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I ignore him, pretending to be absorbed in a segment about tech stocks. The numbers and graphs mean nothing to me but they're infinitely preferable to Matteo's probing questions about Noah.
After a few minutes of blessed financial jargon filling the silence, Matteo sighs dramatically. "Fine. Have it your way." He pulls out his phone and starts scrolling, apparently giving up on conversation.
I relax slightly, the tension in my shoulders easing. The mindless drone of market analysis washes over me, creating a buffer between Matteo's observations and my confused feelings.
For now, at least, I've found refuge in the most unlikely place—financial news. And if pretending to care about stock prices keeps Matteo from dissecting my relationship with Noah, I'll become the world's most dedicated viewer.
I glance at Matteo from the corner of my eye. The market news drones on, neither of us really watching. The silence between us feels less hostile now, almost comfortable. Almost.
My mind races with questions about Noah. The photograph I found—his mother with a violin—feels like a key to something important. Something I could use.
"So," I say, keeping my voice casual. "How many years have you known Noah?"
Matteo's lips quirk up. "Fishing for information already? That didn't take long."
"Just making conversation." I shrug, turning the volume down on the TV. "Better than sitting here in silence."
"We grew up together. Sort of." Matteo stretches his legs out. "Both worked for the Ferettis since we were teenagers."
I shift on the couch, angling toward him. "And his family? He never mentions them."
A shadow crosses Matteo's face. "Not my story to tell."
"The violin in the photo. His mother played?"
His eyebrows shoot up. "You found that picture? Shit. No wonder he stormed out of here."
"He caught me snooping," I admit. "But he didn't explain anything."
"He wouldn't." Matteo studies me. "Noah doesn't talk about his past. Ever."
I press on. "But you know about it."
"Some." He sighs. "Look, if you're trying to find his weakness, good luck. Man's made of stone."
"I'm not—" I stop myself. Aren't I? "I just want to understand who's holding me captive."
Matteo laughs, the sound sharp. "Captive? Princess, if Noah wanted to hurt you, you'd be suffering. If he wanted to use you, you'd be used. Instead you're sitting here in his apartment, watching Bloomberg and wearing his clothes."
"That doesn't make this okay."
"Never said it did." He leans forward. "But I know Noah. And this—" he gestures around the apartment, "—this isn't normal. Noah doesn't bring people here. Ever."
My pulse quickens. "What do you mean?"
"I mean in all the years I've known him, he's never had a woman stay in his place. Not once."
"So what am I? Special?" The sarcasm drips from my voice.
Matteo's eyes narrow. "Maybe. Or maybe you're just the first one he's wanted for himself in a long time."
I swallow hard. "The violin. Is that why he watches me play?"
Something shifts in Matteo's expression. "You noticed that, huh?"
"It's hard not to notice someone staring at you for months."
"You knew he was watching you? Before all this?"