“No.”
The answer comes sharp and automatic.
She nods once like she expected nothing else. “Of course.”
Guilt should feel sharper than this. It doesn’t. Not tonight. Tonight there’s only Elizabeth in my head, Elizabeth in Bari, Elizabeth with Russo, Elizabeth happy.
Happy.
The thought makes my blood turn poisonous all over again.
Fran lifts her eyes back to mine. “Will it be dangerous?”
I almost laugh.
“Yes.”
She exhales and leans back against the chair, looking suddenly exhausted. “Then I suppose this is the part where I ask you to be careful.”
“And do you mean it?”
Her gaze doesn’t waver. “Would it matter, Lorenzo?”
The words should sting. Instead, they settle somewhere low in my chest like a quiet verdict.
She’s right. It doesn’t matter.
“Get some rest,” I say.
A faint crease forms between her brows. “That’s all?”
I glance at the door, already feeling my patience fray. “What exactly would you like from me, Fran?”
She flinches.
“I don’t know,” she whispers. “A lie, maybe. Something pretty enough to make being trapped here feel less like punishment.”
For a moment, I just look at her.
She’s paler than she was a month ago. Smaller somehow even though her stomach grows every day. There are shadows under her eyes that no amount of money or medicine has managed to fix. But to suggest that she is trapped here when she was the one who pushed the wedding is laughable.
“You have free will. Use it. Because you’re certainly not trapped. And, if you feel that way, perhaps we can get you your own place.”
Her eyes widen. “My own place? Lorenzo, no. People would talk.”
“Fuck people. You’re clearly unhappy. If living away from me will change that, then so be it.”
Her eyes fill with unshed tears. “You have no idea what will make me happy, do you?” She shakes her head. “Go.”
I don’t wait to be told twice.
Cesaro is waiting near the elevator, tense and silent.
“The car,” I say.
“It’s ready.”
“Good.”
