His jaw flexes, but he keeps quiet. I lean forward and slowly close the laptop in front of him, and he has no choice but to look at me finally.
The silence stretches. He doesn't fill it, and neither do I for a moment.
"You said something to me last night," I say quietly.
Something flickers behind his eyes before saying, "I know what I said."
"Then why are you acting like you didn’t say it?"
Silence.
"And then you spent all day pretending you didn't mean it."
He leans back in his chair, his eyes on me, something unreadable moving behind them. He takes a swig of his whiskey and sets it down slowly.
"I meant it," he deadpans, and it catches me off guard. No deflection. No walls. Just the truth I’ve always wanted to hear. Damiano Cotrini, the man who has been evading my feelings for over a year, said he loved me, as if it were the easiest thing he had ever admitted.
"Then stop running from it," I tell him. "You said it. Now own it."
He looks at me for a long moment. Then he stands, his shadow stretching across the desk between us.
"I'm not good at this," he says. His voice is low, stripped of its usual charm. "You should know that."
"I know," I say. "I'm not asking you to be."
He rounds the desk slowly, stopping close enough that I have to tilt my head up to look at him. He reaches out and grips the back of my neck gently, his thumb tracing my jaw, and even with all the uncertainty still sitting between us, the heat of his touch makes my skin burn.
"Then what are you asking for?" he murmurs.
I step back, out of his reach, and hold out my hand.
"Come with me," I say. "I want to show you something."
He looks at my outstretched hand for a beat, something unreadable crossing his face. Then he takes it.
I lead him out of the office. On the way, we pass Gio and Julian, who look at us with wide eyes. I ignore them.
I take him to the same building I stumbled upon last night, wandering in the garden. I had found the elevator by accident, and ended up in the basement—in the dark, heart pounding, before I turned the wrong corner and saw the light under the door that showed me what Damiano is capable of.
But before that door, there had been another one.
I push it open, and the air smells like burnt fireworks and industrial cleaner. I flick the light switch on, and a long, low room stretches ahead of us, targets hanging at intervals on the opposite side.
Damiano goes still behind me.
"You found this," he says.
"Last night. Before I found the other room." I walk to the wall of weapons and take down a handgun without hesitating. I check the chamber with ease, just the way Mateo taught me. I feel Damiano watching me from behind, looking for any sign of the girl who cried in the garden—waiting to see if I’ll hesitate. I don’t. The gun is heavy and cold, but it feels normal in a way that should probably scare me.
"Is it heavy?" he says, stepping behind me.
Suddenly, he’s pressed against my back. His chest is a solid wall of heat as he wraps his arms around me, his hands covering mine on the grip of the gun. His breath is hot against my ear, and for a second, I almost lose my focus.
"Keep your feet wide," he whispers before sliding his right foot between mine and forcing them further apart, the move catching me off guard, and my knees nearly buckle.
"Line up the sights. The recoil will be strong. Don't fight it. You have to control the weapon. You have to—"
"I know how the gun works, Damiano." I feel him freeze as I cut him off.
