Chapter Nine
GIO
When we pull up to the house, Marco is already answering a call.
He steps out before Armando kills the engine, phone pressed to his ear. His stride carries him toward the front steps while he fires questions at whoever is on the other end.
I wave Armando off and walk around to Lucia’s side of the SUV.
“Come on.”
I offer her my hand.
She studies it for a heartbeat before placing her fingers in mine.
Her hand is smaller than I expect and cold despite the warm afternoon. The instant her feet touch the gravel, she lets go.
Marco glances back at us.
“I’ve got to take this. Can you—“
“Yeah, yeah,” I interrupt. “I’ll keep her from stealing the silver.”
He gives me a look.
“The silver’s ugly anyway.”
Lucia presses her lips together.
Not quite a smile, but close.
Marco continues toward the house, leaving Lucia beside me.
It gives me my first real opportunity to look at her.
I saw her across the breakfast table, but Marco was there, and most of my attention was on determining why he had spent eight mornings pretending he wasn’t fascinated by her.
Now I understand.
Lucia is taller than I expected, though the top of her head would still fit beneath my chin if she ever came close enough to test it.
Long dark hair falls in loose waves over her shoulders, framing a fine-boned face and eyes so dark they appear almost black from a distance.
Her mouth is soft and expressive, even when she presses it into a careful line.
She is beautiful. That much is obvious.
It’s probably the first thing Viktor noticed and the least interesting thing about her.
What holds my attention is the contradiction. She looks delicate until she moves. Then I see the stubborn set of her shoulders and the way she keeps her weight balanced, ready to step back if I come too close.
Her gaze never rests. It moves from the front steps to the windows, then toward the gates behind us. She notices every man on the drive and every camera beneath the eaves.
She has been safe for more than a week.
Her body just hasn’t realized it yet.
I make my voice lighter when I speak.
“Come on. I’ll show you around.”
She follows me through the front doors.
The foyer probably isn’t the best introduction to the house. It rises two stories around us in pale stone and polished marble, with a broad staircase curving toward the upper gallery. Tall windows face the drive, and an enormous arrangement of white flowers stands beneath the chandelier.
Most of the furniture was selected by someone who believed comfort showed a lack of discipline.
Lucia steps inside and stops.
Her gaze moves over the staircase, the archways, and the tall windows. She looks toward each open doorway before checking the front door behind us.
Not admiring the house.
Mapping it.
“So,” I say. “Here it is.”
She turns slowly.
“I promise it’s more of a home than it looks.”
Her attention settles on the flowers beneath the chandelier. The arrangement is nearly as tall as she is.
“I’m not sure that’s possible.”
I grin.
“Give it time.”
The kitchen and formal dining room occupy the western side of the first floor. I guide her beneath one of the archways and point through the open kitchen door.
“Kitchen. Angela’s territory. Enter at your own risk.”
Copper pans hang above a broad stone island. Someone has left a bowl of lemons beside the sink, and the smell of baking bread drifts into the hall.
Lucia slows but doesn’t enter.
I indicate the room across from it.
“Dining room.”
She pauses in the doorway.
A long table occupies most of the space, surrounded by enough chairs for a family three times our size. The place settings have already been arranged for dinner, though only three seats at one end are regularly used.
Late-afternoon light enters through the western windows and falls across the polished wood. Beyond them, glass doors lead to the smaller terrace outside the kitchen.
Lucia studies the room as though it belongs in a model home.
“That’s where we pretend to be civilized,” I explain.
“Do you eat together?”
“Most nights, if Marco isn’t too busy.”
She turns toward me.
“He’s busy a lot.”
“Clearly not too busy for you.”
Color rushes into her cheeks.
Interesting.
I bring her down the hallway behind the stairs.
The first door is closed.
“Security,” I say. “It’s mostly screens and men drinking terrible coffee.”
The next door stands slightly open.
“Marco’s office. Stay out of there unless you like spreadsheets.”
“Hm.”
She doesn’t sound entirely opposed to spreadsheets.
I tap the door across the hallway.
“My office.”
“What’s in yours?”
“Mostly things Marco doesn’t want in his.”
That earns me another almost-smile.
We pass a smaller meeting room before reaching a pair of dark wooden doors.
