What if he’s alone?
What if he got scared?
What if someone?—
I hit something solid.
Or someone.
A firm chest.
Strong hands close around my upper arms before I can stumble backward.
“Easy.”
That voice.
Deep. Controlled. Calm in a way that should be illegal when my insides are actively on fire.
I look up.
Niccolò Neri.
Of course, it’s him.
Because apparently the universe has decided this is the night every fragile piece of my life gets yanked into the light at once.
“Hey. Are you okay?”
“I’m fine,” I say automatically, even though I am very obviously not fine and have perhaps never been fine a day in my life.
“You are not fine,” he says.
“I need to go.”
“What happened?”
“Nothing.”
His eyes lock on mine, and his voice drops lower.
“Izzy.”
God.
That voice.
I hate that it still does things to me. I hate that in the middle of panic, in the middle of what might be the worst moment of my life, some stupid part of me still hears him andremembers.
“Tell me exactly what happened.”
It isn’t a demand, not in the obvious sense. But there is quiet authority in it, the kind that expects obedience because it has rarely been denied.
And maybe I’m too panicked to fight properly, or maybe some part of me has always been too weak where he’s concerned, because the words come out before I can stop them.
“It’s my son.”
His expression changes. “What about him?”
