My heart stops. My hand falters. Shit.
"It’s nothing," I lie, my head bowing automatically. "Nobody hurt me. I fell off a horse."
I push to my feet. Luciano rises too. His hand comes up, gentle but firm, tilting my chin toward him. His eyes burn. "Marcello won’t be happy seeing this."
"It’s nothing, really," I insist, trying to laugh it off. It comes out raspy and fake. "Like I said, I just fell off a horse."
Violet steps forward. "If that’s the case, you should be checked out. I can?—"
Panic seizes me. I shake my head quickly. "That’s not necessary. I’m fine."
"Sophia?" a deep voice calls from behind me.
My stomach plummets. No. I don’t even have to turn around. I know that voice. I feel it in my spine. “Roberto,” I answer, pressing the tissue back to my face, turning with every ounce of composure I can scrape together. "My husband, Roberto Giordano," I say, almost like I’m reminding myself.
"I told you to wait for me," he snaps, stepping into the room and gripping my elbow hard. "You shouldn’t be here alone."
His fingers bite into my skin. I don’t look at them. I can’t. I just keep my eyes down. "I didn’t want to distract you. You’re so busy."
My voice sounds so small and weak. I hate it. But it’ssafer this way.
I feel Violet’s eyes on us. I don’t need to look to know what she’s thinking. I’ve seen that look before. The look of someone who knows exactly what’s going on, but also knows they can’t stop it. Not now.
Roberto steers me toward the door. I throw one last look over my shoulder at Marcello. He doesn’t move. He doesn’t stir. And I don’t know if I’ll ever get the chance to see him again.
They stitched me up fast.Six neat little loops closed the straight line of where I cut myself with the knife earlier—my valid explanation to be here. This way, I don't have to hide from the security cameras.
My phone vibrates on the stainless-steel tray next to the exam table. I glance at the screen:
Leo:
She’s here.
I had him hack into the hospital security system and watch for Sophia. He didn't ask why, which is exactly why we get along so well. I exhale through my nose and realize how ragged itsounds.
The nurse, already on her way out, stops and gives me a funny glance. I shrug. "I think the pain meds are wearing off."
"I can bring you some more," she offers.
"I'm good." I slide off the table, ignoring the pull at the stitches, and give her a smile, making sure to keep the scarred side of my face turned away from her as the sight rattled her earlier. She nods, eager to get out and away from me. Like all prey animals, she senses the predator in me and can't get away fast enough.
I checked the entries and exits when I arrived. There's only one way in or out of the ICU unless you count the fire stairs—and I doubt Sophia will take those. She'll have to pass the east corridor, where I station myself just beyond the vending machine alcove, shadowed and still. The scent of antiseptic hangs heavily in the air. Not many people are coming and going here, so it's easy to keep the elevator in sight. Further down the corridor, I spy several men who are undoubtedly guards, and I assume that's where Marcello is being kept.
My heart rate picks up the moment I hear the click of heels, then I see her.
For a breathless few seconds, time stutters. Sophia glides down the hallway like she owns it. Her dark coat is belted at the waist, and her beautiful black hair is pinned back; her face is pale and pulled tight. Her eyes look exhausted and haunted. She keeps a tissue pressed to her cheek, and oversized sunglasses cover most of her face. But I supposethat's to be expected with her brother in critical condition.
Still, she’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.
And then… he's there.
Roberto.
Smug, patronizing bastard with his hand on her back like he owns her. He leans close and whispers something. She stops, the smile on her lips is perfect, but now that I know, I see it. I see the stiffness in her shoulders. The way her arms never quite relax, never fall naturally at her sides like they used to. I see the slight hitch in her breath as he leans in, how her back arches—not toward him, but away.
Like she’s flinching, without letting herself flinch. She doesn’t laugh. Not really. Her lips part, but no sound comes out. She nods at something he says, too quickly, too mechanically. She’s not with him. She’sperformingfor him. A white-hot rage sears through me so fast my vision edges red. How the hell did I miss it? How could I have been that blind?Because you refused to look, the little voice in my head sneers. Her hand lifts to brush a piece of hair behind her ear, but there’s nothing there. Her fingers tremble as they fall. And that's when I notice the bruise.
Faint. Almost perfectly hidden beneath her concealer. Just beneath her jaw, near the hollow of her throat. A thumbprint.
