I stare at the closed door like it holds answers. It doesn't.
Does Nico really like me?
The question circles my brain like a vulture. His thumb on my cheek. The almost-kiss.
Stop it. Just stop.
I push off the bed and pace the length of the room.
Even if Nico does feel something—and that's a massive if—I work for his family. I scrub their toilets. I fold their laundry. I'm staff.
Vittoria might not care about that distinction, but she's one person. What about Pietro? What about their mother? What about the dozen other people who float through this compound?
You're the help, Kristen. You serve the food. You don't eat at the table.
Jack's voice slithers through my memory. He said that once, after I tried to join a conversation at one of his work dinners. I'd been so embarrassed I excused myself to cry in the bathroom.
My chest tightens. I hate that his words still live in my head.
But maybe he was right about this one thing. Maybe I don't belong here.
I stop by the window and press my forehead against the cool glass. Outside, the grounds stretch endlessly green.
What is my life?
I close my eyes and force myself to breathe. In. Out. In. Out.
The bigger question lurks beneath the surface.
Do I like him?
My stomach flips. No. Absolutely not. I refuse to answer that question.
Because answering it means acknowledging the way my heart races when he enters a room. The way his rare almost-smiles make me feel like I've won something precious.
It means acknowledging that when he touched my face, I wanted to lean into his palm. Wanted to close the distance between us. Wanted to know what his lips would feel like against mine.
Damn it.
I open my eyes and glare at my reflection in the window. "You're an idiot," I whisper.
My reflection doesn't argue.
Here's the thing: my life is a disaster. A complete and total dumpster fire.
The last thing—the absolute last thing—I need right now is man drama.
Especially man drama involving a brooding, intense, emotionally constipated mafia man who probably kills people before breakfast. Or after. Or everyday.
You don't even know if he kills people, a traitorous voice whispers. You're assuming.
I turn away from the window and sink into the armchair by the fireplace. The leather creaks beneath me.
Focus, Kristen. Focus.
Lily needs stability. She needs a mother who isn't tangled up in complicated feelings for dangerous men. She needs me to keep my head down, work off this debt, and get us out of here in one piece.
That's the plan. Stick to the plan.
