Chapter 3 Midnight On Lake Como

The wrought-iron gates of the Bellini estate on Lake Como were unlocked.

Whether Marco had forgotten to set the security protocol or simply knew I wouldn’t turn back, I didn't care. The crisp midnight air swept off the lake, carrying the scent of pine and wet stone as I limped down the paved driveway toward the detached glass-and-steel complex set against the hillside.

Inside, the floodlights were blaring. Through the floor-to-ceiling glass, I saw it: a full-sized, Olympic-spec volleyball court, complete with high-speed camera rigs, force-plate flooring, and pristine wood parquet.

I pushed the heavy glass door open. The quiet humming of the climate control system greeted me. In the center of the court stood a cart filled with professional leather balls.

I didn't wait for permission. I shed my heavy jacket, picked up a ball, and walked to the baseline.

My left knee clicked a dull, familiar grinding sensation as I tossed the ball high into the air. I took two aggressive steps, drove off my right foot to compensate, and slammed a cross-court serve into the far corner. The sound of the ball impacting the court cracked like a gunshot through the empty facility.

"Your toss is drifting three inches to the left to protect your lead leg," a voice echoed from the dark gallery above.

I caught my breath, wiping sweat from my forehead, and looked up. Marco stood on the iron balcony overlooking the court. He had discarded his suit jacket, his white shirt sleeves rolled up to his elbows, his hands resting on the railing. His expression was as unreadable as it had been in Milan.

"And you're late, Signorina Romano," he added, descending the metal spiral staircase with deliberate, measured steps. "I expected you two hours ago."

"I had to drive," I said, catching another ball from the rack. "And I don't care about the drift. The ball landed inside the line."

"In a real match, a world-class block reads that drift before your hand even touches the leather," Marco said, stepping onto the parquet floor. His presence instantly made the massive gym feel smaller, more suffocating. "You are compensating. You are using raw upper-body power to cover for the fact that your left leg isn't transferring force correctly."

He stopped five feet from me, reaching into his pocket to pull out a stopwatch and a remote control. With a click, the high-speed camera rigs mounted around the ceiling whirred to life, pointing their lenses directly at the baseline.

"You called me a coward in my office," Marco said, his voice dropping into a dangerous, quiet register. "You claimed you wanted an evaluation. So let's evaluate."

He pointed toward the far end of the court. "Fifteen minutes. Continuous movement. Lateral slides, rapid recovery sets, and full-approach jumps off the force plates. If your knee collapses once, or if your lateral speed drops below five meters per second, you leave my estate and you never contact me again."

My pulse spiked, a rush of adrenaline washing away the exhaustion of the drive. "And if I pass?"

"If you survive fifteen minutes without destroying your graft, I coach you," Marco said, his eyes locking onto mine with absolute severity. "Under two conditions. First: total, unconditional obedience on this court. You do not question my drills, my medical staff, or my schedule. Second: no personal distractions. No media, no public statements, and no contact with Lorenzo or Bianca until I say you are ready."

"Agreed," I said without a second of hesitation.

Marco clicked the stopwatch. "Go."

The next fifteen minutes were pure hell.

Marco didn't treat me like an injured former star; he treated me like a machine he was testing to its breaking point. He fed balls rapidly across the court, forcing me into brutal lateral dives, instant recoveries, and vertical spikes. My lungs burned. Sweat stung my eyes. Every time my left foot hit the force plates, a sharp spike of pain shot up my calf into my thigh.

Do not buckle, I screamed at myself internally. Do not give him the satisfaction.

On the final drill, Marco tossed a ball high over the net, tight to the left tape. It was an awkward, dangerous set the exact position I was in eighteen months ago when Bianca undercut me.

My brain screamed at me to pull back. My body hesitated for a fraction of a second.

"Jump!" Marco roared from the sideline.

I bit down hard, pushed through the blinding fear, and launched off both feet. I soared into the air, hit the ball with everything I had left, and drove it straight down into the floorboards on his side of the net.

I landed. My left knee buckled hard, sending me crashing sideways onto the wood, sliding two feet before coming to a stop.

Silence filled the gym, broken only by my ragged, violent breathing. I lay on the cold floor, clutching my left thigh, fighting the black spots dancing in my vision.

Footsteps approached. Marco stopped over me, looking down at his stopwatch.

"Fourteen minutes and fifty-two seconds," he said flatly. "Your lateral speed remained above threshold. But you hesitated on the final approach."

"I didn't... miss," I panted, forcing myself up onto my elbows, staring up at him with unyielding fury. "I hit the floor... inside the line."

Marco looked at the digital display on the biomechanics monitor attached to the wall. The force-plate data was flashing in yellow and green—imperfect, but structurally sound. His graft had held. My graft had held.

For a long moment, the silence between us stretched tight enough to snap. The cold, unapproachable billionaire stared down at the bruised, exhausted athlete who refused to die.

"You're reckless," Marco said softly.

"I'm a player," I countered, dragging myself up until I was sitting, refusing his hand when he made a subtle motion to assist me. "Are you coaching me or not?"

Before Marco could answer, a small, sleepy voice drifted through the open double doors of the gym.

"Papa?"

Marco turned instantly. Sofia stood in her pink pajamas, rubbing her eyes, holding a stuffed rabbit by its ear. She looked around the cavernous gym, bewildered by the bright lights, before her eyes landed on a loose volleyball that had rolled away from the rack and was slowly descending down the slight incline of the access ramp toward her.

The ball caught a bad bounce against the edge of the aluminum ramp, veering sharply toward the heavy metal storage rack right next to where the toddler was standing.

Instinct overtook pain.

Before Marco could move, I lunged forward from my position on the floor, launching my upper body across the polished wood. I extended my right arm out at maximum reach, sliding under the falling ball a split second before it could clip the toddler's head or knock her backward onto the concrete ramp.

The ball bounced harmlessly off my forearm, soaring gently into the air, while my shoulder slammed against the floorboards.

Sofia blinked, looking down at me in surprise.

I stayed on the floor, breathing heavily, looking up at the little girl. "You okay, shortcake?"

Sofia gave a small, shy nod, stepping closer to pat my shoulder with her tiny hand.

Marco reached us a second later, scooping Sofia up into his arms. His face was pale, his breathing unusually heavy. He looked down at me—at the sweat dripping down my neck, the bruised shoulder, and the fierce, protective fire still burning in my eyes.

The iron walls around him seemed to fracture, just for a fraction of a second.

"Tomorrow morning," Marco said, his voice deep, low, and completely decided. "Six o'clock sharp. If you're one minute late, the gates stay locked."

He turned and carried his daughter back toward the estate house. I lay on the gym floor, staring up at the high rafters, a slow, fiercely triumphant smile breaking through the pain in my chest.

The comeback had officially begun.