Page 302 of Rosetti Family New York

"We should get out of here," I say, stepping back before whatever's happening between us turns into something that can't be undone.

He lets go of me right away, no resistance, just smooth cooperation that somehow makes losing contact feel even worse. As I stand on shaky legs, his gaze follows my movement.

"Of course," he says, his voice calm despite the desire still clear in his eyes. "Take all the time you need."

But as I hurry toward the fresh air, I realize something. The most dangerous thing about Emilio Rosetti isn't his watchfulness, his control, or his ability to shape reality around his obsessions. It's how right it feels to give in to him.

11

Emilio

Day five. I keep track now, each sunrise marking another victory over time and her stubborn independence. It's been five days since I brought her home, and she's finally stopped searching for escape routes whenever she enters a room. But she's been avoiding me since yesterday's safe room session.

I find her on the balcony as the evening light paints Manhattan in gold and amber, wrapped in the cashmere throw I left on the outdoor furniture. She doesn't acknowledge my approach, but her shoulders tense slightly. She's aware of me but not welcoming. The city spreads forty stories below us like a glittering carpet, almost close enough to touch.

"You missed dinner," I mention, settling into the chair beside her without crowding her, but close enough to catch the scent of jasmine on her skin.

"I wasn't hungry." Her voice has a certain detachment she uses when dealing with emotions too complex for simple words. I've learned to read the signs, the way she holds herself when overwhelmed, the slight furrow between her brows when she's fighting internal battles.

Yesterday changed something between us. The way she reacted to my control in the safe room, the heat that built between us while we fought digital warfare together, the moment she realized she enjoyed my dominance rather than just enduring it. Now she's pulling back, rebuilding walls that were close to crumbling.

I get it. When something important is close enough to touch, the instinct is to protect it by keeping distance. But I've learned patience, and I can wait for her defenses to lower again.

"I have something for you," I say quietly, taking a small velvet box from my jacket pocket.

Her eyes flick to the jewelry case, then away, but I notice her breath quicken slightly. "Emilio, I can't accept—"

"Look at it first." I place the box on the table between us, close enough for her to reach but not forcing contact. "Then decide."

She stares at the velvet for a long time, clearly torn between curiosity and self-preservation. Finally, with movements that show her careful control, she opens the case.

The sharp breath she takes tells me I made the right choice. The necklace is simple, a delicate gold chain with a pendant that once belonged to her mother. It's in the style of Art Nouveau, probably from the 1920s, with a small diamond in the center that catches the fading light. I found it in a pawn shop in Prague, three months after she had to sell it for travel money.

"How?" she asks, her voice tight, her fingers hovering over the pendant but not quite touching it.

"I've been tracking your financial transactions for years," I say gently, watching her face to see how much truth she can handle. "Every sale, every purchase, every desperate choice you made to survive. When I saw you'd pawned your mother's necklace, I arranged to buy it back."

Her hands tremble as she lifts the necklace from its velvet box, holding it up to catch the last rays of sunlight. The gold shineslike liquid fire, and the diamond casts tiny rainbows on her palm.

"She wore this every day," she whispers, her voice thick with emotion. "Even when we had nothing else, she kept this. She said it reminded her that beautiful things could survive ugly circumstances."

I stay silent, letting her process memories that play across her face like a movie. Grief softens her expression, making her look younger, more vulnerable than the woman who's been resisting my control for five days.

"I sold it in Prague because the hotel wanted payment upfront." Her admission is raw, drawn from a place she rarely shows. "Three generations in our family, and I traded it for two weeks of safety."

"And now it's home," I say simply.

She looks at me then, really looks, and I see the moment she understands what this means. It’s not just about buying back jewelry, but tracking her desperate choices across continents, understanding what was important enough to save, and caring enough to preserve parts of her history she thought were lost forever.

"Why?" she asks, the question heavy with more than just curiosity. "Why would you do this?"

"Because you matter." The words come out rougher than I intended, my accumulated devotion finding a voice. "Every piece of you, every memory, everything you've had to sacrifice to survive… all of it matters to me."

That's when she breaks.

The tears hit her suddenly, a dam breaking under pressure it couldn't withstand. Her whole body shakes as she sobs, clutching the necklace to her chest.

Every instinct tells me to take advantage. She's vulnerable, emotional, her defenses shattered by unexpected kindness. Thisis the chance the predator in me has been waiting for. Her guard is down.