We pulled into the underground garage of my building, tires echoing off concrete walls. The elevator opened directly onto the penthouse level, private and secure. I led her inside, watched her eyes widen at the sprawl of glass and steel, the city lights glittering beyond bulletproof windows.
"Guest suite's through there," I said, pointing down a hallway. "Bed, bath, closet full of clothes that should fit. Help yourself."
She crossed her arms, defensive. "Whose clothes?"
"Kept for guests," I said, amused. "Unless you'd prefer to keep the thrift store clothes."
Color rose in her cheeks. She looked away, hugging herself tighter. "And then what? I just…stay here? Until you decide what to do with me?"
I stepped closer, close enough to smell the faint perfume clinging to her skin. Close enough to see the pulse fluttering in her throat. "There are worse places to be, Valentina. Worse men to be with."
Her eyes snapped back to mine, held them. Something passed between us then, something hot and alive. A spark. A promise. A problem.
"House rules," I said, stepping back before I did something stupid. "Don't leave the penthouse without me. Don't use the phone or the internet. Don't talk to anyone except Domenico or me."
She frowned. "Domenico?"
"My right-hand man. You'll meet him soon enough." I turned away, dismissing her. "Get some rest, Valentina. You're safe here. For now."
I left her standing there, confusion warring with exhaustion on her face.
Over the next few days, we settled into an uneasy rhythm.
The first morning, I woke early and made espresso in the kitchen. Found Valentina already awake, standing at the floor-to-ceiling windows watching the city wake up.
"Coffee?" I offered.
She turned, studied me warily, then nodded. "Please."
I poured her a cup, added cream and sugar without asking—I had noticed the way she'd taken it at charity events.
She accepted the mug, took a sip, and something flickered across her face. Surprise.
"You remembered how I take it," she said quietly.
"I notice things."
We stood in silence, both holding our coffee, the morning light painting everything gold.
"I don't know what to do with you," she admitted finally. "You're supposed to be the enemy. My father's rival. The dangerous man he warned me about. But you make me coffee exactly how I like it and give me space when I need it.
"Maybe your father was wrong about me."
"Or maybe you're just better at hiding what you are."
I smiled despite myself. "Also possible."
She almost smiled back. Almost.
Day three, I found her in my library—a room most guests never discovered, tucked away behind the living room. She stood before the floor-to-ceiling shelves, fingers trailing across leather spines.
"You actually read these?" She pulled out a first edition Dante. "Or are they just for show?"
"I read them."
"Inferno." She opened it carefully, Italian text flowing across aged pages. "My mother used to read this to me. Before she left." Her voice caught. "I'd forgotten until just now."
I moved closer. "What do you remember?"
