When I came back to the room after having my dinner—a perfectly prepared pasta carbonara that somehow tasted no better than cardboard to me—Cosimo was stretched out on the sofa, eyes closed, arms crossed over his chest.
I had a feeling he wasn’t really asleep, but I was in no mood to force a conversation. Hurt and annoyance still gnawed at my chest. At dinner, the insecure part of me had insisted that I’d done something wrong and needed to apologize for it, but for once, I hadn’t listened to her.
No, Cosimo’s reaction had nothing to do with me. Not really. After what he’d told me yesterday, I knew why he’d reacted the way he did when I said we were partners.
During one of our first meetings, I told him I couldn’t understand why he wouldn’t even try to get along with me when he’d been raised by two people with an apparently strong marriage. Now I knew better. Now I knew what environment he’d actually grown up in. What it had taught him to fear.
I couldn’t blame him for being wary when it came to relationships.
But I also couldn’t let his fear decide what happened between us. He’d told me I was brave. So I would be brave enough to say what he was too afraid to face.
I fell asleep telling myself that I’d confront him in the morning and tell him exactly how I felt about him. Yes, there was a chance he didn’t return my feelings, but I didn’t want to give up on us without ever speaking my full truth to him.
But when I woke up, he was gone.
A brief pang of anxiety hit me before I noticed the note lying on the coffee table. Written in his angular handwriting.
I’m working in the breakfast room. Pack and find me when you’re done getting ready.
I gnawed on my nail. Pack? So he still wanted to ship me back home. If I went down there now, I wouldn’t be able to change his mind on that point, no matter how our conversation went.
I stripped off my pajamas and stepped into the shower, pondering what to do.
Cosimo’s plan would escalate everything. If he was right, if the town really was controlled by someone dangerous enough to frighten all the workshop owners into silence, coming here with more men—armed men—could end very badly. People could get hurt.Hecould get hurt.
I’d been so close yesterday with Nunzio. If I could just try again today, I might still be able to get something out of him.
But how?
Cosimo wasn’t going to let me go back there with him. I already knew that.
I dried off and got dressed. Cosimo’s note stared up at me from where it sat on the coffee table.
It was still early. He wouldn’t come looking for me right away. The workshop was just a fifteen-minute walk into town.
Maybe I could go there, talk to Nunzio, get what I needed, and come back before Cosimo had even noticed I was gone.
Risky. But it was worth it if it got us what we needed and avoided bloodshed.
Decision made, I pulled on my jacket and crept downstairs, slipping past the dining room as a couple of other guests walked inside. I stepped out of the hotel and headed toward the ceramics quarter.
The workshop was justlike I remembered it from yesterday. As I walked in, a soft bell rang above my head.
“Welcome,” Nunzio called out. His smile wavered when he saw it was me.
I lifted both hands, palms open. “I’m really sorry about yesterday. My husband has a bit of a temper. He only wanted to make me happy. We asked about Quaranta all day yesterday and didn’t find a single original. By the time we got here, my husband was tired, frustrated, and out of patience. That still doesn’t excuse the way he spoke to you.”
Nunzio’s expression softened almost at once. “I should be the one apologizing on behalf of my brother. He has a temper too.” He shook his head. “The client who reserved those pieces is very important and values his privacy. Salvatore only wanted to make sure we respected that.”
I adjusted my grip on my purse. “I understand. Truly. And I appreciate that you take your clients’ privacy so seriously.” I looked around the workshop. “I’d still love to buy some of your pieces, if that’s all right? There were a few I noticed yesterday that I didn’t get the chance to ask you about.”
That made him brighten. “Of course. Which ones?”
We spent the next ten minutes talking through the pieces that had caught my eye. That part, at least, was easy. Nunzio clearly loved what he did, and once he started speaking about his inspirations, it was hard for me to get a word in. I complimented his work where it was deserved—which was often—and let the conversation unfold naturally while I kept one eye on the clock.
I didn’t have much time. But I also knew that if I went back to pressing him about Quaranta too soon, he’d retreat.
“I think I’ll take these three home,” I told him, pointing out two decorative plates and a jar.
