Chapter 23
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
Alessia
The morning after the casino, I wake to silence.
There is no click of a lock nor footsteps outside my door keeping watch.
I lie there for a moment, staring at the ceiling, waiting for the familiar sounds that never come. My heart beats faster. Something's changed.
I swing my legs out of bed, feet hitting cold marble. The room still smells faintly of Matteo. My thighs ache when I stand, a reminder of the night before the casino, but I push the thought away.
The door handle is cool under my palm. I turn it slowly, expecting resistance, but it just opens.
The hallway stretches empty ahead of me, morning light slanting through tall windows. Romeo stands at his usual post near the stairs, but when he sees me, he doesn't move to block my path. Just nods once. "Signora."
Hmm… This is weird.
I step into the hallway, pulse hammering in my throat. Any second now, someone will stop me. Tell me to go back. Lock me in again.
But no one does and that should probably make me feel better, but somehow it doesn't.
Because this new freedom isn't what's bothering me this morning.
What's bothering me is the notes.
Someone knows about Lorenzo and me, knows we never consummated our marriage, knows everything, and they're close enough to get items delivered directly to me.
That means whoever sent it has access to this house or to someone who does, which means I'm not actually safe here.
The thought sits heavy in my chest as I make my way toward the library, my mind turning over possibilities.
Could it be one of the staff? One of Matteo's men?
Someone from the Moretti house who somehow got past security?
And more importantly, what do they want from me?
The second note said we should talk soon, but there's been nothing since then, no follow-up, no demands, just that single message sitting in my memory like a ticking bomb waiting to explode.
The kitchen staff nods at me when I pass through, and I nod back even though I'm barely paying attention. The garden smells like jasmine so heavy and sweet in the morning heat that it almost makes my head swim. The terrace has climbing roses everywhere.
And everywhere I go, I can feel Matteo watching me.
The awareness prickles across my skin, and I've become so attuned to his presence over the past few weeks that I can tell when his eyes are on me even when I can't see him. It should bother me more than it does, this constant surveillance, but instead it makes my pulse quicken.
I'm in the garden when I finally catch him at it. The sun beats down hard enough that sweat gathers at the nape of my neck and makes my dress stick to my back. I've stopped to look at a rose when that familiar awareness washes over me again.
I turn slowly and there he is in the second-floor window. Just a dark silhouette against the glass, too far away for me to make out his expression, but I know without a doubt that he's been standing there watching me for however long I've been wandering around down here.
Our eyes meet across the distance and neither of us moves.
The moment stretches out uncomfortably long, and I have this strange urge to do something to break the tension—wave at him maybe, or just turn away and pretend I didn't notice—but I don't do either of those things.
I just stand there staring back at him with my hand still resting on the rose petals and my heart beating faster than it should.
Then he steps back from the window and disappears into the shadows, and I'm left standing alone in the garden with heat crawling up my spine that has nothing to do with the sun beating down on my shoulders.
Later that afternoon, Isabella finds me on the terrace.
She appears with a tea tray balanced in one hand and a worn book tucked under her arm. Her hair is loose around her shoulders, and she's wearing a thin cotton dress that's already sticking to her from the humidity.
"Thought you might want something cold," she says, setting the tray down. "It's miserable out here."
The pitcher is already sweating, ice melting into cloudy water around two tall glasses. I watch her pour something amber-colored that smells like citrus and herbs mixed together.
"What is it?"
"Lemon and mint," she says. "My mother's recipe."
She slides a glass toward me and takes the chair across the table. The iron is hot against my bare legs even through my dress. Above us, roses hang heavy on their vines, petals browning at the edges from too much sun.
I sip the tea. It's cold and sharp. "Your mother had good taste."
The book sits between us, spine cracked and cover faded. I tilt my head to read the title.
Isabella catches me looking. "The heroine does a lot of stupid things but at least she doesn't take any garbage from the men around her. Figured you'd relate."
I laugh despite myself. "So, I'm the stupid heroine now?"
"Well, you are here, aren't you?" But she's grinning when she says it, taking the edge off. "At least you're entertaining about it."
We drink our tea and let the cicadas fill the silence. The noise is almost oppressive, a constant drone that makes the air feel even thicker. But Isabella doesn't seem to mind. She tips her head back, exposing the pale column of her throat to the sun, and closes her eyes.
