There's no heat in his voice. No anger. Just cold, absolute certainty.
I believe him.
I push away from the table and walk off before I do something stupid. Like ask him what he meant about not beinggentle. Like wonder what his hands would feel like if I didn't fight them.
My room feels smaller now. Like the walls are closing in. I pace to the window and back, then test the door again even though I know it's unlocked.
It is. Just like he promised.
I could explore. He said I could. The rest of the apartment is open to me.
The hallway is empty. I can hear him moving around in the kitchen, the sound of water running as he does the dishes.
I move quietly down the hall, past my room, past the locked door that I now know leads somewhere he doesn't want me.
The living room is huge. The furniture is expensive but impersonal. Black leather couch. Glass coffee table. No photos. No personal touches. Nothing that says who lives here except money.
There's a bookshelf against one wall. I move toward it, running my fingers along the spines. Machiavelli. Sun Tzu. Tom Clancy. And mixed in with the strategy and war, some surprises. Dante. Petrarch. A worn copy ofThe Count of Monte Cristo.
The shelves are styled like something out of Architectural Digest. A marble sculpture of a hand. Heavy brass bookends shaped like lions. A crystal decanter with amber liquid inside. The bottom shelf has records—actual vinyl. I pull one out. Puccini.La Bohème. The cover is worn, played a thousand times.
I go to slide it into place but my hand hovers over one of the brass bookends. Heavy. Solid. The kind of thing that could crack a skull if swung hard enough.
I pull away.
What am I doing? I'm not a killer. And even if I were, what would be the point? He's faster than me. Stronger. And some sick part of me doesn't want to hurt him anyway.
"My father's," Luca says from behind me.
I don't jump. I should, but I don't. I just slide the record into place and turn to face him.
"He loved opera," he continues, moving into the room. He's changed. Barefoot now, in dark pants and a white t-shirt that stretches across his chest. Somehow more dangerous like this. More real. "He'd play it every Sunday morning. Drove my mother crazy."
"Is he dead?"
"Yes." No emotion in his voice. "Murdered. When I was eight."
"I'm sorry."
"Don't be. He was in the life. He knew the risks." Luca moves to a sideboard, pours himself a drink. Whiskey, from the look of it. "Your brother. Vincent. Gang violence?"
My chest tightens. "How do you know about Vincent?"
"I told you. I know everything about you,tesoro." He takes a sip, watching me over the rim of the glass. "Wrong place, wrong time?"
"Yes." The word comes out flat. It's been seven years. The sharp edges have worn down to dull ache. "He wasn't in a gang. He wasn't involved. He was just walking home from work and got caught in crossfire. He was twenty-two."
"Cazzo." The curse is quiet. "Is that why you became a nurse?"
"I was in school. General studies. Had no idea what I wanted to do." I wrap my arms around myself. "After Vincent... I switched to nursing. Most of my credits transferred to the BSN program."
"You wanted to save people. Since you couldn't save him."
"Something like that." The words come out flat. "Not that it matters. I save some. Lose others. Never enough."
Luca sets down his glass and moves toward me. The smart thing would be to back away. Put distance between us.
I don't.
