He scoffs, stabbing a piece of lamb with his fork. “You always have an angle.”
He cuts a piece of meat and brings it to his mouth, chewing slowly, like he’s bracing for poison.
I reach for my own fork, tearing into the lamb as the dessert arrives—strawberries, glistening and red as fresh wounds, resting on top of a swirl of whipped cream so smooth it looks airbrushed. A lace-thin sugar tuile leans against the rim like a blade. The plate’s beautiful, but he barely glances at it.
I swirl my wine again, watching the way it stains the glass like blood in a basin.
“Tell me something,piccolino,” I murmur.
“Stop calling me that,” he snaps.
I smile like he didn’t speak. “What kind of man were you before this? Before Braga. Beforeme.”
His chewing slows.
Then he shrugs. “I don’t remember.”
“Funny,” I say, letting my voice drop just a little. “Because I asked your littlefriendin the basement about you.”
His eyes narrow, sharp as glass. “You talked about me?”
I tilt my head. “We had a conversation. A very productive one.”
Julian sets his fork down with a sharpclink.
“And whatexactlydid he tell you?”
I lean back in my chair, tapping the rim of my glass with one finger.
“That you’re not who you say you are.”
He doesn’t flinch, but his throat works. I catch the way his Adam’s apple bobs, just once. And there it is.
Thelie,blooming beneath his skin.
“That so?” he says, his voice thinner now. “Let me guess. He told you I’m some kind of monster. Or Braga’s golden boy?”
I smile, slow and sharp. “Golden boy?” I echo. “Cute. But no, that wasn’t the phrase he used.”
He grabs his wineglass, downs it too fast to enjoy the taste, then leans in, elbows on the table.
“You’re getting off on this,”he says. “Cornering me like this. Twisting the knife. Youlikewatching me squirm.”
I reach across the table, letting my fingertips brush the inside of his wrist, just enough contact to remind him that I can take whatever I want. That he’s not as untouchable as he pretends to be.
“I don’t twist knives,” I murmur. “I drive them in slowly.”
His laugh is quiet and sharp, but he doesn’t pull away.
“You think I’m trying to break you.” My thumb glides along his pulse, steady and hot beneath his skin. “But I just want to watch you come undone all on your own.”
“I’m not pretending, Nico.”
“No?” I lean in, smile curling on my lips. “Then why are your hands shaking?”
His breath catches, just for a moment.
“I told you…” he starts. “I worked for Braga. Started as a P.I. Then he dragged me into the rest: smuggling, surveillance, dirtier shit. He kept me close. Used me. Drugged me—”
