My body is screaming. Not in fear of violence. Not exactly. In fear of losing control. Because every time Marco says my name like that, like it belongs in his mouth, it drags something old up my spine. A memory of a door slamming. A hand closing. A voice in my ear telling me I should be grateful.
I keep my breathing steady.In for four. Hold. Out.
I scan the room for a face I’ve been trying not to need since the courtroom.
Turo.
I tell myself I’m scanning because I have to. Because if he’s here, I need to know where he is at all times. Because information is safety.
But the truth is uglier.
Some part of me is looking for him the way a drowning person looks for a surface.
And that scares me more than any whisper.
I don’t see him. Not yet. It’s both relief and disappointment tangled together.
Marco drags me toward the center hall where the auction displays are set up. Silent items lurk behind glass, art and jewelry and experiences meant to make rich people feel generous. His grip doesn’t loosen.
I catch sight of a staircase. A hallway. A pair of double doors guarded by two men who look like they were born in suits. I count exits.
Then Marco stops so abruptly, I nearly collide with him. He turns, smiling too brightly.
“Ah,” he says. “Perfect.”
My stomach sinks as I see a man approaching us. Older. Distinguished. Silver at the temples. Suit cut perfectly. Not flashy. The kind of understated that costs more than glitter. His smile is warm in a way that disarms instinct.
His eyes are kind. Or they mimic kindness so well, my body hesitates to brace itself.
“Marco,” he says, voice smooth as aged whiskey. “Good. You made it.”
Marco straightens a fraction, the way he does when someone he respects, or fears, enters his orbit.
“Enzo,” Marco replies, almost pleased. “Of course I made it.”
The man’s gaze shifts to me. And for the first time tonight, someone looks at me like a person instead of a problem.
“You must be Lucia,” he says.
My throat tightens. “Yes,” I manage. “Lucia.”
He offers his hand. I hesitate for half a beat, old reflex, then place my fingers in his. His grip is firm, brief, respectful. No lingering. No ownership.
“Enzo Vitale,” he says. “A friend of the family.”
Marco slides his hand higher on my arm, fingers pressing into a spot that isn’t bruised but remembers bruising.
“She’s been… cooperative,” Marco says, as if he’s reporting to a supervisor. “You know. For the kid.”
Enzo’s smile doesn’t change. “That’s good,” he says warmly. “Children deserve peace around them.”
My chest aches at the sentence. It sounds like something a decent man would say.
I hate how much I want to believe that.
Enzo’s eyes soften slightly when he continues, “And Nico, is it? That’s his name?”
My blood goes cold. Marco has told people things. Of course he has.
