I watched and listened and absorbed everything. But I was also hyperaware of how close we were standing. How Elio's hand moved across the keyboard with precise efficiency. Howhis voice stayed level and controlled even when explaining complicated security protocols.
"There." I pointed to one of the monitors showing the main entrance. "That man in the gray suit. Third from the front of the line. He's looking at the security cameras instead of his phone or the people around him. And his posture's too rigid. Too alert."
Elio looked at the screen. Then at me.
"Good catch. What else?"
"His shoes. They're practical. Good grip. Not the kind someone wears to a nightclub. And he keeps touching his left side like he's checking for something under his jacket."
"Undercover cop," Elio confirmed. "Probably trying to get inside to observe operations. He didn't get past the door—our people know how to spot them. But the fact that you noticed before I pointed him out is impressive."
The approval in his voice made something warm bloom in my chest.
"I told you I understand how this world works," I said. "My father might have kept me sheltered but he couldn't keep me ignorant. I paid attention. Learned the patterns. Figured out how to read people."
"Why?"
"Because knowledge was the only power I had. The only way to protect myself when everyone else was making decisions about my life." I looked back at the monitors. "I knew if I was going to escape, I needed to understand how everything worked. Who the players were. What they wanted. How they operated."
Elio was quiet for a long moment.
"You planned this for five years," he said. "Your escape. Coming here. All of it."
"Yes."
"That takes patience. Discipline. Most people would've run impulsively. Made mistakes."
"I couldn't afford mistakes. My father doesn't forgive failure." I watched the undercover cop get turned away by security. "I had one chance to get this right. So I waited until I had everything in place. Until I knew exactly where to go and who to ask for help."
"You researched us."
"Extensively. I knew about the RICO trial. About Stefan. I knew if anyone would understand being trapped by family, it would be the people who'd already saved someone from the same situation."
"Smart," Elio said. Then, quieter: "And dangerous."
We stood there in silence, watching the monitors cycle through feeds. The moment stretched between us—weighted with things neither of us was saying.
Elio shifted. His hand moved toward me—toward my shoulder, maybe, or my back—then stopped. Pulled back. Returned to the keyboard.
He'd almost touched me. Then deliberately chose not to.
I noticed. Cataloged it. Added it to the growing list of observations about Elio Marino that I was collecting without meaning to.
The way he moved with careful precision. The intelligence in his eyes when he explained security protocols. The control that never slipped even when I could feel tension radiating off him like heat.
The way he never touched me. Not once in five days. Not even accidentally.
Like he was afraid of what might happen if he did.
***
That night Elio came to my room at the usual time. Brought dinner—pasta from the club's kitchen and sparkling water because he'd noticed I didn't like soda as much.
He sat in his usual chair by the window while I ate at the small table.
"Tell me about your past," I said. Tried to make it sound casual. Conversational.
"No."
