His eyes narrow. “From what?”
I hold his gaze because I am tired of flinching. “From men who think they can decide what happens to me.”
A pause. Then, quietly, he says, “From me.”
The air shifts and my chest tightens.
“I did not say that.”
“You did not have to,” he replies. His voice stays even, but something dark moves beneath it. “You ran from me. You hid from me. You packed a suitcase again. And now you are learning how to hit something hard enough that it cannot hold you.”
My pulse stutters. “You think everything I do is about you.”
“It is,” he says simply. “Because everything that happens to you becomes mine.”
“That’s the problem,” I spit back. “That is exactly the problem.”
His jaw flexes. “Tell me,” he says, controlled, “if I am the problem, why are you still here?”
The question lands in my ribs. I open my mouth but no sound comes because the truth is too complicated to fit into one sentence. Because I’m here and I’ve accepted and adapted and now I don’t know if that is courage or addiction.
Because I love him so much I do not know where I start and end without him.
And it’s fucking terrifying.
Before I can speak, gather scattered words into some form of coherency, the door opens again.
Caterina appears, hands folded neatly, expression unreadable in that old-world way that makes her seem carved from patience.
“Donna,” she says politely, though her eyes flick to Giovanni first, always. “What shall I prepare for dinner?”
I blink, thrown. “What?” She’s never asked me that before.
She looks pointedly at me. “The special dinner,” she says. “The one that was meant to be eaten before it went cold.”
My stomach drops as a memory flashes so fast it makes me dizzy.
A table set with exquisite candles.
My sexy dress. Sexier heels. My foolish hope that I could soften the war between us with something as simple as food.
Then the screech of tyres.
Blood.
Giovanni carried in. Everything shattered.What is this cunning woman playing at?
Caterina continues, serenely merciless. “Would you like a repeat,Donna? Or shall I truly pull out all the stops this time? I’m in the mood for a challenge.”
My face burns. “Caterina,” I hiss, frantic, “please?—”
She pretends not to notice.
Giovanni’s gaze snaps between us. Then he turns to the genteel woman who is proving not to be as cleverly benign as she seems.
His voice turns lethal. “Caterina?”
“Sì, Don Dragoni?”
