Chapter 20
Chapter Twenty
Elena
I idle at the gate and make myself wait until both doors finish their slow outward swing. The metal is black and heavy and old on purpose, scrollwork vines curling over it. Two cameras blink green once, and somewhere a relay clicks. The last inch settles home with a soft thunk like a safe.
My pulse is too loud in the quiet. I shift into drive, roll forward over the threshold, and watch the mirror as the gates close behind me, enclosing me in a world I’m not familiar with. The world behind me narrows and seals. The gate looks smaller when it’s closing you in.
The first thing that hits me is the space.
City brain expects a tight turn and a cramped strip of asphalt. Instead, the driveway unfurls wide as a runway, bordered by hedges that are clipped so clean they look ironed. Old trees throw a shade over the lane, their branches meeting in the middle like an arch beckoning you forward.
The light falls in sparkles across my hood, winking off the windshield with every gap in the leaves.
Gravel pops under my tires where the asphalt gives way to pale stone. It’s the expensive kind that glows almost white in the sun and doesn’t kick up dust.
I spot cameras tucked into the trees like little black birds, watching. The security is the sort you’re not supposed to notice, but when you do, you can’t stop seeing it.
The air changes as I roll further in—less exhaust, more cut grass. Sprinklers hiss somewhere out of sight. A gardener in dark green pauses with a rake halfway lifted and gives the barest nod. Probably security too.
I tell myself not to grip the wheel like I’m white-knuckling a verdict. Loosen. Breathe. I can do that and still be ready to hit reverse if… what? If what?
The gate behind me is already shut.
Where would I go anyway?
The drive bends left, then right, the kind of intentional curve that’s there to pace your approach. A fountain appears in a break of hedges—a low bowl of stone, water fanning up from the center in a perfect arc. No coins, of course. No one here throws luck into a pool; they make it.
Then the house reveals itself, and for a second, I forget I’m someone who is definitely not here to be impressed.
It’s big, obviously, but not cartoonishly big. Pale stone, not as pale as the driveway, rises out of the ground, imposing but beautiful. The roof is slate, not shingles, blue-gray and sturdy. Tall windows in rows.
There’s a covered porch over the dark wood of the double front door.
No, that’s not it. Not a porch. That’s too mundane.
I rack my brain for the word.
Portico! That’s it.
A portico that screams of expensive taste sits on top of thick columns that surround the front door.
There’s a sweep of lawn on one side with a line of pear trees that disappear around the side.
On the other side, the drive branches off with one fork ending at a three-car garage, and the other continuing around the back of the house.
I slow at the turnaround. The center circle is planted with white roses that I can already smell through my cracked window. I park in front of the stairs leading to the door, unsure if this is right or where to go if it isn’t.
Oh well. They’d just have to deal with it.
The quiet here is instantly noticeable. No sirens. No street vendors shouting. Just a couple of birds singing their beautiful song.
Something about it feels unreal. Curated.
For a heartbeat, I think of my apartment’s hallway light that barely reaches both ends of the hall, the dent in the couch from late nights with a file spread out on the coffee table, my nearly-always-empty fridge.
I think of my mother’s recipe tin tucked into my dresser, a forbidden note tucked into it, away from prying eyes.
I rub my palm over the pressure in my chest, willing it to release before I take the next step. My hand slides to my abdomen. Nothing to feel yet.
Everything to feel.
The house looks back at me. It’s not a face, not really, but the rows of tall windows read like eyes. Not hostile. Not welcoming. Just… aware. Is he there? Watching me hesitate in the driveway?
What would he do if I just backed away and took off? Would he open the gates for me?
A breeze runs through the trees and lifts the little hairs at my nape. I check the mirror one more time for something else to do.
Finally, I turn off the car, gather my bag, and step out into the weird, unnatural quiet. The air even tastes different here, cleaner. My heels sink a millimeter into the gravel and make a small sound that’s louder than it was when I left my apartment.
I square my shoulders and start toward the door.
The door opens before I reach the top stair.
“I was wondering if you were going to get out at some point,” he says, leaning a shoulder to the jamb like he’s been there a while.
I stop. The wind lifts a curl at my temple and sticks it there. He looks… wrong for the house and somehow exactly right. Open collar, sleeves pushed to his forearms, no tie.
“Had to decide whether the gates were to keep people in or out,” I say.
