He hasn’t moved. Hasn’t shifted his weight or checked his phone or done any of the normal fidgety things people do when they’re waiting. Just... stands there. Patient and still.
Like a predator at a watering hole.
The thought is ridiculous. I shake it off as my boots hit the marble floor.
Up close, he’s worse.
Not worse in a bad way. Worse in adangerousway. The kind of beautiful that makes you forget basic self-preservation instincts, like how you shouldn’t approach wild animals or accept drinks from strangers or notice the exact way a man’s jaw curves into his throat.
Eyes so dark they’re almost black, fixed on my face with an intensity that feels physical. Mediterranean coloring. Sharp cheekbones that could cut glass. And that suit, dark gray, no tie, the top button undone in a way that somehow looks more deliberate than casual.
He’s looking at me like I’m the only interesting thing in a building full of baroque masterpieces.
Which is flattering and also deeply unsettling.
“Can I help you?” My voice is steadier than I feel.
“I apologize for disturbing you.” His English is perfect, barely accented, with the kind of precision that suggests expensive schooling. “The caretaker said it would be acceptable to observe.”
Tommaso let him in?The old man guards this place like a dragon hoards gold. He barely toleratesme, and I’m here on legitimate business.
“Observe what, exactly?”
A corner of his mouth lifts. Not quite a smile. Something more controlled. “The restoration process. I have an interest in preservation.”
“Most people with an interest in preservation make appointments.”
“Most people don’t find themselves passing a cathedral with its doors open and an artist at work.”
Artist.I snort before I can stop myself. “I’m not an artist. I’m a conservator. There’s a difference.”
“Is there?” He takes a step closer, and I catch his scent, something expensive cutting through the limestone dust. Citrus and wood and leather, clean and sharp and completely wrong for a space that smells like centuries and decay. “You spend your days returning beauty to broken things. That seems like artistry to me.”
Okay. That’s... actually a good line.
I cross my arms, camera bag bumping against my hip. “Most people think conservation is just glorified cleaning.”
“Most people are wrong about most things.” His dark eyes drop to my hands, callused and stained with work, and his expression shifts. Interest, maybe. Or recognition. Like he’s seensomething he expected to find. “You work with your hands. Not just documentation.”
It’s not a question.
“When needed. The formal restoration team won’t arrive for another month. I’m just doing emergency stabilization where I can.”
“Alone?”
“I prefer it.”
Why am I explaining myself to this man?
He nods slowly, gaze drifting past me to the scaffolding, the damaged wall, the angel with its cobalt wing barely clinging to existence. “The wall.”
“What about it?”
“There’s deep water damage, based on the staining pattern, salt crystallization in the lower sections, and that fresco—” He tilts his head, studying the angel I was just documenting. “is late Renaissance, not Baroque as it stated in the initial documentation. It’s older than the building itself, most likely transplanted from somewhere else.”
My mouth opens. Closes.
How the hell does he know that?
