The words land like a spark in my chest, stealing the breath from my lungs. But he’s out of the car by the time I whip my head toward him to demand if he just said that.
I blink, Duchess purring in my arms. Did Nicolo “the robot” Esposito just make a joke?
The slam of his car door echoes through the empty garage, and I scramble out after him, hugging the kitten to my chest. His strides are long and purposeful, each one daring me to keep up.
“Wait…” My sneakers squeak against the oil-stained concrete as I hurry after him. “Did you just make a joke?”
He doesn’t even slow down. I trot faster, Duchess letting out a squeaky protest.
“Nicolo. You said I was a stray. That’s a joke. A mean one, but still. It counts.”
His silence is infuriating.
“You totally made a joke.” I narrow my eyes at his back, watching the way the muscles shift beneath his dark shirt. “Do you know what this means? It means you’re not a robot. Miraclesdohappen. You still have some hope.”
He reaches the stairwell door and pulls it open with a sharp jerk, still refusing to look at me. For a second, I swear I catch the ghost of a twitch at the corner of his mouth, but it’s gone before I can be sure.
He holds the door open, the faintest mockery of courtesy. I step through, chin high, Duchess clinging to my sweatshirt like a baby koala.
“Fine,” I mutter as I brush past him. “Don’tadmit it. I’ll remember this day anyway. The day Nicolo ‘the robot’ Esposito cracked a joke and lived to regret it.”
His only answer is the heavy thud of the door closing behind us, sealing me into the antiseptic brightness of the vet’s office floor.
The vivid light stings after the garage’s gloom. White walls, polished tiles, the faint chemical tang of antiseptic clinging to the air. Duchess squirms in my arms, a warm, trembling bundle against the cold sterility of the place. I pull her closer, muttering something soothing under my breath.
Doctors and nurses rush past me into the room. A blaring sound cuts through the air from Ma’s room.
I shake my head; I do not want to be thinking of that right now. Nicolo falls into step beside me, silent and sharp, and the receptionist’s eyes flick up at him before darting down again like she just accidentally looked straight at a thunderstorm. He doesn’t even notice—or maybe he does and just doesn’t care.
Of course he doesn’t. He moves through the world like everyone else is just background noise.
I steal a glance at him, waiting for that twitch at the corner of his mouth again, the ghost of a smile I swear I saw back in the garage. But his face is carved from stone, unreadable. If he smiled in a place like this, the ceiling tiles would probably crack.
“Appuntamento per Duchessa.” His voice is gruff in Italian, rough-edged and low enough that it rumbles through the sterile waiting room.
My grip tightens on Duchess. It’s ridiculous how that single sentence falling from his mouth in his native tongue slides right under my skin like it belongs there. Too rich, too sharp, too…dangerous.
I school my face into something neutral, refusing to let the flush creeping up my neck betray me.
The receptionist nods quickly, tapping at her keyboard, and I almost laugh at the absurdity. A man so dangerous just casually announcing a kitten’s name like it’s a hit order.
I stroke Duchess’s head and whisper, “Don’t worry. It’s just a quick poke, nothing scary.”
From beside me, Nicolo mutters again, quieter this time, “Vaccino contro la rabbia. Per entrambe.”
I press my lips together, teeth catching the inside of my cheek. I don’t know what he said exactly, but I can tell it’s something meant as an insult. It’s the tone of his voice. But all Ican think about is the way the words drag low and rough out of him, how that voice could shred me if he wanted to.
“It won’t take long, signora.” The receptionist smiles at me politely, accent lilting, pulling me back from the edge of whatever dangerous thought I was about to tumble into.
I give her a grateful smile and shift my gaze to Duchess, stroking her fur to hide the heat crawling up my throat.
“You hear that, Duchess? It won’t be long before we’re back—” I stop myself before the word slips out.
Backhome.
When the hell did the Castello start feeling like that?
It’s not long before the vet ushers into a small exam room. It’s even more sterile than the waiting area—sharp with disinfectant, stainless steel surfaces gleaming under bright fluorescent lights. I perch on the plastic chair with Duchess cradled in my arms, her tiny body buzzing with nervous energy.
