A pause. Then a chuckle, the kind that sounds like it’s been rehearsed too many times.
“You’re not easy to please, Esposito.”
“That’s why I’m still alive.”
There’s another pause. I can hear him smirking through the line, the sound like the drag of a match before a fire.
“You’ll get the details in the morning. Don’t be late this time.”
He hangs up before I can respond. Typical Mancini move: pretend he has the upper hand, end the call first, leave you with silence that sounds like victory.
I slip the phone into my pocket, exhale, and start down the hall. The Castello is quiet except for the faint hum of rain againstthe glass, that soft tap-tap that fills the spaces when no one speaks. The house feels heavy tonight, like it’s holding its breath.
Then, halfway down the staircase, I hear it.
Music. Soft. Classical. Old. Not the kind of thing anyone in this house listens to. Not since before my father died.
I stop on the last step. The sound drifts from the living room: strings, piano, something low and haunting. The kind of piece that belongs to another time when people still believed art could fix anything broken. I follow it.
The room’s bathed in dim lamplight. Shadows stretch long across the marble, the reflections from the rain streaking the windows in fractured ribbons of gold. And then I see her.
Barefoot. Hair loose. Wearing a thin black slip that catches the light every time she moves. It’s the kind of thing that should be hidden, meant for private eyes. But she’s there, right in the open, holding Duchess in her arms, swaying slow, bare feet sliding soundlessly against the floor. The cat doesn’t even fight her; she just watches, purring faintly, tail twitching in rhythm.
Mara’s eyes are closed. Her lips move, soft and soundless, as if she knows the melody by heart. And for a brief second—one I’ll never admit to—she looks untouched by everything that ruins the world.
It hits me in the chest harder than it should. I lean a shoulder against the doorframe and just… watch.
Her movements aren’t graceful in the way trained dancers move. There’s no precision. She moves like she’s chasing the ghost of something she used to be—careless, unguarded, free. The way someone moves when they think no one’s watching.
And maybe that’s why I don’t interrupt.
The song changes. Something slower now, deeper. The kind of piano piece that carries grief between its notes. The rain outside keeps rhythm, soft but steady, and she keeps swaying like she’s part of it.
Then she turns.
Her eyes find me instantly, like she felt me before she saw me. Surprise flashes there for half a second, gone before it can land. Then comes that spark. The one that lives somewhere between defiance and curiosity. The one that always means trouble.
She lowers the cat onto the couch. Duchess meows once, like she’s annoyed to be dismissed.
Mara doesn’t look away from me. “How long have you been standing there?”
“Long enough.”
Her lips curve, not quite a smile. “Enjoying the show?”
I arch a brow. “You call that a show?”
She walks toward me—slow, deliberate, like she’s measuring how close she can get before I tell her to stop. “You tell me.”
“Mara—”
“Dance with me.” The words shouldn’t sound like an order, but they do.
“I don’t dance,” I say flatly.
“Liar.” She stops just in front of me, chin tilted up, eyes bright. “Men like you always say that until someone calls their bluff.”
My mouth twitches. “And you think you’re someone?”
