Page 44 of Rosetti Family New York

“That why you keep your sister at arm’s length too?” I push, knowing it will sting.

She goes still, and I know I’ve hit a nerve. The look she gives me is fire and ice, fierce and fragile all at once. “I keep Juliet close enough to protect her. Not close enough to lose her.”

I understand it too well.

I want to tell her she’s not the only one who’s learned that lesson. That I’m not just the monster she thinks I am. But I’m not the man to soothe wounds. Instead, I let the silence fill with things I don’t say.

Then I step forward, invading her space. My fingers curl under her chin, tilting her head up. Her pulse quickens under my thumb. The way it races tells me I’m not the only one feeling this.

“You think love makes you weak?” I ask.

She doesn’t answer, but the flash in her eyes dares me to keep talking.

I lower my voice, make it dark and rough. “You’re wrong. Fear makes you weak. Love makes you dangerous.”

She inhales, sharp, but doesn’t look away.

My lips ghost her jaw, close enough to claim her but not quite touching. A promise. A warning. My mouth moves near her ear. “You want to be untouchable, Eleanor? Then stop acting like someone who’s already lost.”

She exhales, shaky, almost a laugh. “And you stop acting like someone who doesn’t care.”

That stings. Because maybe I do care.

My phone buzzes, snapping the tension like a wire pulled too tight. I ignore it, watching her. The spell breaks, but the pull doesn’t. Business, reality. Distractions I don’t want.

She steps away first, guarded and elegant. I see the moment the cool mask slips back into place, the armor she wears like a second skin. This was vulnerability, and she hated it. I get that, too.

I watch her move across the range, fluid but distant. My jaw tightens. She’s slipping under my skin. And I don’t know if I can stop her.

23

Eleanor

The scream hits the air before the men even reach the room. Then the door to the kitchen slams open, and two guards rush in with a man half-dragged between them. They’re carrying him like cargo, and he’s covered in blood. His face is a mess, and half his shirt is stained red. He looks like a dead weight, slumped over and close to passing out, and I have no idea who he is or why they've brought him here.

The commotion is deafening. Pots clang to the floor. Plates shatter. The kitchen staff are yelling, tripping over each other as they run for the exit. He’s heavy, barely conscious, and the guards dump him on the counter like they have more important things to worry about. Like leaving. Like getting out of my sight before Leonardo catches them with me. Red soaks through the man's pants, spreading fast.

Then it's just me and Carmela and the bleeding man in the kitchen of the Rosetti mansion.

"Get Leonardo!" I call, but it’s no use. None of the brothers are home.

"Eleanor," Carmela breathes, looking more concerned about me than the poor man bleeding all over the counter.

As if I haven't seen men bleeding before.

I was fifteen. I’d just come home from ballet, ready to shower off. The pointe shoes draped over my shoulder were still pink and perfect, untouched by grit, just like me. Then the shouting echoed through the house—not piercing, but low and urgent. I remember freezing, dropping everything in a heap. Father’s voice struck me like a command.Eleanor. Get over here.I found him in the hallway, calm and controlled and holding up a bleeding man like it was just another day at the office. I’d never seen this side of his business before. He’d always kept me sheltered away, kept Juliet shielded. Protected in our pretty cage. Not like this time. This time, he called me in closer.

I remember the red spreading over father's hands as he pressed them against the stranger’s side. The blood was so dark it was almost black, terrifying and sticky. Another man was helping him carry the stranger, and I was sure this one knew how to handle it. He was an outsider. A professional. Not me. I knew dance and piano and the right words for a thank you note. I didn’t know this.Get Eleanor over here, he said again, even colder this time.

I hated it. Hated him for shoving me into it without warning. Hated myself for feeling weak, useless, panicked. But most of all, I hated seeing how easy it was for him to touch the blood, to take charge, to think of it as nothing. It made me feel small.You need to learn, Eleanor. What if I’m not here next time?He didn’t even look at me as he said it. But I learned.

“Are you okay, hon?”

I give Carmela the look of contempt her concern deserves. Like I don’t know what to do. Carmela should know better. I still hate it, but I’m not fifteen anymore, and I’m not small. I’ve learnedenough to take charge, and I’m not about to get flustered when there’s work to be done.

The man on the counter is fighting to stay conscious. I don't hesitate, ripping the denim so I can see where he's hit.

“Don’t touch him!” Carmela’s voice spikes in panic as I lay a hand on the man’s leg.