Just certain.
“Not in Italy,” he finished. “Not anywhere.”
My throat tightened.
I swallowed.
Forced air into my lungs that didn’t feel like it was staying there.
Then, slowly—
I moved.
One foot found the running board.
The other followed.
The moment I shifted my weight, my knees gave a slight, unsteady protest, buckling just enough to make my breath catch.
I caught myself on the edge of the doorframe, fingers curling around the cold metal to steady myself.
For a second, everything tilted.
But I didn’t fall.
Vincenzo stepped back.
Two paces.
Not far.
Just enough to give me space.
Or maybe—just enough to ensure I couldn’t use the open door as leverage against him.
“Move.”
The word was simple.
I looked at him.
Really looked.
At the man everyone calls my husband.
At the man I had once foolishly let take my virginity, be my first.
At the man who had kissed me as if I were the only thing that mattered in his world—
It was hard to reconcile that memory with the man standing in front of me now.
The man who stood in front of me now.
Calm.
Unmoving.
The same man who had just told me, with that same quiet certainty—that he intended to end my life.
