Page 61

I grab a tumbler from the cabinet and the bottle of Macallan 18 that Damiano keeps for himself. Pouring two fingers, I take a sip, letting the burn coat my throat. The familiar warmth spreads through my chest, easing some of the tension from my shoulders.
The events at the gas station replay in my mind. The sound of Melania's scream. The gunshot. The way she looked at her own hands afterward like they belonged to someone else.
I take another sip, longer this time.
I roll the glass between my palms, staring at the amber liquid as it flickers in the light. The silence of the house wraps around me while I wait, listening for her footsteps, for any sign she's finished washing away what happened today.
My thumb traces my bottom lip as I think about what comes next. About how everything has changed between us in ways I never anticipated.
I pour another finger of scotch and wait.
The clink of glass against stone is the only sound until I hear soft footsteps on the stairs. I look up and my entire body goes rigid.
Melania descends wearing silk pajamas that cling to every curve of her body. The pale blue fabric hugs her breasts, her waist, her hips. The pants end above her ankles, too short, and the top stretches across her chest, revealing a sliver of skin when she moves.
My eyes trace the path from her collarbones to the curve of her hip. She's carved from my deepest fantasies—all soft curves and dangerous edges. Perfection.
She catches me staring and tugs at the hem of the top. "These aren't exactly my size."
I clear my throat, but my voice still comes out rough. "They're perfect."
Her eyes open round as saucers as she looks at me then down.
"You could wear a fucking sack and it would look like a Gucci piece." The words escape my mouth before I can filter them, raw honesty breaking through my carefully maintained control.
A flush seeps up her neck as she holds my gaze. Something electric passes between us, dangerous and inevitable. I force myself to look away first, gesturing at the food containers.
"We should eat." I clear my throat again. "I found lasagna and chicken. Just needs heating."
Melania fingers start unconsciously twisting her mother's ring. "I'm not sure I can."
The vulnerability in her voice cuts through my desire. I remember her trembling hands at the gas station, the horror in her eyes after she pulled the trigger.
"That wasn't a suggestion," I say, my tone softening despite my words. "It's a command from your captor."
She attempts a laugh. The sound is hollow, nothing like the genuine one I heard when we cooked carbonara together.
I move toward the microwave, giving her space while keeping her in my peripheral vision. "You need to eat. Your body needs fuel after a shock."
Her fingers continue twisting the ring, more agitated now. "Is that what this is? Shock?"
"Among other things." I punch buttons on the microwave, the beeps filling the silence between us.
I managed two bites of food before my stomach turned against me. The image of that man's face as my bullet hit him flashes behind my eyes every time I try to swallow.
Alessio watches me from across the counter, his dark eyes tracking every movement. He's finished his meal with gusto, like fueling a machine. Meanwhile I push pasta around my plate, creating patterns in the sauce.
"You need to eat more than that," he says.
I shake my head. "I can't."
My hands tremble slightly as I set down the fork. The metal clinks on the ceramic plate, the sound unnaturally loud in the cavernous kitchen. My whole body feels wrong—like I'm piloting it from somewhere far away.
"I need to lie down," I murmur, my voice catching.
I don't recognize myself—this fragile, broken thing asking for permission to rest. The strong, defiant woman who faced down her father and stole from Raymond seems like someone else entirely.
"Of course." Alessio nods, standing to clear the plates. His movements are sober, like he's afraid sudden motion might shatter me completely.