“And ruin the illusion?”
“You could start a new one.”
“That’s your problem,” I say. “You make it sound simple.”
“Maybe it is.” His smile holds. For a moment, the room feels smaller, lighter. I hope the song doesn’t end.
We stop near the French doors. A waiter passes withsupplì, slender rice croquettes still hot from the oil, smelling faintly of saffron and salt. I take one. It burns my fingertips. Teo shiftscloser, his shoulder screening me while I blow on it and bite through the crisp shell. The center stretches, molten and soft, a thread of cheese pulling until it breaks. I finish it in two quick bites. He watches my mouth as if I’ve stolen his second drink.
“Balcony,” I say, tapping the brass latch.
“You will be cold.”
“I’ll live.”
He opens the door. Milan at night greets us with a rush that smells faintly of stone and car exhaust and winter. The palazzo’s balcony runs the length of the room. Lanterns hang at intervals, each with a falling candle that makes the stone glow. A spire cuts the skyline in silver. A tram hums along the street below, sparks at the wire.
I lean on the railing and let the city climb up to me. Warm air from the ballroom brushes the back of my neck before surrendering to the chill outside. It feels clean after perfume and talk. Teo stands close enough for me to feel that he is warmer than the night.
“I have three parties after this,” I say. “A magazine dinner, a rooftop thing, and a hotel suite with a room-size speaker passing for casual.”
“Do you want to go to them?”
“No.” I laugh. “I want to eat pizza on a curb and not be photographed while I chew.”
“Then do that.” His voice is calm, almost amused.
“You say that like it’s simple,” I murmur, pulling the silk shawl tighter around my shoulders.
“It usually is.” He rests his arms on the railing, gaze following the tram’s sparks as they fade into the dark.
He shifts, and I see the line of a holster ghosting the inside of his jacket. It could be my eyes making up stories, a trick of shadow. It could be exactly what it is. I don’t look at it a second time.
“You never answered my question,” I say instead, turning so my shoulder touches the stone. My hip faces him. “What kind of problems do you make smaller?”
“The kind that grows teeth if you leave them alone,” he says.
“That’s vague,” I say.
“That is the point,” he says.
I tilt my head and study him through narrowed eyes. “You don’t want to be in pictures,” I guess. “You stand where you can see doors. You scan the room, and you count the people who aren’t looking at you. You wear a suit that costs money, but your cuff has a scratch like you hit a wall this afternoon. You don’t drink what you pour. You make problems smaller.” I smile. “You are security.”
He considers me. “Close enough,” he says.
“For whom?” I ask.
“For people who need it,” he says, and his mouth flattens in a line that should turn me away. It doesn’t.
“You are not a bodyguard with a client list and a website,” I say softly. “You’re… something else.”
He looks out over the city. “You are good at seeing what is there,” he says. “Do not look too hard tonight.”
“Are you warning me?” I ask, half-smiling.
“I am suggesting you pick the part you want,” he says, and when he looks back at me, I feel seen, which is almost unfair. “You can have your pizza and your photo, but not always at the same time.”
“I don’t even like pizza,” I say.
