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But I have spent ten years watching people lie in the worst moments of their lives, and whatever I saw on his face in that gym it wasn’t fake.

He wasn’t trying to sell me anything. He looked like he’d surprised himself by telling me the truth.

I turn around slowly, because I don’t trust my own face right now. His either.

“Yes.” It comes out smaller than I want it to and I swallow heavily. “Yes, I do.”

Something in his shoulders lets go, like he’d been holding himself too tight and my one word gave him permission to stop.

He pushes off the counter and starts toward me. He doesn’t walk like he usually does.

There’s none of the easy, unbotheredness when he’s holding all the cards. This is slower. Careful. Like he thinks I might spook and run if he does it wrong.

I don’t run. Instead, I stand there and let him come to me.

He stops close. Not touching, but close enough that I can smell soap and clean skin, and it’s the best thing I’ve smelled in days.

He’s tall enough that I have to tip my chin up to look at him.

My heart is beating so fast I’m pretty sure if I was attached to an EKG, the nurses would be flying in.

“I owe you an apology,” he says.

Oh, hell really can freeze over. I have to swallow several sarcastic retorts before I can answer. “For which part exactly?” I ask, my voice a little unsteady. “I have a laundry list of things you need to apologize for.”

His lips quirk and I steady myself. He’s going to say something that ruins me, I know it.

“The gym,” he says, his dark brown eyes never leaving mine. “Watching you. I told myself I came down there to give you the video. That was true. It was not the whole reason I stayed in the doorway as long as I did.” His hand comes up and I track its movement, not sure what he’s about to do. To my surprise, he rubs the back of his neck, almost as if he’s…embarrassed? Huh. Didn’t think Nico Barone could feel that emotion.

“I’m sorry,” he continues, and I blink, trying to re-focus. “I don’t say that often, and I’m not saying it just to say it. I shouldn’t have looked at you like that.”

I stare at him. I blink a few times, trying to make sense of everything.

Nico Barone. Underboss. The man who took Seraphina.

The man who has calmly told me to my face that everything he does is manipulation.

The man who also told me he would put Seraphina’s parents through continued torment if I didn’t comply with him.

That man is standing in his kitchen, apologizing to me. And he’s doing it so sincerely I believe every word of it.

I pinch the soft skin of my inner elbow, to ensure I’m not dreaming. There’s a sharp pinch. Yep, not dreaming.

“Why were you there?” I ask. “And tell me the whole truth. Not the bullshit version you want me to hear.”

He doesn’t answer right away.

Instead, he takes another step.

He’s so close.

Close enough that if either of us shifted an inch we would be touching. My mouth dries and my heart hammers traitorously. I can’t take my eyes off him.

I can feel the heat coming off him and see the tattoo curling up his forearm. The muscle in his arm moves as he lifts one hand slowly and—very carefully, like he’s giving me all the time in the world to stop him—brushes his knuckles down the side of my jaw.

I don’t breathe. I don’t stop him.

“Because I can’t stay away from you,” he says, low and steady, his knuckles still on my skin, “and I can’t stop looking at you.”