“Si,” I mumble as I head back to bed.
37
ALESSIA
Two days later, we arrive in Florence just as the late-morning sun pours across the Arno, bathing the Palazzo Alighieri’s weathered stone façade in molten gold.
Every carved cornice and balustrade seems to glow with centuries of whispered power.
Nico walks beside me along the echoing corridor, his measured stride making faint sounds on the marble floor, his expression like a coiled spring ready to uncoil.
“So…you just decided to come over?” he asks again, clearly trying to catch up.
“Yes,” Alba answers for me. “Neither of us would ride with Toni, and she refused to ride with us, so I drove Alessia, and Toni drove herself.”
Nico blinks, then shakes his head slowly, like he’s attempting to solve a riddle written in another language.
That makes two of us.
I have no idea what Alba just said either, but she’s nervous—and Alba babbles when she’s nervous. Long sentences. Circular logic. Too many clauses.
We’ve gone back and forth on how to figure out whatPapà is actually planning, and somehow pimping out our baby sister feels…wrong. Ethically questionable. Possibly criminal.
However, said baby sister is thrilled to play her own hyper-modern, Maserati-driving version of Mata Hari, and no amount of sisterly concern will stop her now.
Toni lives for chaos.
Renzo trails a pace behind us, phone in hand, his thumb scrolling through messages, but his dark eyes are flickering to every door, every shadowed archway.
We slow beneath the frescoed ceiling outside Papà’s office, feigning admiration.
Nymphs and gods swirl overhead in frescoed drama: Apollo’s gilded lyre, Diana’s hunting hounds frozen in mid-pounce, cherubs spinning through painted clouds. Their silent reverie hangs heavy above us, watching.
I feel Nico’s gaze brush mine. “You okay?” he murmurs, voice low as distant church bells.
I nod once, barely. “Fine.”
It’s true—but only half.
“Look, I love that you’re here for a couple of days, but?—”
The heavy oak door creaks open.
Piero, Papà’s EA and right hand, steps into the corridor, his arms burdened with manila folders whose edges stick out like secrets begging to be spilled. His tailored navy suit is flawless, his tie knotted so precisely it looks almost sculpted—and yet his face is hollowed, dark circles pooling beneath weary eyes. Late nights and locked doors have worn him thin.
Toni’s face brightens, her warm laughter bubbling through the hush.
“Piero!” she cries out and launches at the poor guy, who blushes furiously, color climbing all the way to his hairline.
Now I’m even more worried about taking advantage ofhis obvious crush on Toni—who, judging by the gleam in her eye, is practically salivating at the prospect of extracting information from him.
“What the fuck?” Renzo mutters when he sees Toni hug Piero.
“They’re friends,” I say flatly.
Renzo looks livid, jealous enough to kill poor Piero.
Alba and I exchange a look and execute a perfectly synchronized, exaggerated eye roll.