His mouth tilts. “Depends who you ask.” He steps back. “Come in, Panini.”
The nickname slides over my skin; I don’t acknowledge it. Cool air hits me as I cross the threshold—stone underfoot, late afternoon light spearing through skylights, the light smell of roses, and something darker I’ve started to associate with him. He doesn’t touch me as I pass.
We walk past a table with a bowl of pale peonies and into a living room that opens to more green and water. The water in the pool laps gently with the soft breeze. Everything here is quiet and expensive and carefully chosen. I am none of those things.
He gestures to a sofa. I choose the chair instead, because armrests feel safer somehow. He takes the other chair, angled toward me, not across from me, which might feel too formal.
“Something to drink?” he asks. “I would offer you espresso—I’ve finally mastered the machine—but alas…” His eyes dip, making my stomach tighten. Reflex makes my hand twitch toward my blouse. I force it to stay. I’ve done nothing wrong. I sit on my own hand and keep my chin up.
“Water,” I say. “Cold.”
“Sparkling or still?”
“Still.”
He disappears and returns with a glass sweating in his hand. He sets it on a coaster in front of me. I take a sip, and the cool feels like relief moving through me.
“I’m glad you called,” he says.
I set the glass down very carefully. “I didn’t have much of a choice, did I?”
His frown is instant and unhidden. “You’re not being forced, Elena,” he says, voice low. “I don’t want that for you. Ever. I asked you here because I have the right to my say before you make any decisions.”
“Big of you,” I say, too sharp, then rein it in. I smooth a wrinkle out of my trousers that doesn’t exist. “You’re still having me followed.”
“For protection,” he answers, no pause.
“From whom?” I ask. “Because I don’t need protection from anyone except you.”
He doesn’t flinch. The muscle in his cheek ticks once, then smooths. “Not from me,” he says quietly. “You’ve never needed it from me. Even when we were only prosecutor and…” He smiles. “Who I am.”
I tip my head and let the silence speak for me.
He sits back, forearms to the chair arms. “Say what you want to say,” he tells me. “Then I’ll say my piece.”
“Negotiating tactic?” I say dryly.
“This is not a negotiation,” he says gently. “You have a certain idea of me, and I understand why that is, but circumstances are not the same, and that deserves transparency.”
The corner of my mouth lifts against my will. “Fine. Transparency.” I take another drink to stall and because my mouth has gone dry. “You don’t get to turn my life into a chessboard.”
“I’m trying not to,” he says.
“Try harder,” I say.
His eyes warm a fraction, almost amused. “Noted.”
He doesn’t waste time on needless apologies. No, that’s not the kind of man he is. I appreciate it, but it throws me off. I’m used to people on the stand or across an interrogation room lying, apologizing, pleading, scheming.
Not the plain, simple truth.
“I know you’ve had me followed. For weeks now,” I say. It wasn’t what I intended on bringing up first, but it’s an itch under my skin I can’t ignore.
“I don’t want shadows. I don’t want to look over my shoulder and see one of your brothers or sons or… whoever… cataloging what I eat for lunch. I don’t want anyone keeping track of me.”
“That’s not to keep track of you. It’s to keep you safe.”
“I keep me safe,” I insist. “I always have. I’ve spent my career doing exactly that.”
“This isn’t about your career. It’s not about putting criminals in jail. I have rivals, Elena.” The way he says my name sends shivers down my spine. “Rivals who would do anything to get to me, use anything and anyone. Whatever you decide, you’re carrying someone very valuable to me.”
“You can’t promise safe,” I say. “It’s just not possible.”
“I can increase the chances. Remove dangers.”
I watch him for a beat, unsure how to respond to that. He doesn’t give me a chance.
“You said I don’t get to turn your life into a chessboard. I hear you. I won’t move you like a piece. But I need you to understand something about me, Elena.” His voice goes quieter. “I am not a different man than the one you’ve read about in your reports.”
My throat works. I take a drink to have something to do. The water is very cold and very clean and not helpful at all.
“I know you have something planned,” I say, and my voice surprises me by not shaking.
“If you do whatever you plan to do, go down whatever road you’re headed toward, you won’t come near me or this baby.
Ever. And there’s not a single damn thing that you or any of your people can do to change it. I promise you.”
There. The thing I didn’t mean to say yet is out, wedging itself between us.