"Rafael walked past two maids in the corridor yesterday," I say, to lighten the mood. "Both of them tripped over their own skirts trying to get out of his way."
Isabella snorts, hand flying up to cover her mouth. "That sounds exactly like Rafael. He probably loved every second of it."
"He winked at them."
"Of course he did." She shakes her head, but she's smiling now. Real and unguarded. "Dante would never. He'd just adjust his cufflinks and pretend he didn't notice them swooning."
"Does he always dress like that? Like he's about to give a speech in parliament?"
"Always." She takes another sip of tea. "I think the suit is armor for him. Makes him look civilized when—" She pauses, smile fading slightly. "When none of them really are."
Something in her tone shifts, and I glance over to find her staring into her tea like she's reading something there.
"Enzo's the worst," she says quietly, and there's an edge to her voice now that wasn't there before. Not quite anger, but definitely not fondness either. "Everyone thinks he's the calm one. The reasonable one. But that's what makes him so dangerous."
I wait, sensing there's more she wants to say.
"He saved Matteo once," she continues. "There was an ambush, one of our father's old enemies trying to settle scores.
Enzo killed three men that night." Her fingers find the rim of her glass and start tracing circles.
"After that he was different. Colder. Like he'd figured out how easy it was to end someone and decided it was fine.
" The circles keep going, round and round, almost hypnotic.
“He saved me too.” The words come out softer, like she didn’t quite mean to say them.
I go still, glass halfway to my mouth.
Isabella’s fingers stop moving. She stares at the jasmine climbing the far wall, not blinking.
“Isabella—"
“I was thirteen.” Her voice has gone flat, distant. “Some rival family thought they could use me to get to my father.”
My stomach twists but I don’t interrupt. I can see she wants to share this with me and won’t stop her.
"They kept saying they were going to hide me. Bury me where no one could find me."
Her hand trembles and she sets the glass down before it slips from her fingers.
"I tried counting to keep track of time but I couldn't tell if it was day or night. There were sounds, scratching in the walls, maybe rats, I don't know. And I kept thinking this is it, this is where I die and no one will ever find me."
"How long?" I ask, even though I'm not sure I want to know.
"They say three days, though it felt like three years." She swallows hard. "Enzo found me somehow. I still don't know how he tracked them down, but he did. Pulled me out of there and I couldn't even walk. My legs were numb from being curled up so long. He had to carry me."
She's crying now, silent tears sliding down her face, but she keeps talking like if she stops, she won't be able to start again.
"When we got back, I just wanted to disappear. I wanted to stop having to remember what it felt like in the dark. But Matteo wouldn't let me. Every morning he'd drag me out of bed even when I couldn't move. Make me eat even when I wanted to refuse."
Her voice breaks and she presses her fist against her mouth, trying to hold back a sob.
"Sometimes I hated him for it. For not just letting me give up. It would have been easier." She takes a shaky breath. "But I think that's the only reason I'm still here. Because he wouldn't let me make that choice."
I'm across the table before I realize I'm moving, dropping to my knees beside her chair and taking her hand. It's freezing despite the heat, shaking so hard I can barely hold it steady.
"You don't have to talk about it," I tell her, but she shakes her head.
"I never talk about this. Not since right after." She wipes at her face with her free hand, smearing mascara across her cheek. "I don't even know why I'm telling you."
"Maybe because you needed to tell someone who'd understand."
She looks at me then, really looks at me, and something passes between us. Recognition maybe. We're both carrying things too heavy to hold alone.
"You don't have to do it by yourself," I say quietly. "Whatever you're carrying. You don't have to heal alone."
Her face crumples and she leans forward, forehead pressing against my shoulder. "Neither do you."
The words hit me harder than they should, and I have to blink against the sudden burning in my eyes because she's right. We're both trapped in this world of violent men and terrible secrets, both trying to survive however we can.
I wrap my arms around her and hold on while she cries, quieter now, like maybe some of the poison is finally working its way out.
The sun shifts lower in the sky and the tea goes warm in our glasses and we stay there together, two women who understand what it costs to survive in a world that wants to break us, holding each other in the heat.