The door started to open.
I lifted my gun.
Fabiana stepped into view.
“Nettle.” The relief hit me like a hard punch in the gut. She seemed fine—was standing on her own two feet, unharmed, and no sign of distress. Her eyes widened as she registered the weapon pointed straight at her.
I lowered it immediately and drew her into me. “Are you all right?” I asked, pressing my lips to her hair and running my palm over her. I needed her to be okay.
“Cosimo. It’s fine. I’m safe.”
I leaned back to look at her face, searching for any hint she was saying that under duress. But she was completely calm.
Maybe too calm.
She gave me a reassuring smile. “Do you mind putting away your gun? The whole point of this was to avoid an escalation.”
“The whole point of what?” I asked, discomfort tightening inside my chest. It didn’t appear like Fabiana had been kidnapped. Which meant I had no fucking clue what this was.
“What the hell is going on?” My relief at finding her was being nudged aside by suspicion. “Why are you here? What is this place?”
“Dominic saw you pull up on the security camera. He sent me to open the door. He thought it might calm you down if you saw me right away. He didn’t want you to walk in guns blazing.” She looked pointedly at the weapon in my hand.
“Who thefuckis Dominic?”
She rolled her lips. “Could you please just put the gun away? I swear I’ll explain everything.”
“Not a chance.”
She let out a sigh. “Okay. Will you at least promise me you won’t shoot him until you’ve heard him out?” Her voice held the kind of tone you’d use when trying to reason with someone unreasonable.
How the fuck wasIthe unreasonable one in this situation? I wanted to kiss her and shake her at the same time. Didn’t she realize how close I’d been to losing my mind when I couldn’t find her?
The important thing was that she was fine. Whatever was happening inside this house, she’d clearly decided it wasn’t a threat. I’d find out quickly enough whether I agreed.
She reached down and squeezed my hand. “Do you trust me?” Her emerald eyes—soft, earnest, vulnerable—held mine.
Inside me, everything tensed…and then released.
I did. Of course I fucking did. This woman had proven herself to me again and again. I was done doubting her.
“I do,” I said.
A relieved smile tugged on her mouth. “Good.”
“I’ll hear him—whoever the fuck he is—out.”
She led me through the house and out onto a terrace overlooking a rose garden. Under a pergola draped in purple flowers, a dark-haired man sat at a table in the shade, newspaper in hand, a cappuccino at his elbow.
A scar ran over his cheek and disappeared into his beard.
Up close, I saw he was a few years older than I’d assumed—maybe around thirty. Still, I recognized him immediately.
It was the biker from the funeral.
“Dominic,” Fabiana said, “this is Cosimo Ferraro, my husband.”
The man’s gaze flicked my way and landed on the gun I still had in my hand. A corner of his mouth curved.
