They vanish around a corner.
My heart leaps into my throat. I bolt after them, the echo of my footsteps ricocheting off marble and stone. Every turn feels longer than it should, every hallway stretching ahead like it’s trying to swallow me whole.
And then I realize where we are.
The air changes first. Cooler, quieter, like the house itself is holding its breath. The corridor narrows. Light softens. The world goes still in a way that prickles down my spine.
The west wing.
I stop at the threshold, pulse pounding in my ears.
I shouldn’t be here. The door is supposed to be closed. I shouldn’t have been able togetin here.
Someone must have left it open.
I want to turn back and put as much distance between myself and this place as possible. Because Matteo asked me not to set foot in here, and I am not about to betray his trust.
But a faint scrabble of claws and a muffled, offended yowl carry from somewhere up ahead, and all my promises crumble beneath the much more immediate terror of two territorial cats potentially clawing each other’s eyes out.
"Guys," I whisper, bracing myself. Murmuring, I say, “please don’t be human trafficking. Anything but that. I can handle drugs. Please, God, let it be a million pounds of cocaine and not people."
I search the place for my two idiot cats. If they get out of here alive, I’ll turn them both into hats myself.
But I can’t hear yowling anymore. The one time I needed Wasabi to be raising hell, he’s choosing to be quiet as a mouse. Fucking figures.
Then, I see it—a door up the hall, slightly ajar.
The gap is small, but cats can get anywhere. They’re famous for it. And then there’s that saying about curiosity and cats that I really wish wasn’t pounding at the walls of my skull right now.
My hand hovers over the wood for a beat too long. My breath goes shallow. Something tightens in my chest—dread, shame, guilt—and none of it stops me.
I push the door open.
The first thing I notice about the room is how warm it is.
Soft lamplight spills across shelves of books and framed photographs. Medical equipment hums gently in the corner beside a breathing machine. The air smells faintly of antiseptic and paper—and something like tea.
Nori sits contentedly in the lap of an older man in a wheelchair, purring like he’s known him his entire life.
Wasabi is in the corner, puffed up and hissing at existence.
The man looks up at me, surprised. His face is lined and pale, eyes sharp and kind all at once.
“Well,” he says, voice roughened by age and strain, but warm with humor. “If I’d known I was going to have visitors, I’d have dressed better.”
Heat rushes to my cheeks. “I—I’m so sorry. My cats— I didn’t mean to?—”
He lifts a gentle hand. “It’s quite all right. They have excellent taste in company.” He scratches Nori’s chin. Nori melts like butter. “As does my son, apparently. I believe you’re his guest?”
I hover just inside the doorway, heart still racing. “You’re… Matteo’s father?”
He smiles softly. “Guilty as charged. My name is Moreno. You must be the woman whose lovely voice I keep hearing in the halls. It’s good to know my ears haven’t started to go yet.”
“I’m sorry,” I say. “I didn’t know you were here.”
“Matteo’s doing, no doubt.” He strokes Nori as he speaks. “He thinks a gust of wind will knock me down. Alwaysoverthinking things, that boy. Guess he got all the brains his big brother didn’t.”
“Matteo has a brother?”
