Page 175 of Diego

He has repeatedly found reasons not to.

His brothers have handled whatever requires a physical presence at Conti Enterprises, and everything else can be handled through calls, messages, or his computer. I have watched him conduct business from a chair near the bedroom windows without ever once complaining about being trapped here with me. He has taken calls on the terrace when he thinks I am sleeping, or taken short work sprints from his office, and returned carrying tea or fruit whenever he’s finished.

It would be sweet if it were not also beginning to make me feel guilty.

I look toward the bedroom door.

He is going to have very strong opinions when he discovers what I am doing.

That is unfortunate for him. It’s not like I'm going to run a marathon. I'm taking the elevator down to the kitchen.

I stand slowly, more because I have learned that getting up too quickly can still leave me briefly lightheaded than because I actually need assistance. My body feels steady once I am upright. There is no pain, no strange pressure, nothing that immediately tells me this is a bad idea.

I wait a few seconds anyway, because I don't want to put this baby in danger because of my boredom, but also… I definitely don't want Diego to be right.

Everything feels fine.

I cross to the door and open it.

The hallway beyond is quiet. I have seen very little of this floor despite technically living here for several days, which feels ridiculous considering I was once the person who walked Diego through every square foot of the property.

Seeing it now is different. During the showing, I had been evaluating finishes, proportions, sight lines, resale value, and whether the space would suit a client whose preferences I was still trying to decipher.

Now there are signs that somebody actually lives here. A jacket of Diego’s rests over the back of a chair near the landing.

There are flowers sent by Victoria on an entry table, and I know there is probably enough food in the kitchen to survive a month-long disaster because, according to Diego, feeding people may well be a professional occupation in his family.

The elevator is only a short walk away.

I make it there without incident and press the button.

This already feels embarrassingly rebellious.

The doors open almost immediately, and I step inside before Diego can somehow sense my movement through the walls and appear behind me. I press the button for the main floor and lean lightly against the rail while the elevator descends. It takes seconds. I am aware of every one of them because there is still a small, annoying part of my brain waiting for my body to punish me for doing something so ordinary.

Nothing happens.

The doors slide open, and I smile.

Freedom.

The lower floor is quiet too, but I can hear Diego’s voice somewhere farther away. His office, most likely. He is speaking in rapid Italian. There is no urgency in his tone, which means I have a reasonable chance of making it to the kitchen without interruption.

I move carefully across the room, keeping my pace easy rather than trying to prove anything to myself. The distance is not far, but after spending so much time upstairs it feels strangely satisfying to move through a different part of the house.

Sunlight spills across the floor from the lake-facing windows, and for a moment I am distracted by the view from down here. I remember selling Diego on it during the showing, pointing out how the water was visible from almost every part of the main living space and telling him the house had privacy without feeling cut off from everything around it.

Apparently, I had been selling myself on it too.

I reach the kitchen and immediately feel absurdly accomplished.

The refrigerator is as full as I expected. I open it and stare at the contents, trying to figure out which items came from Emilia and which arrived courtesy of the Conti invasion.

There are several prepared meals, cut fruit, yogurt, cheeses, bread, vegetables, containers I cannot identify without opening, and more drinks than two people could reasonably consume. Someone has also labeled a few things in handwriting.

I pull out cheese, tomato, and a jar of something that looks like pesto before remembering that pesto had been one of the few things I happily ate at the boutique before everything went wrong. My stomach seems willing to cooperate with the idea, so I find bread and begin assembling a sandwich.

I am halfway through slicing the tomato when Diego’s voice comes from behind me.