“You can back out if you want,” I tell her, though part of me hopes she won’t. “No one would blame you.”
She shakes her head immediately. “No. I want to do it.”
I raise an eyebrow. “You sure?”
Her chin lifts a little. “I love a good challenge.”
And damn if that doesn’t do something to me. That fire in her eyes, that stubborn optimism—it’s like watching sunlight cut through storm clouds.
I step closer, close enough that I can smell the faint scent of her shampoo, something floral and clean. “You really think you can fix this place?”
“I don’t just think it,” she says softly. “I know it. You’ve all worked so hard to take it back. The least I can do is make it feel like home again.”
For a second, I can’t speak.
No one talks about home anymore. Not like that. Not since everything fell apart.
Before I can stop myself, I reach out and brush a strand of hair from her face. “You’re something else, you know that?”
Her lips part slightly, and her breath catches. “Is that a compliment?”
“It’s whatever you want it to be.”
She smiles then—small, shy, but genuine—and that’s all it takes. I tilt her chin up, closing the space between us, and kiss her. It’s not a hungry kiss. Not this time. It’s slow, deliberate—a silent acknowledgment of everything she’s already become to me.
When I pull back, her eyes are bright, her cheeks flushed.
“Guess we should get started,” she murmurs.
20
EVI
By the time the last of the kitchen staff Raf sent over clears out, the house smells faintly of lemon soap and roasted garlic—small miracles, considering that only hours ago, the place reeked of mildew and decay. Sandro and I worked side by side to scrub the counters clean while the new staff handled the heavy lifting—sweeping, mopping, replacing broken bulbs until the dining room could almost pass for something inhabitable.
I glance toward the hallway beyond the kitchen, where the flickering light exposes peeling wallpaper and water stains that reach the ceiling. The rest of the mansion still feels haunted—empty rooms echoing with the weight of everything that’s been lost, snatched away by the fire and months of exposure to the elements.
Raf stands near the small kitchen table, his broad shoulders tense, a half-finished glass of wine in his hand. He looks exhausted, worn down to the bone, but there’s something sharper underneath—purpose, maybe, or rage barely kept on a leash. If not for his ever-crisp sophisticated style, I could almostmistake him for Sandro, with the haunted look in his eye that seems to grow darker by the day.
“The house will do,” he says finally, his voice hoarse but steady. “For now.”
Sandro leans back in his chair, arms crossed. “It’s not ready to host a loyalty ceremony, if that’s what you’re thinking. Half the east wing is open to the damn sky.”
Raf turns to face him, eyes glinting darkly. “Then we’ll make do with the half that’s still standing. The families need to see strength, not comfort. They need to walk through those gates and remember who owns this place.”
The tension between them hums like a live wire. I dry my hands on a towel, hesitating before stepping in. “It doesn’t have to be perfect,” I say quietly. “Just convincing. Give me a month—maybe two—and I’ll make it happen.”
Both men turn toward me. Sandro’s brow creases in doubt, but Raf’s expression shifts—something between surprise and admiration.
“A couple of months?” Sandro asks. “You think you can fix all this in that amount of time?”
“I can at least make it presentable,” I answer, meeting his gaze evenly. “You said you needed the families to come here. To see strength. I’ll make sure they do.”
There’s a flicker of pride in his eyes—subtle, almost hidden—but it’s enough to send warmth through me.
Raf nods once, setting down his glass. “Then it’s decided. We hold the ceremony here.” His tone leaves no room for argument.“We’re rebuilding from our house outward. This is where it begins.”
He leaves it at that, stepping out into the hallway to take a call, and for a long moment, the only sound is the soft hum of the refrigerator.
