“My husband doesn’t need to hear about this, does he?”
Matteo’s away on business—something urgent, something he didn’t elaborate on. I didn’t ask. If it has anything to do with Giacomo, he’ll never tell me. He still thinks keeping me in the dark is protecting me.
The guard nods quickly. “Of course, ma’am. Should I call the doctor?”
“No need.” I shake my head. “Just need some rest. Maybe some food.”
Truth is… I’ve been off for weeks. Exhausted. Nauseous. For a moment, I thought maybe—before I shut the thought down completely.
I make my way inside, chest still burning from the run. The mansion feels too big, too quiet, my thoughts echoing off every room. But at least the fog in my mind has lifted a little.
When I walk into the kitchen, I find a very large Italian man sitting at the counter, drinking my expensive coffee like he owns the place. His eyes are fixed on his phone, a small crease between his brows.
Great. Of course Matteo wouldn’t leave me unsupervised.
My shadow has returned.
“Oh, you’re here,” I mutter under my breath.
He glances up. “You look pale as a ghost.”
“Hello to you too,” I say dryly as I peel off my jacket and head straight for the fridge.
He watches me—always watches me. I can feel the weight of his stare along my spine, but I ignore it and focus on finding something to eat before I pass out.
“Are you sick?” He doesn’t even bother with a proper greeting. “Seriously, you look pale, principessa.”
“I’m fine,” I cut him off before he can spiral. “Just tired. Worn out. Why are you in my house?”
“Doesn’t look like just tired.” His eyes narrow. “Should we get the doctor? And come to think of it, you’ve dropped some weight.”
I point a finger at him. “Insulting my looks and my weight—within one minute. Classy, Valerio.”
“My job is to be observant.” He sips his coffee and sets his phone aside. “I notice every detail about you, Beatrice. I even notice when your breathing pattern changes. If you’re offended by a warning sign I picked up on, that’s on you, not me.”
I roll my eyes. “You are annoying, do you know that?”
“So I’ve heard.” His gaze tracks me as I pull out the milk. “I’m calling the doctor. And you can’t have that; you’re lactose intolerant.”
I pause. “How do you know that?”
He shrugs, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “It’s my job to know everything about you.”
“Well, I’m fine.” I pull the milk out anyway. “No need to call anyone or report this to my husband. He doesn’t need to worry when he’s off doing—whatever the hell he’s doing. My son won’t tell me a thing, and I didn’t bother asking Matteo because I know I’ll only get lies.”
Valerio clears his throat. Not nervous—his way of saying:drop it.
“Valerio…” I level him with a glare. “Tell me.”
“That’s above your pay grade, I’m afraid.”
Ass.
“You don’t pay me,” I shoot back. “Just tell me what it involves. Can you at least tell me if it has to do with that asshole or not?”
“You know it does.” No hesitation. No softening.
I’m a little shocked he actually admitted it. “So?—”
