She sets her glass down a little too hard, and I fear it may break.
“I’m handling it,” she says. “I… I have it all under control.”
“You don’t have to pretend with me.”
“I’m not pretending.”
I take a step forward, and this time I am closer than before—so close that if I just reached out, I would be touching her.
“That man can become unhinged at any given moment, and I am not comfortable having you in the line of fire like that.” I try to keep my voice even. “I will put it plainly for you, bella. He is not a good man.”
She flinches.
“You were terrified, bella. You can pretend all you want, but I saw it—because I see you. I. See. You.”
She closes her eyes. Pain contorts her features, but it’s not the kind of pain you can fix with a bandage. It’s emotional, deep, the kind that wraps chains around your ribs and squeezes.
“You don’t have to say anything,” I add. “You know where to find me.”
She opens her eyes again, and for a second, I think she might cry. But she doesn’t. She just stares at me, wide open and hurting.
I step forward, and before I can talk myself out of it, I lower my head and kiss her cheek softly. She lets out a low gasp, but I pull back before she can react.
“I’ll have someone come fix your door in an hour,” I tell her. “No one will come up the elevator; I’ll have the concierge make sure of that.”
I don’t wait for her response. I simply turn and walk out of her apartment, closing the broken door behind me as best I can.
She can’t handle Giacomo—not on her own anyway—but the moment she allows me to, I will make sure his punishment comes swiftly and with precision.
I shoot to kill. No questions asked.
12
BEATRICE
Three weeks. That’s how long it’s been since the gala — since the moment that rearranged everything I thought I understood.
Matteo.This agreement.
Giacomo.And every jagged thing in between.
Since that night, I’ve started sleeping with the lights on. I’ve never feared the dark, but now it presses on me in ways I can’t explain, like a hand over my mouth.
I hate it.
Somewhere beyond the stall, the soft trill of a violin leaks into the tile room — wrong, eerie.
This place was never meant to witness blood or fear, yet here I am, feeling both settle beneath my skin like unwelcome shadows.
Giacomo hasn’t brought up that night—well, not directly anyway. But the silence is worse than his anger. Now it feelslike his rage is just simmering beneath the surface of his skin. It stretches across our dinners like unspoken threats.
I feel like I’m walking on eggshells.
I try to put on my best smile, make sure I play the role he wants me to play.
Today, we’re having lunch at a place he likes—Italian, upscale, linen napkins, and a wine list older than me. It’s so fancy it makes me feel out of place. But I sit pretty, and I speak when he speaks to me.
The waiter brings the drinks. I smile politely, just as rehearsed. Maybe one day the smile will reach my eyes, but for now my lips are good enough.
