Marco opened the door just enough to be a presence, not an interruption.“Apologies,” he said.“Reports from the south.Quiet.And the lawyer called.He wants to finalize the transfer paperwork for the townhouse on Via Serena.”
Mia’s eyes flicked to me.“Townhouse?”
“For you,” I said, without looking away from her.“If you want it.I won’t put your name on anything you don’t choose.”
Marco tracked the current between us.“I’ll wait outside,” he said, and closed the door again.
She moved then—past the chair, around the corner of the desk, into the thin space where the scent of jasmine on my shirt could reach her.She didn’t touch me.
“I hate what you did,” she said.It was almost gentle, which made it worse.“I hate that you think safety and love are the same language.But…”
I held the breath that sentence promised to shape.
“But I am not my father’s bargaining chip,” she said.“And I will not be your penance.You will not speak for me.You will not use me as a story.And you will never—never—take my choices from me again.”
“I hear you.”
She came closer.“Say it back to me.”
“I will not speak for you,” I said, the vow making itself precise as it left my mouth.“I will not use you.I will not take your choice away.”
Her eyes searched my face for the lie.I didn’t give her one.
“And Lily?”she asked.“What do I do with that?”
“I made the call and saved your life.She wasn’t the person you thought, M.Don’t let it worry you now.”
18
MIA
Enrico turned toward the window, one hand braced against the frame, the other curled loosely around a glass of whiskey.
“You said you wanted the truth.”He didn’t turn.“What will you do with it now?”
I swallowed hard.“Live with it, I suppose.I don’t get to un-know things.”
He half-smiled, but there was no joy in it.“Most people run.”
“Something tells me that if I somehow did slip through the cracks of this place… you’d find me again.”
That made him turn.The faintest humor flickered across his expression, gone before it could settle.“You make it sound like hunting.”
“Isn’t it?”I asked.
He came closer.“Maybe.”
The edge of the desk pressed against the backs of my legs.Enrico stopped.For a heartbeat neither of us moved.Then his hand lifted, fingers tracing the line of my jaw with a care that contradicted everything about him.
“This life,” he murmured, “wasn’t supposed to touch you.My father used to say love is a liability.He was right.It clouds judgment.Makes a man weak.”
“Do you believe that?”
His gaze darkened.“I used to.Until you.”
The confession stole the air from my lungs.His thumb brushed the corner of my mouth.
“Last night,” he said, “I thought if I kept you close enough, the world couldn’t touch you.But power has its own gravity, and I keep dragging you deeper.”
