He hasn’t looked at me since breakfast. No insults, no clipped orders, not even one of his famous grunts. Just cold, deliberate nothing.
And somehow that’s worse.
I still feel him—the way his shadow fell over me at the table, the dangerous rumble of his voice when he promised to break me. The memory won’t leave me alone. Not the rumble of his deep voice or the way my heart jackhammered against my ribs, fighting to break free.
Fine. If he won’t play with me out in the open, I’ll just have to go where he doesn’t want me: the library.
He told me it was off-limits the first night I arrived, his tone sharp enough to leave no room for debate. Which means it’s exactly where I want to go.
The Castello is quiet when I slip out of my room, my bare feet silent against polished stone. Guards patrol the halls, but theydon’t stop me. They never do. It’s like they have instructions to ignore me as long as I don’t try to leave the Castello.
Pulling my robe over my PJs, I fight off the shivers that skitter down my back regardless. The library doors loom at the end of the hall, carved dark wood and iron, heavy enough to look like they could keep the world out…or lock something in.
My hand hovers over the handle for a beat. It’s ridiculous, the way my pulse picks up like I’m a thief about to crack open a vault. Which I guess I am.
The lock clicks softly, the door groaning on its hinges as I push it open. The air that greets me is cooler, thicker. Dust. Old paper. Smoke. It smells like him—like power left to rot in the dark.
I step inside, shutting the door behind me. The lights are low, more shadow than glow, throwing the tall shelves into relief. Books climb toward the arched ceiling, their spines black and crimson and worn with age. A ladder leans against one row, stretching up into darkness. The entire place feels like a cathedral, but not the holy kind. The kind that keeps secrets.
My fingertips trail over the nearest shelf. Italian. Latin. Arabic. Titles I can’t even pronounce. I move deeper, weaving between rows, my heart hammering even though I know no one’s here.
That’s the thing about the Castello. Even empty, it feels like it’s watching.
I stop at a row of thick black-bound ledgers. No titles, no markings. Just heavy and ominous, like they’re daring me to touch them. Of course I do.
The leather is cool under my palm, the gold edging dulled with age. I pull one halfway free, the weight dragging at my arm. When I flip it open, it’s not stories waiting for me inside. It’s names. Columns and columns of them. Dates. Places. Notes scrawled in Nicolo’s sharp, efficient handwriting.
My lips part. This isn’t just a library. It’s records. A history. Maybe even a hit list.
The sound of footsteps in the hall makes me snap the book shut, my pulse spiking into my throat. I hold still, frozen in the shadows. The faint groan of hinges makes my stomach drop.
Shit. The door.
I duck back into the shadows between shelves, clutching the ledger to my chest, my heart battering against my ribs so hard I’m sure it’ll give me away.
Footsteps. Slow. Deliberate. Then…voices.
“Nicolo.” Rosa’s warm, accented tone drifts through the cool library, steady and unafraid.
My breath stutters. He’s in here. I press back against the wood, every muscle in my body strung tight, praying the shadows swallow me whole.
“You can pretend all you want,” Rosa continues, softer now. “But I’ve seen the way you look at that girl.”
Silence. For a beat too long. When his voice comes, it’s cold enough to frost the air.
“Don’t start, Rosa.”
“You think I didn’t notice?” she pushes gently, like someone who’s known him too long to be afraid. “It’s been fifteen years since her death. You can’t?—”
“Enough.” The word snaps through the library like a gunshot.
The silence that follows is brutal. I don’t even realize I’ve been holding my breath until my lungs burn.
Rosa sighs quietly. “You don’t have to shut me out, Nicolo. Andrea would have wanted yo?—”
“I said enough.” His voice is sharper now, steel cutting clean through. “Don’t push me again.”
Footsteps retreat. A door clicks.
