“Where were you?” he asks finally. His voice is low, deceptively even.
Almost calm. Almost.
I’ve had enough time to see past the version of him he shows the world. There is a pot simmering beneath his ribs, a slow, controlled boil, and if I want to avoid the scalding eruption, I need to move carefully. Very carefully.
“I went out with friends,” I say, keeping my voice steady by sheer force. “I needed air.”
“Air.” He repeats the word slowly as he rises from the piano bench, each vertebra aligning with eerie precision. “Is that whatwe’re calling it now?” His head tilts, eyes narrowing. “Your phone was off. So was your location,cara.”
My stomach sinks. “I was with my friends, Giacomo. Old school friends who came into the city.”
He steps closer.
And with every step he takes, something inside me drops a little lower, like a stone sinking in cold water. The room shrinks. The tension thickens. The air tightens.
“Which friends?” he presses, voice soft but deadly. “And why have I never heard of them?”
“You never asked.”
Wrong answer.
“Don’t be smart with me, Beatrice.” His voice sharpens, slicing clean through the distance between us until only a breath remains. I can smell the sharp bite of his cologne, the scent of airports and anger. “Where were you?”
“I told you. I was out with friends because I needed?—”
He moves.
Fast.
Too fast for me to even brace.
His hand clamps around my wrist with a violent snap of pressure, fingers digging in hard enough to send a bolt of pain up my arm. My breath catches in my chest as he yanks me closer, his face inches from mine, eyes wide with something dark and unhinged.
“Giacomo—” I hiss, stumbling back until my spine meets the counter. “You’re hurting me.”
But the words don’t soften him. They sharpen him.
His grip tightens, twisting my wrist, pain spiking so sharply I gasp. “Do you think I’m a fool?” he growls, teeth barely parting.
“Let go of me. Giacomo,” I manage, my voice tight with pain. “Let go— you’re hurting my wrist. Stop?—”
He doesn’t stop.
The hurt doesn’t deter him. It feeds him.
He doesn’t let go—not completely—but the pressure on my wrist eases enough for the sharpest pain to ebb. I try to pull back, to reclaim even a sliver of space, but he steps in with me, closing the distance until his chest almost brushes mine. His breath fans across my cheek, hot and furious, dragging a cold shiver straight down my spine.
“Do you see this?” He lifts my left hand sharply, forcing the ring inches from my face. The diamond glints in the low light like an accusation. “You wear my ring. You are my woman. That means your safety is my responsibility. You don’t just ignore my calls and vanish.” His voice deepens, darkens. “I have enemies in every corner of this city. They know who you are now. They know what you mean to me. They know how to strike if they want to.” A muscle jumps in his jaw. “I refuse to lose you the way I lost my mother.”
The words are shaped like concern, but nothing about the man holding me looks concerned. He looks volatile. He looks dangerous. He looks like the room is one breath away from detonating.
“Giacomo.” My voice is low, a warning without much force behind it. “Let. Me. Go.”
He doesn’t.
Seconds stretch.
My pulse hammers.He still doesn’t move.
