studio, gesturing with his usual animation.

"You see, there’s a little tradition within House Castellano. Or at least, that’s what my father told me. Once you’ve been named heir, there are two ways to become Don."

He raised one finger.

"The first is the traditional route. You wait for the current Don to step down, get shot, or die miserably in his sickbed, and then you take his place. Precisely how my miserable excuse for a father became Don."

He raised a second finger, lowering his voice to a conspiratorial murmur.

"The other way is money."

Aren frowned.

"Money?"

"Ten billion dollars."

She stared at him.

"...Ten billion?"

"Not ten billion accumulated over several years, darling," he clarified, apparently concerned that she might underestimate the requirement. "Ten billion dollars in revenue generated within a single year. A tiny personal challenge, really. The moment I reach that target, I qualify to become Don."

Aren glanced down at her tea.

There was nothing remotely tiny about ten billion dollars. She knew House Castellano operated an extensive network of casinos and fight clubs, but generating that much revenue in a single year was another matter entirely.

’No wonder he’s been so obsessed with making money since becoming heir.’

’He wants to become Don as quickly as possible.’

"Is that why you signed me?" she asked. "So you could make more money?"

Jeremiah nodded approvingly.

"Well, don’t take this personally, darling, but a socialite whose name has been associated almost exclusively with scandals like you was always going to attract attention."

Aren gave him a flat look, but he continued without the slightest shame.

"And attention, as you may have noticed, is wonderfully profitable. Over the years, I’ve tried all sorts of things to reach that ridiculous target. Some successful, some less so. But none produced anything quite like your debut. You made me nearly two hundred million dollars in a single night."

Her eyes widened.

"I did?"

"You did," Jeremiah confirmed happily. "And that was only your first night! Imagine how much more we could make if you were willing to entertain some of my more creative ideas."

Aren fell silent.

His behavior after her debut fight suddenly made much more sense.

He hadn’t been so enthusiastic simply because she’d won. He had discovered a remarkably profitable attraction, one that could bring him closer to his goal far more quickly than he’d anticipated.

"Perhaps..." She considered it for a moment. "Photoshoots wouldn’t be such a bad idea."

Jeremiah stopped pacing, his expression going blank.

"...Photoshoots?"

"I suppose we could make a plush version of me, too." She glanced away, already regretting the words. "If that would help."

For once, Jeremiah seemed to have nothing to say. He looked at her with an unfamiliar softness, as though he hadn’t expected her to remember the ridiculous suggestions he’d thrown around after her fight, much less offer to participate.

"So you really were listening."

"Well, I was there," Aren replied awkwardly. "And you were talking rather passionately."

A small, almost absentminded smile appeared on his lips before his usual enthusiasm returned.

"Can we make Biscuit merchandise, too?"

"Don’t push it."

She gave him a warning look.

"Biscuit values his privacy."

"All right, all right." Jeremiah raised both hands. "No violating Biscuit’s privacy. I would never dream of compromising a gentleman’s dignity."

Aren regarded him with suspicion.

She wasn’t entirely convinced he wouldn’t produce a line of Biscuit plush toys the moment her back was turned, but before she could make her position any clearer, he’d already resumed pacing.

"But what about my other ideas? I’ve already thought of several. You against two fighters at once, for example. Or an entire team, one opponent after another, with no breaks between bouts. We could even arrange a championship against fighters from other clubs across the country."

Aren’s expression darkened as the list continued. She could see Jeremiah was now more determined than ever to turn her into the centerpiece of every conceivable fighting spectacle.

Still, the suggestions themselves weren’t entirely unreasonable.

A succession of fresh opponents would test her endurance, while competing against fighters from other clubs could expose her to unfamiliar techniques and fighting styles.

’Those might actually be useful training opportunities.’

She glanced at him briefly.

’And... to be honest, I feel bad for him, too.’

"I suppose those ideas are worth considering," she said at last.

Jeremiah turned toward her with such immediate delight that she almost regretted speaking.

"And you’ll certainly want to consider them once you hear what I’m offering in return! Half of the ten billion you help me generate goes into your account. In addition, House Lombardi will receive exclusive rights to develop several more hotels and clubs in Castellano territory."

He stopped before the sofa, looking so hopeful that Aren could practically see an invisible tail wagging behind him.

"How does that sound? Enough to persuade you to join me aboard this little boat of vengeance?"

Aren folded her arms.

"I accept."

"Excellent!"

"On one more condition."

Jeremiah’s smile twitched.

"How disheartening. What is it?"

She studied him for a moment.

"How long has it been since anyone called you Jeremy?"

Jeremiah went still.

The change was so immediate that Aren almost wished she’d approached the question more carefully.

A moment ago, he’d been discussing billions of dollars and fighting championships with irrepressible excitement. Now, he stood before her without any expression at all.

"I... don’t know."

His gaze shifted away.

"Too long, I suppose. Why do you ask?"

Aren hesitated.

"...May I call you Jeremy, then? When we’re alone, of course."

Jeremiah didn’t answer.

He searched her face with a concentration she hadn’t seen from him before, as though expecting to find some trace of mockery. Whatever he found seemed to reassure him, though his voice was quiet when he finally spoke.

"You really want to?"

Aren nodded.

"It’s your real name, after all." Her gaze moved briefly toward Dorothy’s portrait. "It’s the name your mother gave you. And, to be honest, I think I like it more than Jeremiah. Would you hate that?"

"No."

He seemed surprised by how readily he’d answered. He glanced down, then back at her, a small smile beginning to form.

"No, I wouldn’t hate that at all."

Aren smiled, too.

"Good. I also like it better when you call me Miss Lombardi."

It was an ordinary enough request, yet something about her small, warm smile left him unexpectedly unsure of what to say.

"Ah. Um."

He cleared his throat.

"Miss Lombardi, then."

He suddenly didn’t know what to do with his hands.

"Um, I suppose we could proceed with the photoshoots, naturally. And perhaps increase the schedule. The fight schedule, I mean. I’ll have Marco send you the names of your opponents for next week, along with their statistics. I’ll also arrange for footage of their previous fights to be emailed to you, and—"

"Jeremy."

He stopped.

"...Yes?"

She regarded him gently.

"You know... we could go through those arrangements together at, um... Primavera. Or here, if you prefer. Instead of emails, I mean."

Jeremiah faltered.

For a while, the studio was quiet except for the faint hum of the ventilation. But when a small smile returned to his face, he didn’t have force it, or wonder whether she would find it pleasing.

"All right, Miss Lombardi."

His voice was soft.

"No emails."