Then she’s gone. The door closes softly behind her. The kind of soft that hurts more than a slam.
I stay where I am. The fire pops once, a spark flaring before it dies. I pour another drink and stare at it without really seeing.
This is what I wanted. Distance. Control.Safety.
So why does it feel like losing something I never had in the first place?
I lean back in the chair, eyes on the door she just walked through, and wait for the ache in my chest to dull. It doesn’t.
The vodka’s gone before I realize I’ve finished it. My hand’s shaking when I set the glass down, but I don’t care. I close myeyes, and for the first time in years, I feel it: regret. Heavy, slow, relentless.
I warned myself what would happen if I got too close to the flame. I just didn’t expect her to be the one holding it.
42
MARA
The morning feels wrong from the start. Too bright. Too still. Like the Castello itself is holding its breath.
I stand at the top of the staircase with my bags beside me, staring down into the foyer. The marble gleams under the sunlight, spotless and cold. Duchess sits on top of my suitcase, tail flicking, unimpressed by the occasion.
Theo’s voice carries from below. “They’re here.”
I take one last look around at the chandelier above, the long hallways, the staircase railing my hand has brushed against a thousand times. Every inch of this place is stamped with his presence. His control. His silence.
And he’s nowhere to be found.
Theo meets me at the bottom of the stairs, his expression careful.
“Mr. Esposito had an urgent matter to attend to,” he says like he’s rehearsed it.
I nod. Of course he did.
He doesn’t meet my eyes. “The driver will take you to the airstrip. Your brother’s already waiting.”
I want to ask where Nicolo is. I want to ask if he said anything. But what would be the point?
Instead, I just grab the handle of my suitcase and start walking.
The drive away from the Castello feels longer than it should. The gates open slowly, the world outside stretching in muted greens and golds. I look out the window, half-expecting to see him appear somewhere—at the window, on the balcony, anywhere.
But there’s nothing. The house stands behind me, tall and still, as if it never held me at all.
The airstrip sitsat the edge of the city, where the noise fades into quiet countryside. The private jet gleams under the sun, all silver and glass and power. Emiliano’s men move around it in silence, unloading cases, checking manifests, pretending not to stare.
Eli’s waiting by the stairs, crisp suit, sunglasses, the picture of composure. He’s always been good at hiding things. When he sees me, his expression softens for half a second. Then it’s gone.
“Mara,” he says, pulling me into a brief hug that feels more like a transaction. “You look tired.”
“I didn’t sleep.”
“You never do.”
He looks me over, eyes flicking to Duchess’s carrier, then back to me. “Everything’s ready. Let’s go.”
I glance back at the car, at the long stretch of empty road leading back toward the city. “Why are you doing this to me?”
Eli pauses, hands in his pockets. “It’s for your protection.”
