Chapter 10 #2
"Kristen." Now she faces me. Her eyes hold something I can't quite read. Warning, maybe. Or fear. "Bruno is... not well. The accident changed him. What happened to him, it broke something inside."
I know broken. I lived with broken for years.
"I understand," I say quietly.
"No." Giulia shakes her head. "You don't. And that's good. That's how it should stay." She crosses to me, her hand covering mine on the counter. "Stay away from his wing. If you hear him in the halls, go the other direction."
My stomach tightens. "Is he dangerous?"
"He's in pain." Her grip on my hand firms. "And people in that much pain, they lash out. They say things. Do things." She pauses. "The cruelty isn't really him. But knowing that doesn't make the wounds hurt less."
I think about Jack. How he'd apologize after tearing me apart with his words. I didn't mean it. You know I love you. You just make me so crazy sometimes.
The cruelty was always really him. He just got better at hiding it.
"I'll stay away," I promise.
Giulia studies my face.
"Good girl." She pats my hand and steps back, the warmth returning to her expression. "Now. Let me show you the rest of the house."
Nico
I never oversleep. My internal clock runs, dragging me out of unconsciousness at five-thirty every single day whether I want it to or not. But this morning? This morning I peeled my eyes open at eight, and my head immediately reminded me why I stopped drinking whiskey with Valentino past midnight.
Cazzo. Never again.
I need coffee. Enough to burn the fog out of my brain and make me functional for the three meetings Pietro scheduled before noon.
My feet know the path to the kitchen without conscious input, carrying me through the compound's hallways while I press my palm against my temple like that'll somehow ease the throbbing.
Then I hear it.
A voice. Soft. Coming from the living room.
I stop walking. My body goes still the way it does before important decisions. Complete cessation of movement while my brain processes new information. But this isn't a threat. This is...
What the hell is that?
I move toward the sound without deciding to. The living room door stands open. And in the center of it all, Kristen Thomas holds a feather duster like it's a microphone.
She's singing.
Not well. The notes wobble and slide around where they should be.
Her daughter was right. There's something vaguely amphibian about her upper register.
But she's singing anyway, swaying her hips as she runs the duster over the mantelpiece, completely unaware that I'm standing in the doorway like a statue.
The song is something I don't recognize. Old, maybe. Some pop thing from a decade ago. She hums through the parts she doesn't remember, then picks back up when the chorus hits.
"—and I keep on falling..."
Her voice cracks on the high note. She laughs at herself, shakes her head, and keeps going.
I should turn around, go to the kitchen, get my coffee, and pretend I never saw this. Kristen is an employee. A temporary household manager who will be gone in two months. She's not relevant to anything except the smooth running of this compound and the debt we owe for my mother's life.
I don't leave.
Instead, I lean my shoulder against the doorframe and watch her move through the room. The feather duster sweeps along picture frames. Her hips sway left, then right. She spins, still singing, and attacks the bookshelves.
She hasn't noticed me.
"—keep on falling for you—"
She does a little shimmy that makes her lose pants shift across her curves. My headache pulses. I ignore it.
There's a reason people like watching someone when they think they're alone.
You see the real person. The one who exists without performance, without the careful mask we all wear in public.
I've used this knowledge to destroy people before.
Observed their private moments, exploited every vulnerability.
This doesn't feel like that.
This feels like standing in front of a fire after coming in from the cold. Dangerous, maybe. You could burn yourself if you got too close. But warm. Unexpectedly, stupidly warm.
Kristen reaches up to dust a high shelf, and her shirt rides up revealing some skin of her back. I see the curve of her ass now, because she always wears loose clothes and that fucking curve will definitely keep playing in my mind all day.
This is a problem.
I stand here like an idiot with a pounding headache, watching a woman who sings like a dying frog dust furniture in my family's living room.
She finishes the chorus and starts humming again, moving to the window ledge.
The sunlight hits her face. Her eyes are closed, her expression loose and peaceful in a way I've never seen on her.
Every other time we've interacted, she's been wound tight as a spring.
Defensive. Waiting for the other shoe to drop.
I can't make myself look away.
Kristen spins again, and this time her eyes open.
She sees me.
The feather duster clatters to the floor.
"Oh my God!" Kristen's hand flies to her chest. She stumbles back a step, knocking into the bookshelf. A picture frame wobbles. She catches it before it falls, face flooding crimson.
"Mr. Sartori. I didn't—I'm so sorry. I thought everyone was still asleep. I shouldn't have been—that was completely unprofessional. I apologize."
The words tumble out of her in a rush. Her chest heaves with rapid breaths. She's looking at me like I caught her committing a crime instead of singing while dusting.
Tell her it's fine.
The thought forms clearly in my head. Simple words. "Good morning." Or "Don't apologize." Or even "You weren't bothering anyone." Any normal person would say something. Anything to ease the mortified expression twisting her features.
My jaw stays locked.
Kristen bends down to retrieve the feather duster. When she straightens, her cheeks are still pink. She clutches the duster against her stomach like a shield.
"It won't happen again," she says. "I promise. I just—Lily always tells me I shouldn't sing, and she's right, obviously. I don't know what I was thinking. This is your home, and I should be more—"
Say something, stronzo.
I don't.
Instead, I give her a single nod. Then I turn and walk away.
I can feel her stare burning into my back until I round the corner.
The kitchen door swings open under my palm.
What the fuck is wrong with you?
I grab a mug from the cabinet. The ceramic clinks hard against the counter.
She was apologizing. For singing like it's a crime. And you just stood there like a goddamn statue and then walked away without a single word.
The espresso machine hisses as I jam the portafilter into place. My movements are angry. But the anger is directed entirely inward.
"Good morning, Kristen." Two words. That's all it would have taken. Two fucking words.
But no. I don't do small talk. I don't do pleasantries. I observe, I analyze, I act when necessary. Words are tools for extracting information or giving orders. Not for... whatever that situation required.
She looked terrified.
The espresso drips into my cup, dark and bitter. I stare at it without seeing.
Not terrified of me. Terrified of being seen. Of being caught doing something human in a house full of monsters.
And what did I do? Confirmed every assumption she probably has about the calculating Sartori who watches everything and says nothing.
Asshole.
I take a long drink of the espresso. It burns down my throat. Good. I deserve it.
The problem is, I don't know how to be anything else. Lorenzo got the charm. Pietro got the authority that people respect instead of fear. Even Bruno, before everything, could make someone feel at ease with a well-timed joke.
Me? I got the ability to notice when someone's lying by the micro-expressions around their eyes. I got the pattern recognition that spots threats before they materialize. I got the analytical mind that makes me valuable to this family but absolutely useless at basic human interaction.
If I could be more...
The thought trails off. More what? More approachable? More warm? More like a normal person who knows how to respond when a woman embarrasses herself in front of him?
I set the empty cup in the sink harder than I should.
Kristen Thomas has been in this house for less than a day, and I've already made her apologize for things that don't require apologies.
She's going to spend the next two months tiptoeing around me like I'm a bomb about to detonate.
Which is fine. That's what people do around me.
But the image of her swaying her hips, eyes closed, completely lost in some terrible pop song is stuck in my head now.
And I don't get these kind of images stuck in my head.
Never.