I open them with a flourish.
“And this is where the books live, if you like them.”
Her expression changes.
Not dramatically. Lucia doesn’t seem to do anything dramatically unless someone frightens her.
But the tension across her shoulders loosens.
She takes several steps into the room, trailing her fingers lightly over the spines nearest the door.
“I do.”
“Well, you’re always welcome in here.”
Tall shelves cover three walls, broken only by a rolling ladder and the fireplace at the far end. The fourth wall is almost entirely glass, overlooking the eastern side of the property. Deep leather chairs sit near the windows, their cushions softened by years of actual use.
Unlike the foyer, no one has tried too hard to make this room impressive. Books have been stacked sideways when the shelves ran out of space. A folded newspaper rests on one chair. Marco left a coffee cup on the table beside another.
Lucia moves farther inside.
She looks more comfortable among the books than she has anywhere else in the house.
Through the windows, the pool glitters in the afternoon sun. Beyond it, roses fill the garden surrounding the conservatory.
Lucia stops.
“Is that a swimming pool?”
“Yeah. Come on.”
I lead her through the glass doors.
The rectangular pool runs alongside the eastern wing of the house, its blue surface shifting beneath the sunlight. A broad stone terrace surrounds it, furnished with deep chairs and several umbrellas folded against the breeze.
Beyond the water, a pale path winds through beds of roses. Pink, white, yellow, and deep red blooms crowd the low stone borders, filling the warm air with their scent. At the end of the path, the glass conservatory rises among the greenery, its white-painted frame bright against the trees.
Lucia’s attention settles on it.
“Conservatory,” I say. “Rose garden.”
She looks through the glass walls at the greenery inside.
“It’s beautiful.”
“Neither Marco nor I can keep a houseplant alive.”
I indicate the thriving garden.
“Angela is the reason nothing out here has filed for divorce.”
She smiles.
An actual one this time.
It transforms her face. The guarded woman from the hotel disappears for a second, leaving someone younger and warmer behind.
Then she notices me looking, and the smile becomes cautious again.
I lead her back inside through another set of doors.
“There’s a study here.”
I open the door.
The room is smaller than Marco’s office, with pale shelves, a writing desk, and two chairs positioned near windows overlooking the roses. The curtains are faded, but the wood has been carefully maintained.
“It could be yours if you want it.”
Lucia’s hand stops on the doorframe.
“Who does it belong to?”
I lift one shoulder.
“It belonged to our mother once.”
A framed watercolor still hangs beside the desk. I remember watching our mother choose it, although I couldn’t have been more than ten.
I move on before the room can become heavier than I intended.
The gaming room is across the hall.
“Cards, pool, poker.”
I grin.
“Not Xbox.”
“I can’t imagine Marco playing Xbox.”
“He doesn’t.”
I lower my voice.
“He’s terrible at it.”
“Oh.”
She looks as though she’s trying to reconcile Marco Catenzio with being bad at something.
I show her the pool table, the card table, and the old wooden cabinet filled with games no one has opened in years. Then we continue into the living room.
A curved blue sectional faces a television large enough to be seen from space. Lamps cast warmer light than the chandelier in the foyer, and blankets have been folded over the backs of several chairs.
Despite the room’s size, it’s one of the few places in the house that feels lived in.
“This is where we entertain people once in a blue moon,” I explain.
Lucia nods as though she’s trying to commit everything to memory.
“The library connects through there.” I point toward another set of double doors. “And now—“
I guide her through the adjoining hall and back into the foyer.
“We’re back where we started.”
She blinks.
“I feel mildly dizzy.”
“You’ll learn it.”
Her gaze moves toward the front door again, then follows the staircase to the second-floor gallery.
I look up.
“Let me show you to your room.”
She follows me to the foot of the stairs.
“Upstairs is quieter.”
“Your room is up there too?”
“Mine is at one end. Marco’s is at the other.”
I start up the stairs.
“And yours is right in the middle.”
She trails behind me, one hand sliding along the dark wooden banister.
Marco’s suite occupies the west wing. Mine is at the far end of the east. Three guest rooms sit between us.
Two face the front of the house.
The largest overlooks the rear gardens.
“Yours is here.”
I turn at the top of the stairs.
