"A wheel of brie?" He leans back, watching the way I move, his gaze heavy and possessive. "I find that hard to believe. You look like a stiff breeze could knock you over. Or a strong pair of hands."
The double meaning settles around us, thick and sweet. I bite into the croissant, the buttery pastry melting on my tongue, and I can feel him watching my mouth.
He’s not even pretending to look at the documents anymore.
"Try me, Butcher. I have a very high metabolism fueled entirely by spite and espresso." I pour myself a cup of coffee, the steam warming my face. "What about you? What’s the Caruso breakfast of champions? Raw steak and the tears of your enemies?"
"Black coffee and whatever doesn't taste like cardboard," he says, reaching for the pot. "My mother used to make these ricciarelli—almond cookies—on Sundays. I haven't tasted anything that matched them since I was ten."
"You have a sweet tooth?" I lean in, a sassy grin spreading across my face, my heart hammering against my ribs. "The Butcher of the East Wing likes almond cookies? That’s going in the dossier. It’s a devastating weakness."
"Don't get ahead of yourself, little Gia. I also like silence and people who follow instructions. Two things you seem to struggle with." He reaches across the table, his hand covering mine. His palm is scorching, a steady, pulsing heat that makes me want to climb across the mahogany and find out if the rest of him is that hot. "But I find I don't mind the noise as much when it’s yours."
"Instructions are suggestions, Rafael. Everyone knows that." My voice is breathier than I want it to be. "What was it like? Growing up in a house like this?"
He goes quiet for a moment, his thumb tracing the back of my hand in a slow, rhythmic circle. "Loud. There were many of us. My father was… substantial. He filled every room he walked into. I spent most of my time trying to be invisible. I learned how to move without making a sound. It’s a useful skill in this life."
"I did the opposite," I say, my voice softening as I lean into his touch. "I made myself loud. I talked too much, I laughed too loudly. I figured if I was the center of attention, I could control what people saw."
Rafael’s eyes darken. He leans forward, the space between us shrinking until I can smell the cedar and the coffee on his breath. "You don't have to hide anything here, Gia. Not with me."
If only that were true. If only I could tell you everything without starting a war. If only I didn't have a burner phone in my room that counts down to my sister's death.
"I hate olives," I blurt out, desperate to break the spell before I lean in and kiss him.
He blinks, the intensity in his gaze flickering into amusement. "What?"
"Olives. They’re slimy and salty and they taste like disappointment. I pick every single one off my pizza."
Rafael actually laughs—a short, raspy sound that makes my heart swell with a dangerous, unwanted hope. "I like olives. Especially the spicy ones from Calabria. They have a bite. Like you."
"See? This is why we can't be friends. It’s a fundamental incompatibility."
"I don't think 'friends' was ever on the table, Gia," he murmurs, his hand sliding from my knuckles to my wrist, his fingers circling the delicate bone. "I think we passed 'friends' somewhere between the basement and the stables."
The air in the room shifts, thickening with the weight of what he’s just admitted. His thumb strokes the underside of my wrist, right over the erratic leap of my pulse, and I know he can feel it. He’s counting every stutter of my heart.
"Between the basement and the stables," I repeat, my voice breathy, the sarcasm I usually use as a shield failing me entirely. I look down at his hand—large, yet so impossibly gentle against my skin. "That’s a lot of ground to cover in such a short time, Rafael."
"Time doesn't really apply to us, does it?" He leans in, his shadow falling over me, smelling of dark espresso and the crisp morning air.
For a second, I think he’s going to kiss me—really kiss me, the kind that ends the conversation and starts something we can't take back. My breath hitches, my body leaning into his heat of its own accord. I want to tell him he’s dangerous, that he’s ruinous, but the words are trapped behind the sudden, overwhelming urge to just let him pull me under.
Instead, he just holds my gaze for a heartbeat longer, a silent challenge in his dark eyes, before he finally lets go. The loss of contact is like a physical chill.
"Eat your breakfast, Gia," he says, his voice returning to that rough, teasing edge. "You're going to need the energy if you're going to keep being this difficult."
I swallow hard, forcing a shaky laugh as I reach for my plate, trying to ignore the way my skin still hums where he touched me. "I'm not difficult. I'm selective."
We finish breakfast in a comfortable, domestic silence that feels dangerously like a life I could get used to. He teases me about my third croissant; I tell him his coffee is too strong and will probably burn a hole in his stomach. It’s easy. It’s relatable. It’s a beautiful, fragile lie that I want to live in forever.
Two nights later, I shatter.
I’m in our private sitting room, the heavy curtains drawn against the dark. I should be sleeping, but the burner phone in my hand is humming with a malevolent energy. A message has arrived, and it’s not just text this time.
My fingers shake as I open the first file. It’s a list. Precise. Brutal.
Leadership Summit: Villa d'Este.
