Rafael is leaning against the mantle, a glass of amber liquid in his hand. Beside him, Enzo looks like he’s ready to dismantle the furniture with his bare hands, his eyes narrowing the second they land on Isabella. Matteo is standing by the bar, pouring a drink, while Dante is huddled near the window, his expression shifting from stone to something warmer the moment he sees Bianca.
"You're late," Enzo growls.
He doesn't wait for an answer. He’s already moving, reaching for Isabella’s waist and pulling her into his space with a physical authority that makes the air turn static.
"We stopped for a second round of caffeine," Isabella says, her hand resting flat against his chest, her fingers splayed over his heart. "A very brave young man tried to offer me a discount. He was quite persistent about it."
Enzo’s jaw tightens, a muscle feathering at the hinge of his jaw. "A discount? For what, exactly?"
"For my company, I assume," she teases, her eyes dancing with a light that only Enzo seems to be able to ignite. "He was quitecharming. He had that whole 'struggling artist' vibe going for him."
Bianca lets out a soft 'whoop' of encouragement, dropping her bags on a velvet armchair. Dante looks at her, his brows rising in a challenge. "Did he now? And did anyone try to be charming with you, Bianca? Or were you too busy buying out the district?"
"A few," she says, tossing her hair over her shoulder. "But I told them I only date men who can handle a handgun and a temper tantrum in equal measure. That narrowed the field significantly. Most men are terrified of a woman who knows her own mind—and her own caliber."
Rafael hasn't said a word. He’s just watching me. He’s standing perfectly still, but the intensity radiating off him is enough to make my skin prickle. His green eyes are dark, scanning my face, my neck, the way I’m holding my shoulders. He doesn't look angry; he looks... focused.
"And you, Gia?" he asks. His voice is a low, sandpaper vibration that cuts through the banter like a blade through silk. "Did anyone try to come onto you as well? Did my guards fail their duties while you were distracted by charming strangers?"
I feel the heat rise in my cheeks. I keep my chin up, meeting his gaze with a stubbornness I didn't know I still possessed. "I wouldn't know. I was too busy making sure Bianca didn't buy a fourth pair of boots."
"She didn't have to look," Bianca chirps, leaning over the back of the sofa, her eyes gleaming with mischief. "Half the cafe was practically tripping over their chairs to get a glimpse of her. There was one guy—tall, blond, definitely a tourist—who stoodthere for five minutes trying to work up the nerve to say hello. He had his phone out like he was going to ask for a picture."
Rafael’s grip on his glass tightens until I think the crystal might actually shatter. "And?"
"And Gia gave him the Resting Bitch Face of the century," Bianca laughs, miming a cold, stony stare that is actually quite accurate. “He turned around so fast he almost hit the glass door. She scared them all off without saying a single word. It was magnificent."
A small, reluctant twitch of a smile tugs at the corner of Rafael’s mouth. He tries to hide it behind a sip of his drink, but the boys see it. The tension in the room breaks just a fraction, replaced by the familiar rhythm of their brotherhood.
"Look at that," Dante teases, nudging Matteo with his elbow. "The Butcher is blushing. Or as close to it as he gets. Who knew the Ghost Heiress had such a terrifying glare? I thought that was your specialty, Rafe."
"Shut up, Dante," Rafael says, his voice softening as he sets his glass down on the mantle. He walks toward me, his boots silent on the rug. He doesn't touch me, but his presence is a physical weight, warm and steady, acting as a buffer between me and the rest of the world. "Gia. Come with me for a moment. I want to show you something before we get settled."
"Now? Everyone is here," I protest, though my heart is already starting to do that frantic, uneven thud against my ribs. Every time he singles me out, I wonder if this is the moment the clock hits zero. If this is the moment he stops looking at me with desire and starts looking at me with the cold eyes of a judge.
"It won't take long," he says, his hand finding the small of my back. It’s a grounding touch, his palm large and hot through the thin fabric of my dress. He guides me toward the grand staircase, leaving the laughter and the clinking of glasses behind.
I follow him in silence, the sounds of the salon fading into a muffled hum. We reach the master suite, but he doesn't stop at the bed. He leads me toward the adjoining dressing room—the one that has been a locked, silent shrine to Elena since the day I arrived. I’ve peered through the crack in the door a dozen times, feeling like a trespasser in a dead woman’s life.
He stops at the door and pushes it open.
I freeze in the doorway.
The room is full of movement, a stark contrast to the stagnant air that used to live here. Boxes—large, heavy cardboard containers—sit on the floor, their flaps open like hungry mouths. I can see the corners of silk garments, the glint of gold picture frames, the velvet tops of jewelry cases being tucked away. Staff members are moving quietly in and out, their arms full of the life that used to belong to a different woman.
"What is this?" I whisper, the words feeling small in the vastness of the room.
"It's time," Rafael says. He’s standing behind me, his breath warm against my ear, his body a solid, protective wall against my back. "I’ve spent ten years keeping things exactly where she left them because I thought that’s what loyalty meant. And I’m tired."
I watch as a maid carefully place a framed photo of Elena into a box. It’s the one I’ve seen in the hallway—the one where she’slaughing on a boat, her hair wild and free, looking like she’d never known a day of fear in her life.
"You're moving her things? All of them?"
"I’ve instructed the staff to redecorate the space entirely," he says, his voice firm, his hand sliding from my back to my waist, pulling me closer until there isn't a sliver of air between us. "Whatever you want. Paint, furniture, lighting. Whatever you want it filled with, books or clothes, it’s yours. This room is for the woman who lives here now. Not the ghost of the one who left."
I step into the room, my bare feet silent on the plush rug. The weight of the gesture hits me like a physical blow to the solar plexus. He isn't just clearing a closet; he’s clearing a space in his heart. He’s telling me that I’m not just the girl who fits into her shadow. He’s honoring me. He’s giving me the one thing I thought I’d never have here—a place of my own.
"Rafael, you don't have to do this," I say, turning to look at him. The tension between us is so thick it’s a living thing in the room, pulsing between us like a second heartbeat. "I never asked you to remove her. I know how much she meant."
