I like listening to him like this. He sounds…dangerous. And right.
They exchange a few words too fast for me to catch, but Nicolo doesn’t spare me even a glance. He finishes whatever he’s saying and heads toward the waiting car.
When I follow silently, the door is opened for me. I slide in and press my forehead to the cold glass, watching the crumbling runway disappear behind us as the car rolls forward. Italy is gray and moody outside, rolling hills and old stone roads blurred by the speed of the car.
I keep my eyes on the road, but it’s his voice I listen to. Still speaking Italian. Low and deliberate, like everything that comes out of his mouth could start or end a war.
His jacket is heavy on my shoulders; I pull it tighter around myself. And wonder why I feel safer in it than I ever have in my own skin.
The silencein the car isn’t comfortable. It’s thick. Measured.
I don’t say anything, just watch the world smear past the window like a watercolor: olive groves, jagged hills, endless stretches of green turned dull under the storm-gray sky. I think I’ll like it here.
Nicolo speaks up, surprising me. His voice is quiet, but there’s nothing soft about it.
“I don’t care if you hate me.”
I turn slightly, eyes dragging to him. He’s looking just ahead, not at me, his elbow resting against the door, fingers brushing his lower lip like he’s bored. But I know better.
“You’ll follow the rules I give you. You don’t leave the grounds unless I say so. You don’t talk to anyone unless they talk to you first. And you don’t wander off.”
My throat tightens. “So, prison. But with better scenery.”
He turns his head, finally meeting my eyes. “Call it what you want. I’m not here to entertain your rebellion. You want to throw tantrums? Fine. But you’ll still listen.”
I bite the inside of my cheek, pulse ticking just beneath my jaw. “Do I get a list of rules, or are you going to just bark at me as you go?”
His gaze dips to my lips for half a second. A flicker. Then it’s gone. “You’ll know the rules when you break them.”
“Right.” I turn back to the window, voice lower. “Classic dictator logic.”
He doesn’t say anything. Just exhales slow and deep, like he’s resisting something. After a beat, he speaks again.
“You’ll have your own room. Anything you want, ask the staff. Don’t come to me for things you can get yourself.” Another pause. “Except safety. That’s my responsibility now.”
I don’t reply, but my hands tighten in his jacket. Because the way he says safety—like it’s sacred, like it’s a blood promise—lands somewhere deep. Somewhere that’s still bruised.
The car pulls upalong the stone driveway, the tires crunching softly over gravel. The Castello looms ahead—grand, ancient, and almost impossibly beautiful. Ivy clings to its outer walls like veins, crawling up the marble columns and wrapping around the balconies like nature itself refuses to let go.
It’s surreal. Regal in a way that doesn’t feel real. The second the engine cuts, the door is pulled open by one of Nicolo’s men. I blink against the light as I step out. The air is warmer here than expected, fresh and tinged with the earthy scent of cypress and the sea.
Three women in tailored black—two younger, one older—stand to the right. The elder of the three has silver-threaded hair pinned back in an elegant twist and eyes that have seen everything. She looks at me like she already knows all my secrets.
“Bongiorno,” I say, quietly.
She nods once, gracious but unreadable.
On the opposite side, three men wait as well. One is the chef, I think. The faint scent of flour and herbs clings to his aproneven from here. Another is tall and lean with calculating eyes and a radio clipped to his belt—probably security. The last one, in gardening boots and rolled sleeves, stands respectfully behind them both, hands clasped in front of him.
Behind them all, fifteen other men stand strategically around the Castello grounds, dressed in dark suits. Silent. Alert. Watching.
Nicolo says nothing to any of them. He doesn’t pause. Doesn’t look back. Just strides up the grand stone staircase like a king returning home, shoulders squared and jaw tight.
I feel the weight of eyes on me, but force my legs to move, trailing behind him. Every step echoes off the polished marble, bouncing against the high arches and columns.
I don’t know what I expected. Something warmer, maybe. Or maybe just acknowledgment. But Nicolo doesn’t stop. At the top of the steps, he glances over his shoulder briefly.
“Inside. I don’t have all day.” His voice is low, cool, and deliberate.
