Rinaldi tries to diffuse it, voice too calm. “Nicolo?—”
“No,” I cut him off. “You want to talk business, come back when you remember how to keep your mouth shut.”
Ricci’s smirk fades, replaced by something that almost looks like fear. “You’re making a mistake.”
“Wouldn’t be my first. Get out.”
They go. Fast. The door slams behind them, the sound echoing down the hall.
I drop back into the chair, the adrenaline burning off almost immediately. My pulse is still too high. My hands ache from how hard I clenched the glass. I look down; there’s a crack running through it, fine but deep, right down the middle.
Perfect.
I reach for another cigarette, light it, and inhale until the burn settles low in my chest. It doesn’t help.
I’ve just blown a deal worth millions because some idiot said her name without saying it.
Because I can’t stand the idea of anyone talking about her. Because I’m weak.
The thought makes me laugh, quiet and humorless. I used to pride myself on control. On precision. Now a woman half my size can undo me with a look.
And she’s leaving. In two days.
I lean back, run a hand through my hair, and stare out the window at the garden. It’s the same view from my office: the one she used to stand at, barefoot, half-awake, staring out like she was waiting for the world to end.
I wonder if she’s doing that now. Counting down the hours like I am.
Romiro was right. I’m worse.
I should be glad. I should be celebrating. I should be relieved that soon I won’t have to see her, smell her perfume on every goddamn surface, or remember the sound she makes when she laughs.
Instead, I’m thinking about how quiet this house will feel without her. How empty.
I crush the cigarette in the ashtray and pour another drink. The whiskey hits the back of my throat, warm and mean.
It’s not enough. None of it ever is.
By the timeI make it back to the Castello, it’s dark again. The air feels different, heavier somehow. I know I should head straight to my room, but my feet take me down the corridor instead. Past her door. I stop before I can stop myself.
Light spills from the gap under it. I can hear movement inside. Soft footsteps. A drawer closing. She’s packing.
I stand there for too long, staring at that thin line of light, jaw tight. My hand almost reaches for the doorknob—almost—but I stop before I touch it. I have no right.
She’s leaving because I told her to. Because I made it impossible for her to stay.
I turn away and head back to my office. The glass I cracked this morning is still on the desk, a small dark stain from the whiskey I spilled earlier marking the wood. I pick it up and turn it over in my hand, studying the fracture line.
It runs clean through the center, neat and final. Like everything else in my life.
I throw it into the trash and pour another. The phone buzzes again. Romiro. I consider ignoring it, but I don’t.
“You look like shit,” he says the second I answer. “Just thought I’d remind you.”
“Thanks.”
“Rinaldi called me. Said you blew the deal.”
“I did.”
