The hall inside the Castello is absurd. Grand. Echoing. Every surface gleams like it’s been scrubbed with diamonds, and the gilded molding on the walls catches the pale light slanting in from the towering windows. I can hear our footsteps like thunder in a cathedral.
Nicolo walks slightly ahead, silent and sure. Like this is routine. Like he’s done this a thousand times. He doesn’t look at me as he leads me through the maze of marble, dark wood, and velvet drapery. Past curved staircases, chandeliers heavy with crystal, and closed doors.
We stop at the end of a long hall. He swings the tall door open without a word, revealing a bedroom that doesn’t look like it belongs in this century. A massive bed sits in the middle—four-poster, draped in silk. The mirrors are framed in gold, andthere’s a fireplace the size of my bedroom back in New York. It’s the kind of room you’d expect a queen to sleep in.
Or a hostage with very expensive taste.
He turns to leave.
“Wait,” I say.
He pauses in the doorway, but doesn’t face me. “What?”
“Are there any shopping malls around here?”
That gets his attention.
He turns, brows arching just slightly like I’ve said something deeply stupid. “The closet’s already set for you.”
“I’m not wearing anything someone else picked out for me.”
His jaw shifts and something sparks in his eyes, equal parts impressed and annoyed.
After a beat, he nods. “After lunch.”
I stare at his back as he starts to leave again. “Where’s your room?”
He stops again, this time turning to give me a full look—an incredulous one. Like he’s not sure if I’m being serious or just playing.
“Across the hall.”
I grin, waggling my brows. “Convenient.”
His eyes narrow just slightly. “Don’t come near it.”
“Scared you won’t be able to resist me?”
A muscle jumps in his jaw. “Scared you’ll end up where you don’t belong.”
The air stretches between us for a second, humming with tension.
Then, colder this time, he adds, “There are places in this house you’re not allowed. My room. My office. And the library.”
“The library?” I blink. “Seriously?”
“You’ll stay out of all three.” His voice is quiet, but iron-clad. Final.
“Right,” I mutter under my breath. “So much for hospitality.”
He doesn’t smile. Just takes one last look at me in the center of the opulent room that somehow feels more like a cage than a sanctuary.
Then the door shuts with a quiet click behind him. And I am alone. Again.
But I’ve already memorized the way back to the stairs.
Lunch is a boring,silent affair. No one speaks to me as I sit perched at the massive marble island in the center of the kitchen, dragging a few strands of spaghetti around my plate like I’m tracing invisible patterns. The pasta’s good—perfectly al dente, sauced just right—but I can’t bring myself to eat more than a few bites. My stomach’s too knotted. Too wired with a mix of nerves, resentment, and curiosity I don’t want to name.
Nicolo is nowhere in sight. Of course. I haven’t seen him since he left me in my room two hours ago with that detachedt, unreadable look that somehow saiddon’t push melouder than words ever could.
