He turns then, glass in hand. “You shouldn’t have to.”
I shift, uneasy under his gaze. “You said I was supposed to be safe here. That no one would?—”
“You are safe,” he cuts in. “No one here will touch you. No one outside will either. Not again.”
His voice drops lower, colder. The kind of tone that makes me believe him, even if I shouldn’t.
He takes a slow sip of his drink, eyes never leaving mine. “You should eat something. Then sleep. Rosa will see to it.”
“Is that an order, Mr. Conti?”
“It’s concern.” He pauses. “And I like it better when you call me Lorenzo.”
He sets the glass down and closes the distance between us until I can smell the faint scent of whiskey and smoke on his breath.
“Don’t let Fran’s words get under your skin,” he says softly. “She hates anything she can’t control.”
I manage a small, shaky smile. “I guess that makes two of you.”
For the first time in days, his expression changes and something flickers in his eyes, not anger exactly, but recognition. Maybe even the faintest trace of amusement.
He steps back, just enough to give me room to breathe. “Go to bed, Miss Miller.”
I nod and turn toward the door, but before I leave, I glance back once.
“I like it better when you call me Elizabeth.”
He’s still standing there by the fire, one hand on his glass, the light catching the edge of his profile. Grief has carved new lines into his face, but beneath them is something else. Something watchful, consuming, and impossible to name.
And as I walk back to my room, I realize that whatever this is between us it’s not going away. If anything, it’s tightening.
I wake up with a start in the middle of the night, my heart hammering and breath shallow. My skin is clammy from the nightmare. Visions of blood, bullet casings, and screams that sound too real to be dreams dance through my mind.
“Freaking hell,” I whisper, pushing the damp hair from my forehead. The sheets are twisted around my legs like restraints.
Sleep is out of the question. What I need is something stronger. Something that burns.
A glance at the clock tells me it’s nearly three. The penthouse is silent, heavy with the kind of quiet that follows funerals and unspoken things. Surely everyone’s asleep. No one will even know I got up.
I pad down the hallway barefoot wearing only my pink nightshirt, careful not to make a sound. The air is cool, carrying that faint, expensive scent that clings to every inch of this place. A scent that reminds me of Lorenzo.
The only light comes from the wide windows overlooking the city, the glow of the skyline painting everything in shades of blue and silver.
On the first floor, I head for the study. It’s the one place I know there’s alcohol.
The door is ajar, light spilling through the crack in a thin golden line. I push it open carefully, already rehearsing what I’ll say if I run into a guard.
But it’s not a guard.
It’s him.
Lorenzo sits on the leather couch, shirtless, a half-empty glass of amber whiskey dangling from his hand. The light from the fireplace throws sharp lines across his chest, catching on the tattoos that map his skin. His expression is unreadable, but his eyes flick up at the sound of my step.
He doesn’t seem surprised to see me.
“I couldn’t sleep,” I say softly, hesitating by the door. “Do you mind if I get a drink?”
His gaze drifts to the decanter on the table, then back to me. “Help yourself.”
