“No.” He pauses before adding, “Yes. Sort of.” He sighs, rubbing his thumb along the edge of the table. His brow furrows the way it does when something’s bothering him. “I have dinner this evening,” he says, nodding toward the mountainside. “Up there. The locals call it the rooftop. They all eat together. Drink.” He studies me, weighing something. “The man I met today wants us to join him.”
Us.
“Okay,” I say lightly.
He clasps his hands together, leaning in. “This is really important, Leoni. The man I’m dealing with is… difficult. It’s best if you say as little as possible around him.”
My stomach sinks. It’s a warning. Behave.Don’t embarrass me.It drags me back to those early weeks working for him, when I couldn’t breathe without being told I was doing something wrong.
I give a stiff nod and look out the window.
The wine arrives. He pours for both of us, and even without looking, I canfeelhim watching me.Judging. Wondering what I’m thinking.
“I could just not come,” I offer quietly.
He sets his glass down with a soft thud. “That’s not an option.”
“Why?”
His jaw clenches; irritation flashes across his face. “Because I said so.”
Of course. His favourite answer when he doesn’t want to explain himself. I take a sip of wine and immediately regret it, tasting the vinegary, heavy tones. I hate red wine.
We eat in silence. Halfway through the steak, my appetite gives up.
When the plates are cleared, Warren settles the bill, takes my hand, and leads me back outside.
“I thought we could get you some underwear,” he says, crossing the street without slowing, still gripping my hand.
I stumble to keep up. “I have plenty.”
He ignores me completely, steering me into a boutique lined with silk and lace in every shade. Not one scrap of cotton in sight.
The shop assistant greets us warmly, and he exchanges a few words with her in fluent Italian. She nods and begins picking out pieces from around the shop.
I blink. “I didn’t know you could speak Italian.”
“My father is Italian,” he mutters, already fishing his phone from his pocket—his attention slipping away from me entirely.
The shop assistant returns and nods for me to follow. I glance at Warren for some kind of direction, but he’s still glued to his phone, brows drawn tight over whatever he’s reading.
I sigh and trail after her.
She ushers me into a huge changing room and immediately starts tugging at my top. Not a single word of English, just a flurry of hands and impatient sounds until I give up fighting and let her practically strip me.
When I’m left in cotton knickers and an unmatched bra, she steps back, horrified.She shakes her head, wags her finger, and lets out an exaggerated, “No, no, no.” She points aggressively at the hangers. “You try new?”
“Do I have a choice?” I mutter, reaching for the nearest bra.
She steps out, thank God, leaving me with a pile of lace and silk I don’t even want.
I’m in there for twenty minutes at least. And when I finally come out, Warren slips his phone into his pocket and gives me a small smile, like nothing’s wrong. “All good?”
I dump the pile onto the counter. “Yep.”
He watches me for a beat, wanting to ask if I’m alright, but probably deciding he can’t be bothered to deal with me, so he stays silent. The shop assistant rings up the items. He taps his card quickly with no hesitation.
Outside, he heads toward the car. I veer left, toward the market stalls that line the square.