Lucia glances down the hall.
“Where are you?”
I nod toward the east wing.
“Turn left and keep going. You’ll hit my door eventually.”
She looks behind us toward the opposite end.
“Marco is there?”
“Yes.”
“And the others?”
She indicates the closed doors across the hall.
“Guest rooms. Perpetually empty.”
I open her door.
She steps inside slowly.
The room is large enough to intimidate anyone accustomed to normal houses. A king-sized bed occupies the center, buried beneath more pillows than any person could reasonably need. The walls are a muted blue, and cream-colored carpet softens the floor.
Tall windows overlook the gardens. A reading chair stands near one of them with a small table and lamp. The en suite bathroom is almost as large as my first apartment.
Lucia turns in a quiet circle.
“It’s nice,” she says at last.
Then she tests the door handle.
Not the mattress.
Not the view.
The handle.
Her first instinct is to determine whether the door opens.
“It only locks from your side,” I tell her. “No one can engage it from the hallway.”
She looks up quickly.
“Everything okay?” I ask.
“Yes. It’s lovely. Thank you.”
I lean against the doorframe.
She examines the room without moving farther inside. Her hands fold together at her waist as though she’s waiting for instructions.
“You can sit, you know.”
She glances at me.
“Or not. No one is going to tell you what to do.”
She looks down at her hands.
“Is it that obvious?”
“That you’re accustomed to someone telling you what to do?”
“Yeah.”
One corner of my mouth lifts.
“Probably not to anyone else, if that’s what you’re worried about.”
She trails her fingers over the top of the dresser. The movement leaves a faint line across the polished wood, though there is no dust to disturb.
“I don’t know what to do with myself.”
“What do you want to do?”
She lifts one shoulder.
“I always thought I’d know.”
“Know what?”
“What I wanted to do when I was finally free.” She looks around the room. “It turns out I never planned past escaping.”
Her voice is so quiet I almost miss the last word.
For years, this room has sat empty. Angela airs it every week and changes the flowers despite having no guest to appreciate them.
Now Lucia stands in the middle of it with everything she owns still at the hotel, waiting for someone to explain how freedom works.
“Well.”
I push away from the doorframe.
“Good news.”
She looks at me.
“You don’t have to figure out the rest of your life today.”
“No?”
“No.”
I smile.
“Today, your only job is to discover what you want to do.”
“How am I supposed to do that?”
“Read a book. Swim. Sit in the conservatory. Watch a terrible movie. Eat lunch even if you aren’t hungry.”
She watches me closely.
“You’re allowed to waste a day once in a while.”
“I am?”
“Yes.”
I nod toward the hall.
“Marco schedules his wasted days six months in advance, but don’t let that discourage you.”
Her mouth curves.
She looks around the room again, and this time her attention rests on the chair beside the window rather than the door.
“And if you get bored,” I add, “come find me.”
“What will we do?”
“No idea.”
She waits.
Apparently, she expects more of a plan than that.
“But we’ll think of something.”
“What if I want to be alone?”
“Then I’ll leave you alone.”
The answer catches her off guard.
I step into the hallway.
“The bathroom has everything you should need. If it doesn’t, ask Angela. She knows where things are.”
“Who’s Angela?”
“The woman who actually runs this house.”
“I thought Marco did.”
“He thinks he does too.”
She smiles again.
I start to close the door, then stop.
“One more thing.”
Her shoulders tense.
I point to the lock.
“That’s yours. Use it whenever you want.”
Her gaze shifts to the handle.
“Thank you,” she says.
“You don’t have to thank me.”
“I wanted to.”
The simple answer quiets the joke I might have made.
I pull the door nearly closed, leaving her to decide whether to shut it the rest of the way.
“I’ll make sure your things arrive.”
“Gio?”
I look back.
Her fingers curl around the edge of the door.
“Which way was the library again?”
I point down the hall.
“Left at the stairs. Down one floor. Left at the bottom. Follow the hall behind them. Double doors on your right.”
She repeats the directions beneath her breath.
“Or,” I add, “keep walking until you see books.”
She rolls her eyes.
It’s the most normal reaction I’ve seen from her yet.
I grin.
“See? You’re getting the hang of the place already.”