She didn’t move. “Where?”
“I think it’s time for a house tour,” I sighed. “You have questions. I dislike answering questions. So I’m showing you things instead.”
“That makes no sense.”
“It does if you’re me. Coming?” I extended a hand for her.
“I would rather die than be you,” she hissed.
“You say the sweetest things.”
She ignored my outstretched arm, so I kept walking. For three seconds, she didn’t follow. Then I heard her footsteps behind me. Of course. Curiosity. Every damn time.
The estate looked different in morning light. Less like a fortress. More like a sin someone had spent too much money making beautiful.
The main house sat on the highest point of the cliff, all glass, black stone, and sharp modern lines cutting into the sky. Below it, gardens curved along the land in terraces, lavender and rosemary spilling over stone walls, cypress trees swaying in the salt wind. The guest house where she’d slept stood near the eastern edge, close enough to hear the ocean at all hours.
Private. Protected. Built years ago for a different reason. A reason I didn’t think about.
Angelo had wanted it finished. He used to sit on the unfinished terrace with construction dust on his shoes, drinking beer and talking about how someday we’d both disappear here when the city got too loud.
“You’ll bring models,” he’d said once.
“You’ll bring trouble,” I’d replied. He’d grinned. Same face as mine. Brighter soul. “Same thing.”
Aurora’s voice cut through the memory. “This place is ridiculous.”
I looked over. She stood near the edge of the path, staring out at the gardens with her arms crossed, trying very hard not to look impressed.
“You hate it,” I guessed.
“It’s offensive.”
I smiled. “To whom?”
“Poor people. Architecture. God. Possibly birds.”
A laugh tore out of me before I could stop it. She looked at me sharply. Like she’d been waiting for it. Like the sound mattered. That was dangerous. I cleared my throat and kept walking.
She followed. I showed her the garage first. Bad idea. Her eyes lit up the moment the doors opened. I watched it happen. Watched anger and suspicion flicker beneath genuine awe as she stepped inside.
Sunlight spilled over polished concrete and chrome. Rows of motorcycles sat beneath custom lights. Black. Silver. Blood red. Machines built for speed, danger, and men with poor survival instincts.
Aurora walked between them slowly. Her fingers hovered near a matte black bike but didn’t touch. “Do you collect these?”
“Some men collect art.”
“These are not art,” she scoffed.
“They’re better,” I smirked. She looked back at me. For one second, there was no hatred on her face. Only interest. Curiosity. The girl she might’ve been if her life hadn’t been arranged around men with guns.
“What was that one?” she asked, nodding toward the bike she’d ridden. My chest tightened. Marco had stayed outside. Smart.
“That one,” I said, “was Angelo’s.”
Aurora went still. Her gaze moved to the motorcycle. Then to me. The room seemed to quiet around us. “Oh.”
One word. Soft. No joke after it. No dramatic comment. No attack. Just oh. It hit harder than it should have. I looked away first. Coward. “Come on.”
