The desk does not ask for a name. The keycard opens a high-floor suite that faces the Duomo, the spire bright enough to find without lights. The room looks like money arranged to be invisible, stone and dark wood, a low sofa no one uses, a kitchen that exists to be admired, and stationery set squarely on the desk. I clear the pistol and lock it in the room safe. Weapons do not lie loose where there is softness.
“This isn’t a hotel,” she says, turning in a small arc, palms open.
“No,” I reply.
“It’s controlled,” she remarks. That is sharp. Control is easy to feel, harder to name.
I pour something meant to steady, not to wound, and hand her the glass. The paper on the desk is thick and white. If I write anything, it will be on that. She watches me the way someone watches an animal they would like to touch.
“What do you want from tonight?” I ask.
“Something that tastes real,” she says and smiles.
That is fair. I can give her the real and I can give her safe. I cannot give her what has not been decided. I hand her the glass and keep mine.
We talk more than I expect. She wants stories without names, whether I live in this city or only orbit. I tell her I am everywhere and nowhere. She tests the line with one fingernail and finds the steel beneath it. She stops testing. She tells me about a campaign shot on a glacier and how the crew cheered when the sun returned. About a town where people watch each other the way Milan watches shoes. About a mother who bakes, and the smellof cinnamon means morning. She does not say why she tells me this. I listen and do not ask.
I keep my rules. The lights stay low enough to blind the cameras and high enough to show only what I allow. She stands at the window and says the spire looks close enough to touch. It is an illusion. Most good things are.
The city drifts away. She moves nearer on the sofa, careless now. My hand finds her hip. She turns and kisses me. There is no small talk in it, only heat and decision. She makes the choice. I respect that.
The night draws out, taut and deliberate. I make certain her body knows this was not a mistake. At one point, she laughs into my mouth, a sound so clean I let it stay between us. When I lift my head, I see softness that is hers, not mine. I leave it untouched.
Later, she lies with her head on my chest, one hand flat against my sternum as if claiming ground. This is the moment I should send her home, hand her the dress, call the car. I pull the blanket over her shoulders instead and keep my eyes on the door. Habit never sleeps.
There is a point when Milan goes quiet. Dangerous men consider rest. I map the day ahead—the airport by nine if traffic holds, a message to Vincent confirming closure. The memory of this night will be gone before the plane climbs. I will not bring a woman from a balcony into our war. I will not carry our war into her kitchen.
The phone hums at two. The line holds. Benedetti stays off the list. The brand keeps Russo at the top. The Falchi runner checksin far from my building. Good. I turn the phone face down and cover the light. The door viewer shows an empty hall. Good.
She shifts and murmurs something I do not catch. She saysMamalike a child might say it in a dream, and something old in me stirs. I ignore it. I have ignored softer things. It keeps me alive.
The window pales. The city edges into morning. Light touches the curtain and writes a thin line across the floor. I could rise now, write the note I have written before.
Grazie. You deserve better than my world.
It would not be a lie.
I tell myselfbasta. Enough. And still, I stay.
5
LILA
Milan, Five years earlier
This isn’t a hotel. The door’s thick, the hinges glide like they were built for vaults, and a discreet lens in the hall clicks once as it recognizes him.
Inside, everything’s spare and expensive, stone and dark wood. Floor-to-ceiling windows turn the city into a dark lake. The cathedral sits in the distance like a lit jewel. The kitchen’s surgical, but the fridge holds Pellegrino and olives, and the linen smells like fresh cotton. It feels like a haven that offers room service.
I like the way he smells in here. Clean soap, a dry cologne that stays close to skin, and something warm I can’t name. Tonight’s still humming in my chest. The showstopper, the finale, the flash. The girl from a small town whose mother baked through winters just walked into a room with locks that listens to veins and a view that can make anyone feel untouchable. It’s heady, and the headiness makes me brave.
He opens a bottle without ceremony. Barolo. The label’s old-school and polite. He pours a small measure. I taste cherries and smoke and something earthy that lands low. It goes down smooth. I pour a little more and lean against the counter as if I belong here.
“We’ll never finish it,” he says.
“We could try,” I say and tip the bottle again. He watches, not judging, just tracking.
The jacket comes off first, then the holster disappears into a safe I don’t ask about. He moves like someone who clears rooms for a living and likes it when his furniture doesn’t argue. He unbuttons his shirt to the sternum, then takes it off. My mouth goes dry.
