I watch her wake the way I’ve watched her every morning for almost two weeks. The slow drift to consciousness. The moment her eyes open, confusion followed by recognition followed by that familiar flash of fury.
Her hand shoots under the pillow.
Finds nothing.
Her face crumples. Just for a second. Then she controls it, smooths it over, sits up and stares at the wall like she can burn through stone with pure hatred.
Beautiful.
My phone rings.
The name on the screen makes my jaw tighten. I let it ring three times before answering.
“Elio.” Cicero’s voice is silk over broken glass. “We need to discuss your upcoming nuptials.”
I lean back in my chair, eyes still on the monitor. Violet is standing now, unsteady, making her way to the bathroom. “There’s nothing to discuss.”
“Gabriella is threatening to walk. The Syndicate is asking questions.”
“Let them ask.”
“This distraction of yours?—”
“She’s not a distraction.” The words come out sharper than intended. “She’s the plan.”
Silence on the line. Then, carefully: “What plan involves keeping an American art restorer prisoner in your villa while a marriage alliance crumbles?”
None of his business. Nothing about her is any of his business.
“The Rossis want power,” I say, forcing calm into my voice. “I’m offering them something better. A way into legitimate markets that don’t require blood-oath marriages and outdated ceremonies.”
“And the girl?”
On the monitor, Violet emerges from the bathroom. Hair damp. Face washed. Still wearing the gray dress from last night.
“The girl is mine.”
“Then marry Gabriella and keep the American as a pet.” Cicero’s voice hardens. “This isn’t difficult, Elio. Men have had mistresses for centuries. The Rossis don’t care what you do behind closed doors, as long as the alliance is formalized.”
The thought of touching Gabriella Rossi—of her in my bed, her hands on my skin, her body where Violet’s should be—turns my stomach.
Wrong. It feels wrong.
“End this distraction,” Cicero continues, “or I end it for you.”
The line goes dead before I can respond.
I set the phone down. Stare at it for a long moment.
He’ll have to be dealt with. Soon.
But first, Violet.
She’s showeredand dressed by the time I arrive with breakfast. The blue dress hangs in the wardrobe, I left it at the front specifically, knowing she’d see it first.
She’s not wearing it.
Instead, she’s in a cream sweater and dark trousers. Still my choices, but not the one I wanted. A small rebellion I let slip, for now.
