"You brought Marina to me."
He goes still. "That was strategy too."
"Liar."
The word hangs between us. He turns to look at me, and the raw hunger in his eyes steals my breath. But beneath it, I see the self-loathing, the certainty that he's poison.
I won't push him. Not tonight.
"Goodnight, Lorenzo."
I leave him there with his ghosts and his cigarettes, with the weight of secrets and the burden of want he won't let himself have.
My legs shake as I descend the stairs. My body still burns from his admission.
He wants me.
He hates that he wants me.
And somehow, that's worse than if he didn't want me at all.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
Lorenzo
Blood pools in the vial, dark as the secrets I keep. The nurse's practiced efficiency makes the extraction clinical. Another sample, another test, another chance at redemption that might not come.
"Almost done, Mr. Sartori." The nurse switches vials. "Just two more."
The antiseptic smell is the smell of purity. Everything here is white. Sterile. I don’t belong in a place this clean.
Two days since I admitted wanting Sophia on that rooftop. Two days of her casual touches that set my skin on fire. Two days of her looking at me like I belong to her.
Which I do.
The needle slides free. Cotton and tape replace the invasion. "We'll have the results within hours. Dr. Martinez will call you directly."
I roll down my sleeve, button the cuff with fingers that won't quite steady. Alberto needs help. The boy raised in shadow whilewe lived in light. Now dying because genetics are cruel and ironic.
The drive back to the compound stretches through streets I've memorized. Every corner holds a memory.
The compound gates swing open. Luca nods from the security booth, but his expression carries the same careful distance everyone's adopted since Rafaella's revelation. The help knows. They always know everything.
Inside, the house breathes with practiced avoidance. Footsteps redirect when they might cross mine. Conversations pause as I pass. My family moves through shared spaces like ghosts avoiding contact with the living.
Pietro's office door stands open. He sits behind the old desk reviewing documents with Nora. Neither looks up when I pause in the doorway.
"The testing is done." My voice cuts through their studied concentration.
Pietro's pen continues moving across paper. "Good."
One word. Professional. Cold. The brother who used to sneak me cigarettes on the roof now treats me like a business associate he tolerates.
"We should have results?—"
"Nora will coordinate with the medical team once we know." Pietro signs something with decisive strokes. "If you're a match, we'll schedule immediately. If not, someone else might try."
Dismissed. I turn from the doorway, chest tight with words that won't fix this. Down the hall, Vittoria's door stands ajar. She's inside, surrounded by screens and devices, building digital walls as effectively as the emotional ones.
