5. Nova #2
“The doctor says a lot of things.” He reaches for the wine bottle, and I watch the muscles in his forearm flex as he pours. Watch the way his fingers curl around the neck of the bottle, sure and steady. Watch-
Enough. Pull yourself together. What is wrong with you?
“Nova.”
I drag my eyes up to his face. He’s looking at me with an expression I can’t read - something dark, something knowing, something that makes my stomach clench.
“Yes?”
“You’re staring.”
“I’m not.”
“You are.” He sets down the bottle. Leans back in his chair. Watches me with those eyes that see everything, miss nothing. “At my hands.”
I should deny it. Should laugh it off, make some excuse about the tattoos or the scars or the dim lighting. Should do anything except sit here in mortified silence while he dissects me with his gaze.
“I’m sorry,” I whisper instead.
“Don’t be.” He picks up his wine glass. Takes a slow sip. His eyes never leave mine. “I’m not.”
The words land like a physical touch - like his fingers on my skin, like his thumb on my cheek, like all the contact we’ve carefully avoided since that first morning. I feel them in my chest, my stomach, somewhere lower that I’m not willing to name.
I sat across from my husband at a thousand dinners and memorized the wallpaper, I think desperately. Five minutes of watching this man pour wine and I’ve forgotten my own name.
“I should-” I push back from the table too fast, my chair scraping against the stone floor. “I’m tired. The doctor said I should rest.”
“Of course.” He rises when I do - old-fashioned, courteous, a gentleman even when he’s making me combust with a single sentence. “I’ll have someone bring tea to your room.”
“You don’t have to-”
“I know.” His voice is soft. “Sleep well, Nova.”
I flee.
There’s no other word for it. I flee up the stairs and down the corridor and into my room, closing the door behind me and pressing my back against it like I’m trying to keep something out.
Or keep something in.
My heart is pounding. My skin feels too tight. And somewhere in my chest, something I thought died a long time ago is stirring back to life.
Dangerous, I think. This is how people get burned.
But I’m starting to think that maybe dangerous is exactly what I need.
***
Luca
I watch her go.
The candlelight flickers across the empty chair where she sat, and I stay motionless at the head of the table, my wine glass untouched, my blood running hot beneath my skin.
She was staring at my hands.
The thought is doing things to me. Things I should not allow. Things I’ve been fighting since the moment I pulled her off that street corner and felt her body in my arms.
I could have been kind about it. Could have pretended not to notice, saved her the embarrassment, maintained the careful distance I’ve been cultivating between us.
Instead, I called her out. Watched the blush spread across her cheeks. Said I’m not, like a man with a death wish.
Because I’m not sorry. I’m the opposite of sorry. I’ve been waiting three years to have her look at me like that - like I’m something she wants, something she craves, something that sets her blood on fire the way she sets mine.
She’s not yours, I remind myself. She’s healing. She’s vulnerable. She’s in your house because she has nowhere else to go, and taking advantage of that would make you no better than them.
I know this. I know it in my bones.
But knowing doesn’t stop the wanting.
I push back from the table. Leave the wine, the candles, the untouched dessert. I need air. I need movement. I need something to do with my hands besides imagine them on her skin.
The grounds are dark and cold, but I walk them anyway - past the gardens, past the fountain, past the high walls that keep the world out and keep her safe.
The moon is bright enough to see by, and I let my feet carry me in aimless circles while my mind runs the same track it’s been running for weeks.
She’s in my house.
She’s looking at me like she wants-
I can’t. I shouldn’t. I-
My phone buzzes.
I pull it out, expecting Marco. Expecting Marta. Expecting anyone except the name on the screen.
Rinaldi.
The investigator on my payroll. The one who specializes in building cases that money can’t dissolve.
“Signore.” His voice is grim. “We have a problem.”
“What kind of problem?”
“Vivienne’s investigators. They’re getting close.”
I stop walking. “How close?”
“Close enough. One of them was asking questions in the village today. About the mansion. About who’s been seen coming and going.”
The night suddenly feels colder.
“No one has seen her. She hasn’t left the grounds.”
“That’s not what he’s looking for. He’s looking for patterns. For proof that someone is here who shouldn’t be. For-”
“For evidence that I’m hiding something.”
“Yes.”
I think about Nova upstairs in her room. About the fear that still lives in her eyes when she sleeps. About the bruises that are finally starting to fade, about the wrist that’s finally starting to heal.
I think about what my mother will do if she finds her.
“Thank you for the warning,” I say. “Double your efforts on the case. I want it ready.”
“Signore, these things take time-”
“Then find more time. I want it ready.”
I hang up.
The moon is cold overhead. The walls of my mansion rise against the darkness, protective and ancient and not nearly enough.
She’s getting close, I think. My mother is getting close.
But she won’t get in. Not while I’m breathing.
I turn back toward the house, and I make a decision. Not the smart decision - the smart decision would be to send Nova away, to put her somewhere else, somewhere Vivienne’s investigators won’t look.
But I’m not doing that.
I’m not doing that because the thought of her being anywhere else - anywhere I can’t see her, can’t protect her, can’t watch her stare at my hands across a candlelit dinner table - makes something in my chest twist into a shape I don’t recognize.
Obsession, that voice whispers again. Madness. Ruin.
Yes, I answer it. All of that.
And I don’t care.
***
Marta tells me my mother received a report from her investigator today - a single page, frustratingly sparse, with one detail circled in red.
The eldest son has been seen purchasing medical supplies. Women’s clothing. Art materials.
I know exactly what she reads in those three lines. I know she’s smiling.