He pulls in a slow breath. A muscle ticks in his jaw, then eases. “I won’t bring blood into your house,” he says. “Not now. Not later.” His eyes don’t leave mine. “You have my word.”
“Your word,” I repeat, searching his face for the catch.
“It’s what I have,” he says, turning his hands palm-up for a beat.
“Blood into my house,” I repeat quietly. “That’s not enough. It’s vague, at best.”
He exhales on a smile. “Damn lawyers.”
I clear my throat, but my voice still comes out breathless. “What do you want, Luca?”
His name leaves a taste on my tongue. I realize the last time I said it out loud, he was inside me. Demanding, controlling, ruthless. Making me feel things I’ve never felt before.
He seriously considers the question before he answers, making me appreciate his candor even more. “To be responsible for what I’ve helped make. To keep you safe. To make your life easier. To be present if you’ll let me.”
“That’s four things,” I say, because it’s easier to acknowledge than my feelings.
His mouth curves. “I’ve always been greedy.”
“I’m not your responsibility,” I say.
“If only it were that easy,” he says simply.
I swallow and feel everything I’ve been holding in claw back up my throat. “I’m not here because I want to be taken care of,” I say. “I’m here because you get to state your opinion, and I will take it into consideration.”
“Understood, Counselor,” he says.
I firm my lips. I will not smile. This is not the time.
“And if I walk out now?” I ask.
“The gate opens when you reach it,” he says. “And it will open again if you ever come back. Always.”
“You don’t get a vote,” I say, feeling like an asshole.
“I’m not asking for one,” he says. “Just tell me before… If…” He stops and swallows, looking down. “Before you do anything that can’t be undone.”
I hate how carefully that’s said. I hate how it takes away the fight I walked in here ready to have and replaces it with something else. Feelings I don’t understand.
I don’t know what else to say. I don’t have any more arguments in me. He’s being too damn reasonable, and I don’t know how to shield myself against that.
I look away, out to the blue water, because if I look at him while he’s being honest and vulnerable, I’ll forget everything and give in.
I settle with: “I’m not a problem to be solved.”
“No, you’re not,” he agrees.
Again, I wasn’t expecting that response and don’t know what to do with it.
I look back to find him watching me. “How are you?” he asks.
It isn’t just small talk. It’s a genuine desire to know how I am.
He follows up with: “Are you eating?”
I blow out a breath. “Why do people keep asking me that?” I ask and look down at myself. “Does it look like I’m not eating?”
He laughs. “No. You look…” His eyes scan me, and I fight the urge to shield myself against the sudden heat in his eyes. “Wonderful.”
Heat flickers low in my belly at the word, and I hate that it does. “Don’t,” I warn, softer than I mean to.
“Don’t what?” His voice dips, velvet over gravel. He knows exactly what.
“Look at me like that.” I narrow my eyes. “This isn’t… that.”
His gaze lifts obediently to my face, but the heat doesn’t disappear. It spreads.
“I meant you look well,” he says, and we both damn well know that’s not what he meant. “Strong.”
I arch a brow. “Strong?”
He puts his hands up, palms out, in defense. “I simply want to make sure your attempts at cooking aren’t putting either of you at risk.”
“Oh, ha-ha,” I say, fighting my smile with sarcasm. “We’re eating just fine, thank you.”
“Good,” he says. He stands, and every line of him unfolds gracefully. The movement pulls his shirt across his chest; I look away too late and hate the flush that rises. “Then you won’t mind humoring me.”
I furrow my brows. “Humo—”
“Dinner is served,” comes a voice from behind me, making me jump.
I turn in time to see a woman in uniform step back from the arched entryway and disappear.
I’m on my feet before I think about it. “I can’t stay. I have to go,” I say, reaching for my bag like that settles it. “Truly, I—”
“Elena.” He doesn’t touch me. Just says my name like I’m a skittish horse. “It’s just dinner. I don’t have anything up my sleeve here.” He tips his head toward the arch. “Just eat a delicious meal and be on your way.”
I breathe in to speak, and the air seduces me—something rich and spicy that smells exactly like comfort. My stomach answers with a low, traitorous twist.
I press my lips together. “Fine,” I say sharply. “I eat and go.”
He nods his head, the ghost of a smile there and gone.
I roll my eyes and let him lead the way, not close enough to accidentally touch.