"I'm here," I whisper. "I'm safe."
His eyes close. Just for a moment.
When they open again, the vulnerability is gone. Replaced by that cold determination I've come to recognize.
"Come." He takes my hand. "Shower. Then we talk about what you found."
"I didn't find anything useful."
"Then we'll look together."
He leads me toward the bathroom. His hand warm and steady in mine.
CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE
Vittoria
Amanda sprawls across my bed like she owns it, scrolling through her phone with one hand while eating grapes with the other.
"So Dylan wants to meet my parents," she announces. "Can you imagine? My parents who are never home and barely remember they have a daughter?"
I glance up from my laptop. "That's actually sweet. He wants to know your family."
"Sweet." She tosses a grape at me. "The man is delusional. There's nothing to know. They'll shake his hand, ask what he does for a living, then disappear to their next charity gala."
Before I can respond, my door flies open.
Valentino stands in the doorway, holding a bottle of wine. "Ladies. I come bearing gifts."
Amanda sits up immediately. "Oh look. It's Sicily's finest export. Tell me, Val, do they teach you that dramatic entrance in mobster school or is it natural talent?"
"Natural talent, bella." He grins. "Unlike your hair color."
Her mouth drops open. "Excuse me? This is one hundred percent natural platinum blonde."
"And I'm one hundred percent believing you." He moves into the room, setting the wine on my dresser. "Just like I believe those are your real?—"
"Finish that sentence and die," Amanda warns.
I watch them. This is their routine.
He needles her. She fires back. Neither one backs down.
It's entertaining. Most of the time.
"What's the wine for?" I ask.
Valentino turns to me. "Pietro said you've been working too hard. Thought you could use a break."
"Pietro said that?" I raise an eyebrow. "Pietro who hasn't taken a day off in two years?"
"He worries about you, piccola."
Amanda makes a gagging sound. "God, you Italians and your family drama. It's like a soap opera."
"Says the woman who cried watching The Notebook last week," I point out.
"That's different. That's art."
