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It took a moment to orient myself—high ceilings, raw silk draped over the chaise lounge, a mood board speckled with dozens of clippings, and sketches scattered like confetti. Right. Angelo’s brownstone. My studio.Mydamn studio.

Earlier, I had wrapped myself in lavender silk and lay on the chaise, staring at the ceiling and willing myself to dream up a design. I video-called Vivienne to discuss closing everything down in Florence, but it seemed that Angelo and my brothers had already takencare of that. They even paid her salary for the year, along with a generous bonus. Vivienne would take advantage of the time off and travel a bit, and then she thought she would try again with design school. She had tied up all of our outstanding orders, so I didn’t need to worry about those, but my brain was trapped in gossamer thoughts that seemed to fight against shadows.

I was still trying to puzzle out what had gone wrong in Italy even before I’d been kidnapped and taken to some Gothic horror movie scene. If I had any hope of resurrecting something here and continuing with my fashion work, that mystery needed to be solved. Someone had been conspiring against my label for reasons I couldn’t figure out. Maybe it was time to ask for help on that problem before it really twisted me up.

Eventually, I’d passed out on the floor like an overworked fashion student after her final critique. I’d only come in to “organize” and think about things. Apparently, that meant dozing off while looking through my sketchbook for inspiration for a new idea to hit me.

I groaned, sitting up slowly. My shoulder throbbed with a dull ache in protest, and Iwinced. Guess that’s what happened when you lie curled in a fetal position on your injured side for two hours. It was much better than it had been, but sleeping like that wasn’t ideal. A doctor had already visited the brownstone to check on me, and Angelo had arranged for a physical therapist for daily grueling sessions. Still, I was thankful he’d made arrangements for me.

The house was quiet. Late quiet.

Outside the window, the city was as dark as it could get, the streetlamps buzzing like secrets. I rubbed my face, smoothed my hair back into something semi-human, and padded barefoot into the hallway. The kimono I wore was barely acceptable for housewear. The brownstone creaked underfoot, the kind of rich, old noise that only came from actual wood and generational money.

That’s when I heard them—muffled voices from the kitchen below.

I hesitated, one hand on the banister.

It was Angelo. His voice was lower than usual, tired and gruff in that way he got when he thought no one was listening. And Norris, ever the butler-with-a-soul, was talking back.

I crept to the edge of the stairwell, half-hidden by the shadow of the hall, and stilled.

Dinner plates clinked. The scent of roasted garlic and tomato lingered in the air, and I was tempted to move forward just for food. Even though it was very late and Norris had fed me, I could definitely eat. I could make out the warm amber glow of the kitchen lights pooling across the dark hardwood floors. One of the things I appreciated about the brownstone was the richly colored coffee floors, which were covered haphazardly here and there with rugs. The brownstone did have a nicely lived-in feel — a family had lived here, and it showed.

“—and she hasn’t touched most of the stuff in the studio,” Angelo said, frustration sharp around the edges. “I’m not sure she likes it.”

My breath caught.

“I think she’s trying,” Norris offered gently. “Sometimes trying looks like nothing at all, at first.”

There was a pause. A fork scraped against a plate. Norris began to rave about something he was collecting. It took me a few minutes to figure out, but I thought they were talkingabout cookie jars? Maybe? I blinked, trying to picture it. The don of the Santelli mafia having a wholesome dinner conversation about decorative ceramics.

“You’ll have to show it to me,” he said to Norris, his tone lightening.

“I’d love to, sir,” Norris replied, hopeful. “I confess that I’ve been waiting to show the new missus. Maybe she’ll think it’s strange.” His voice dipped, uncertain.

My heart squeezed.

Angelo didn’t hesitate. “Of course she won’t. We’re all a little wacky on the inside, Norris. It’s what makes us interesting. Theo understands and appreciates that. It’s one of the things that I like about her.”

I backed up a step, like his words had physically touched me. A stupid, stinging warmth spread up my throat. I hadn’t expected that. Not fromhim. Not after nearly a week of tiptoeing around each other, trading glances like live wires, and pretending we weren’t both on edge whenever we shared the same space.

I had told myself he was too busy, too cold, too complicated. I had convinced myselfthat he hated me, but this almost sounded like he … liked me.

And yet there he was, defending my weirdness like it was something to protect.

I scrambled away from the landing, heart hammering, and darted back into the hall just as his silhouette stepped out from the kitchen. My back hit the wall near the upstairs railing, and my breath caught in my chest.

Angelo stilled, one hand braced on the stairwell’s carved banister.“You were listening,” he said softly, voice low and unreadable.

I swallowed, eyes wide. “Technically, I was sleepwalking. Entirely unconscious. This is all a dream.”

One dark brow lifted. “You dream about me complimenting your quirks to Norris?”

“I dream about worse things,” I muttered, pushing off the wall and walking toward him. “Like falling asleep in a pile of tulle and waking up with ‘Vogue’ stuck to my face. Oh, wait—that actually happened.”

His eyes followed my movements, lingering on the outline of my bare legs. There were sleep shorts underneath the kimono, but it was hard to tell. He didn’t say anything at first.

Then: “You okay?”