“I know, I know. It sucks. But it’s better than dirt and bugs, trust me. You’re okay now.”
She blinks up at me, tiny paws curling around my wrist. My throat goes tight.
And that’s when the air shifts. Heavy. Charged. I don’t even need to turn to know who it is. I can feel him.
“What the hell is that?”
22
NICOLO
Under the water is where I can really think. Stroke after stroke, lungs burning, muscles screaming. The silence under the surface almost lets me forget her.
Almost.
But even here, she follows me. Mara Folonari. Reckless, sharp-tongued, a constant thorn lodged under my skin.
I’ve dealt with men who tried to put bullets in my head and never once lost sleep over them. Yet one girl—one spoiled, infuriating, too-bright girl—has me unraveling.
No one has ever gotten under my skin. No one. Not Rosa, not my mother, not the Mancinis circling like vultures.
I’ve built myself on control, precision, and discipline. I don’t bend. I don’t break.
Until her.
I push harder, faster, trying to drown the thought in chlorinated blue. But when I haul myself out, water dripping, chest heaving, all I can taste is the truth.
She’s in my head. And I can’t get her out.
I drag a towel across my face, sling it over my neck, and head inside. The house is quiet at this hour, servants movinglike shadows, guards swapping shifts with murmured, clipped greetings. My feet leave wet prints on the stone. I don’t bother with a shirt; I just want water and to enjoy the silence.
I step into the kitchen and get neither.
She’s at my counter. Her back to me, robe slipping off one shoulder, hair a lazy mess down her spine. A small shape sits on the marble in front of her, and she’s bent close, talking in a hushed voice that doesn’t belong in my kitchen. Soft. Almost sweet. The word feels foreign.
I stop in the doorway, the towel dripping against my chest. “What the hell is that?”
She freezes, her shoulders going tight. Then she pivots slowly like she’s bracing for a firing squad.
“It’s a cat.”
“I can see it’s a cat,” I step in, the cool air in the room hitting my wet skin. “Why is it in my kitchen?”
She raises her chin, defiant as ever. “You should’ve been more clear with your question. She was outside. In the bushes. She was shaking.”
She turns back to the tiny, miserable thing and wipes at its face with a damp cloth. The kitten blinks up at her, all eyes and bones and too-big ears.
“So I brought her in,” she finishes.
“Of course you did.”
She glances over her shoulder, eyes flickering down my chest, then snapping back up in a beat. She pretends she didn’t just do that, and I pretend I didn’t notice it.
“You’re dripping on the floor.”
“I own said floor,” I say flatly.
I pull the fridge door open, snag a cold bottle, crack the cap, and down it in one long drag. The water’s gone too fast, doing nothing to rinse the thought of her out of my head.
