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"Sorry." I twist my mother's ring, a habit I can't seem to break. "I'm still not used to having friends who aren't trying to use me for something."
Lucrezia sets down her pen, fixing me with those intense eyes of hers. "Melania, we've been over this. I don't feel sorry for you and I'm not using you."
"I know, I know." The words tumble out, and I’m aware I misspoke. "Old habits."
When Lucrezia first invited me for coffee after a Feretti family dinner, I'd been suspicious. The fierce, artistic sister of Damiano Feretti, reaching out to the daughter of the man who'd tried to destroy her family? It had to be either pity or obligation.
"Besides," Lucrezia continues, sliding her napkin sketch toward me, "you're the only one who appreciates my art without trying to psychoanalyze it."
I examine her drawing—a woman's face half-hidden, emerging from what looks like shattered glass. "It's beautiful. Haunting."
"Like us," she says with a small smile. "Broken but still standing."
The barista brings our second round—another lavender latte for me, espresso for Lucrezia. She takes a sip and closes her eyes in appreciation.
"So," she says, setting down her cup, "have you told Alessio about the shelter idea yet?"
I shake my head. "Not the full scope. He knows I want to help trafficking victims but not that I'm planning to fund an entire rehabilitation center."
"Men." Lucrezia rolls her eyes. "They think they're protecting us by keeping us in the dark, then get upset when we do the same."
"It's not that." I outline the rim of my mug. "I just need to have everything perfectly planned before I present it. You know how I am."
"Perfectionist," she teases.
"Strategic," I correct, but I'm smiling.
What I don't say is how much her friendship means to me. How in these past months our Thursday coffee dates have become my sanctuary. Lucrezia understands what it's like to rebuild yourself after trauma, to carve out an identity separate from the men in our lives.
"You know," Lucrezia says, "when we first met I thought you'd be this spoiled princess who'd run screaming back to her mansion within a week."
I laugh, nearly choking on my latte. "And I thought you hated me on principle."
"Never." Her expression softens. "I recognized something in you that first night—that look in your eyes. Like you'd seen too much but were still fighting."
My phone buzzes on the table and I glance down to see Alessio's message:Look up, bella.
I lift my eyes to find him standing in the doorway, sunlight at his back, dressed in a charcoal suit that makes every woman in the café turn to stare. But his dark eyes are fixed only on me.
Instead of coming to our table he approaches the counter, orders, then leans against it with nonchalance. His gaze slides to me, a slow perusal that makes heat bloom across my skin.
I bite my lip, immediately understanding the game.
"Don't look now," I say to Lucrezia, "but there's a man at the counter who won't stop staring."
Lucrezia glances over her shoulder, then back at me with a knowing smirk. "Oh, he's definitely trouble. The dangerous kind."
Alessio takes his coffee and approaches our table with predatory grace. "Excuse me," he says, his Italian accent more pronounced than usual. "I couldn't help noticing you from across the room. Mind if I join you?"
I tilt my head, playing along. "That depends. Do you make a habit of approaching strangers in cafés?"
"Only when they're as beautiful as you." His thumb strokes his bottom lip—a gesture I know means he's enjoying himself. "I'm Alessio."
"Melania," I offer, extending my hand.
Instead of shaking it he brings it to his lips, his eyes never leaving mine. "A pleasure."
"I'm Lucrezia," Lucrezia interjects with theatrical exasperation. "The suddenly invisible friend."