I reach for the bread. Tear off a piece. The crust shatters exactly as he described that first night, and of course he was right about that too.
“You talk like you were there for all of this.”
His mouth curves. Not quite a smile. “My family has long memories.”
“Must make Thanksgiving awkward. ‘Hey, remember when great-great-grandpa murdered the Byzantines?’”
“We’re Catholic. Christmas is more our style.”
I snort before I can stop myself. The sound surprises us both.
He sets his cup down. Watches me with those dark eyes that seem to log everything. The way I’m sitting. The amount of bread I’ve eaten. The slight loosening of my shoulders that I didn’t give permission for.
“What do you actually do, Elio?” I make his name sound like an insult. “The foundation. The investments. Thelogistics.”
“It’s complicated.”
“That’s not an answer.”
“It’s the answer you’re getting.”
He reaches for the tray and slides the plate of eggs toward me. His fingers brush the back of my hand, causing heat to flare up my arm before I can pull away.
The mattress dips as he shifts, settling more comfortably in the chair that’s somehow migrated closer to my bed over the past week. I didn’t notice when it moved. Didn’t notice a lot of things until they were already different.
My body lists toward him automatically, as if gravity has rearranged itself around his presence.
I yank myself back. Cheeks burning.
His gaze tracks the movement. Tracks the flush. Tracks every goddamn thing.
Later that morning, I push harder.
“You said the foundation vetted me.” I’m sitting cross-legged on the bed, coffee cup cradled in both hands like a weapon I haven’t figured out how to use yet. “Whoareyou to it?”
He watches me for a long beat. That considering look I’ve learned means he’s deciding how much truth to give me.
“My full name is Elio Marchetti.”
I’m stunned into silence.
Marchetti. As in theMarchetti Foundation. The letterhead on my grant paperwork. The signature on the official emails. The name stamped across the cathedral’s restoration budget like a brand of ownership.
He wasn’t just some rich board member playing patron of the arts.
Heisthe board.
He told you from the beginning. You just didn’t hear it.
The trap snaps tighter in my mind. If he is the money, the building, the guards, the cameras… if Marchetti means this house and everything in it, then there is nowhere within these walls that isn’thim.
My gaze flicks to the window. To the men I’ve seen on the grounds, carrying weapons they don’t bother to hide.
This is not just philanthropy.
“The foundation funds cultural preservation across the Mediterranean.” His voice is smooth. Rehearsed. “We also have interests in shipping. Import-export. Real estate.”
“And the guys with the guns?”
