Page 45

"Not much of a selection," I say. "But Damiano's men always stock the basics."
Melania approaches cautiously, keeping the table between us. "Soup is fine."
I grab a can and the opener, working it one-handed. She watches me struggle for about ten seconds before stepping forward.
"Let me," she says, taking both from my hands. Her fingers brush mine, and neither of us acknowledges the contact.
While she works the opener, I find two chipped bowls and a pot that's seen better days. The hot plate takes forever to heat up but eventually the soup starts to steam.
"Chicken noodle," she says, stirring it with a plastic spoon. "Not exactly gourmet dining."
"Better than nothing." I lean against the counter, watching her. "And definitely better than anything I'd make."
That earns me a small smile, gone almost as quickly as it appears. "Low bar."
The soup isn't much, but it's hot and filling. We eat standing up, the silence between us less tense than before. She finishes first, setting her bowl in the small sink.
"Thank you," I say, nodding toward my bandaged arm. "For this."
She shrugs, not meeting my eyes.
"We should get some sleep," she says, glancing at the two mattresses on opposite corners. "Tomorrow will be another long day."
I lie on the thin mattress, staring at the high warehouse ceiling. The springs dig into my back, but that's not why I can't sleep. My mind tumbles with the events of the day—the gunshots, thechase, the dead men. The feel of Alessio's leathery skin under my fingertips as I bandaged his wound.
The warehouse is silent except for our breathing. I can tell from the rhythm of his that he's awake too, though we're both pretending otherwise. The darkness between us feels charged with unspoken things.
"What was it like?" Alessio's voice cuts through the silence. "Living in London."
I keep my eyes fixed on a water stain above me, shaped vaguely like Italy. "Why do you want to know?"
"Just curious how Antonio Lombardi's daughter ended up studying across the ocean."
I take a deep breath, close my eyes, and something about the darkness makes it easier to speak. "I wanted to leave. I begged to study abroad, but I never thought he'd agree."
"Why did he?"
"Looking back, I think he wanted me gone. I was always... inconvenient. Always asking questions, poking around where I shouldn't since I was twelve or thirteen." I laugh without humor. "Turns out he was probably already planning my marriage to Raymond even then. London was getting me out of the way until I was useful."
Alessio shifts on his mattress. "And Stone?"
"Raymond." His name tastes bitter in my mouth. "It all seemed so normal at first. The charity galas, the 'accidental' meetings my father arranged. Raymond asking me to dinner like we were normal people."
"You didn't want to go."
"God, no. But my father..." I swallow hard. "Our first dinner was excruciating. Three hours of Raymond talking about himself—his political connections, his status, his opinions. He ordered my food without asking what I wanted."
I turn my head to find Alessio watching me through the darkness, his profile illuminated by the faint security lights filtering through the windows.
"The whole time," I continue, "he kept touching my hand, my arm. Nothing inappropriate enough that I could object but enough that I felt... claimed. Like I was already his property."
"And your father approved."
"He was thrilled. Said Raymond was a 'man of vision.' Said I should be grateful that someone so powerful was interested in me." My voice catches. "I tried to tell him I wasn't interested but he wouldn't hear it."
I wait for Alessio's response but he remains silent for so long I wonder if he's fallen asleep.
"These weddings..." he finally says, his voice low and rough in the darkness. "They have nothing to do with what you want. That's just how our world is made."