She’s standing near a tall window, light spilling over her like it’s found its favorite place to land.
She’s wearing a pale yellow dress that accentuates the soft, golden tan of her Italian skin.
Her chestnut hair falls loosely around her shoulders, softly styled waves catching the sun.
She’s entirely too young for me—a full decade younger, now that I think about it, because she will have onlyjustturned eighteen.
But God, she’s perfect.
She turns at the sound of our footsteps, and though I’ve been in rooms with beautiful women before, I’m suddenly struck dumb, my tongue cemented to the roof of my mouth.
Fuckable women are a dime a dozen in our circles—polished, poised, trained to be perfect.
But Evelina is nothing like them—in the best possible way.
Her smile isn’t the rehearsed kind.
It’s warm, real, like she’s glad to see me despite my abhorrent state—sweaty, filthy, a barbarian dragged straight from the pit.
“You must be Sandro,” she says, voice clear and steady. No hesitation. No flicker of distaste. But somehow, as sweet as a bell.
For a second, I forget how to breathe.
I’ve been called many things—brutal, ruthless, dangerous. But I’ve never truly been… seen. Not like this.
I clear my throat, realize too late that I still taste blood from the cut inside my cheek, and I wonder if my teeth aren’t stained with it. “Yeah.” My voice comes out low and gruff.
“It’s nice to meet you,” she says.
And somehow, I think she means it. I’m staring. I know I am.
Her eyes—a striking shade of amber, near golden, like the glow that seems to surround her—are not what I expected.
I thought they would be sharp, guarded. Instead they’re open, curious.
Like she’s reading me, rather than judging.
I don’t know what to do with that.
“I hope I didn’t pull you away from anything important,” she adds lightly.
Raf makes a noise beside me—something halfway between a scoff and a warning.
“It’s fine,” I say, because I don’t know how to be anything but blunt.
Her smile doesn’t falter. If anything, it deepens. “Well, I hope I’m worth your while.”
The air in the room shifts, just slightly, like she’s done something no one else has dared—met my bluntness with something softer, something that doesn’t even seem to be injured from my abrasive behavior.
Maria moves toward her daughter, touching her arm gently. “Evi, why don’t you show Sandro the garden? Maybe you two could talk—get to know each other.”
It’s a dismissal for Raf and the parents, a stage set for whatever this is supposed to be.
My father was an expert in situations like this.
But with just me and Raf, I feel like I’m falling far short of the proper support my brother needs.
Evi nods and gestures toward a side door that leads out into a sunlit courtyard.
