I need air. Space. Something that isn’t just sitting around surrounded by four walls or feeling the suffocating presence of the man my brother entrusted with my safety. Making my way downstairs, I head out the double doors and into the garden.
The garden’s empty when I step outside, the dawn mist still clinging to the lime trees. I drop to my haunches in the dirt, flick the lighter, and inhale deep. Smoke fills my lungs, sharp and satisfying. The citrus tang in the air mixes with the burn, and for a second, I almost feel normal.
Almost.
I exhale toward the branches, muttering to the trees like they’re my audience. “Your boss is a tyrant, you know that? I ask for one thing—one tiny thing—and he acts like I’ve demanded his soul. The man needs to be dethroned.” Another drag. “And I’d do it too, if I wasn’t trapped in this medieval torture castle.”
The trees don’t argue. Obviously. If anyone spots me talking to the trees, they’ll think I’m crazy.
Maybe I am.
Footsteps crunch over the gravel, and I jolt like I’ve been caught red-handed. But it’s only one of the maids balancing a tray. She kneels gracefully, setting down a tall glass of water and a cluster of green grapes.
“Grazie,” I mumble, awkwardly tucking the cigarette behind my back, hoping she doesn’t notice the smell or the smoke curling upward from behind my back.
She hesitates, then asks softly, “Do you need anything else, signorina?”
“Yeah.” The word slips out before I can stop it, and instead of backtracking, I push forward. “Do people ever get used to him?”
Her head tilts. “Him?”
“Nicolo.” I roll my eyes. “Tall, dark hair, robotic overlord of this castle.”
Something flickers across her face. Wariness. Fear.
She folds her hands in front of her, smoothing the apron like it’ll buy her time. “Signor Esposito is…precise.”
That’s all she gives me. Precise. Like he’s a machine and not a man.
I huff under my breath. “Precise, my ass.”
Her eyes dart away. She doesn’t ask, doesn’t stay, just dips her head and retreats like the shadows are safer than standing talking about him. As if we’re talking about the devil himself.
Maybe we are.
Fine. Be scared. One of us has to be.
I stub the cigarette out against the dirt and push to my feet…then freeze. Rustling comes from the bushes. Low. Frantic.
Awareness prickles at the back of my neck, and I have to fight my instincts to bolt.
It’s safe. No one can get in here without permission,I try to calm myself.
I know I’m being irrational, guards are all over this place. Not even a bird passes over the Castello without the motion being reported and noted down.
I probably shouldn’t, but I edge closer, crouch, peel back the branches…and find a pair of wide, terrified eyes staring back at me.
A kitten. Tiny, scruffy, so small…and by the way she’s trembling, I’d say she’s cold.
My chest tightens in a way I don’t like.
“Oh, sweetheart,” I whisper.
She mews, a broken little sound that hits me harder than I expect.
I scoop her up before I can think better of it, tucking her against me. She’s all bones and softness, clinging to the fabric of my robe like I’m the first safe thing she’s seen in days.
The kitchen’s empty when I slip inside. I set her on the counter, grab a warm, damp cloth, and start wiping the dirt from her fur. She squirms and lets out a pitiful mewl, and I shush her, soft and steady.
