Chapter 17
Sloane
Iwake to the sound of a key turning in the lock. My heart races as the door swings open, revealing Emilio standing in the hallway, dark hair falling across his forehead. I push myself up on my elbows, still groggy from a fitful night of sleep.
"Morning," he says, his face expressionless.
I eye him cautiously. "Am I being relocated, or..."
"You're being granted limited access to common areas," he replies, as if reading from some invisible rule book. "Kitchen, main living room, courtyard. Everything else is still off-limits without an escort."
I sit up fully, surprised. "What changed?"
Emilio leans against the doorframe, studying me. "Dom and Besiana spent half the night discussing you. Rafe vouched for you. Repeatedly." His mouth quirks up at one corner. "Loudly."
The thought of Rafe defending me sends a flutter through my chest that I quickly try to suppress.
"So I'm not restricted anymore?" I ask, trying to keep my voice neutral.
"Let's call it a probationary period," Emilio says. "Don't make us regret it."
With that, he turns and walks away, leaving the door pointedly open. A clear message: you can leave, but we're still watching.
I shake my head and look around. The room is bright and modern, with sharp edges and cold light, with a white carpet like fresh snow. My clothes are in a neat pile, washed and folded. It’s sweet but creepy, like someone has been hovering while I sleep. Probably fifty someones in this family.
It comes rushing back. The confrontation with Ethan.
Rafaele storming in to find me just when I was starting to panic and pulling me to his chest, soothing me with words softer and quieter than I ever thought could come out of his big, rough self.
Then the enormous, sprawling mansion that he lives in with his family, like some kind of modern-day American prince.
The bathroom is as big and fancy as everything else, all chrome and glass.
I shower, trying to adjust the temperature before I turn into a popsicle, then pull on my freshly laundered jeans and t-shirt.
No sign of my coat. I comb through my hair with my fingers and shake off the last of the water, shivering.
I cross to the massive walk-in closet I found yesterday and take a long, slow look.
Dresses and suits, mostly. Everything looks expensive and brand new, still on the hanger.
Half this stuff still has tags on. I paw through the racks, feeling like a raccoon who’s stumbled into an Upper East Side boutique.
There’s even a pair of Manolos in my size.
There’s silk everything. Black everything. Rosetti style, I guess.
Finally, I find a simple black sweater and yank it over my head, muttering a small apology to Coco Chanel. At least it fits. I put on a pair of boots I’d never pick myself and head out into the hallway.
The mansion is silent as I open the door, no signs of life. It’s like living inside a luxury ghost town.
I wander down the hall, hair still damp, and peek into room after room. Everything is tidy, spare, impersonal. No one’s bothered with anything cozy or homey. I bet even the cobwebs have a minimalist vibe.
I follow the scent of fresh coffee and find myself in the kitchen.
Without the adrenaline zooming through my body, I can take it in properly.
It’s massive, more like a restaurant than anything I’ve ever seen in a house.
Counters stretch on for miles. Fancy appliances gleam under the lights, totally unused, and the whole place smells of new paint and money.
In the middle of it all, like he’s been waiting for me, stands one of the brothers.
He’s taller than me by a mile and wiry, with sharp gray eyes and jet-black hair. He’s the only Rosetti other than Rafe I’ve seen out of a suit. He’s in a hoodie and jeans and blends in so much I almost miss him.
“Uh, morning,” I say, suddenly aware of how loud I’m being in this silent mansion.
He raises an eyebrow and smiles like I’ve just told a good joke.
“Carmela thought you might run for it,” he says in a soft voice. “You were up late.”
“Thought about it,” I admit, wondering who the heck Carmela is. “But the rooms are nice, and Rafe promised me breakfast.”
He cuts into an orange with a knife too big for the job, and the way he slices it is surgical, like he could be an extra in a mob movie called The Kitchen Assassin.
I watch his hands, feeling nervous for the orange.
“And you are?” I ask. “The quiet one? The scary one? The breakfast one?”
He pauses like he’s deciding which one to pick.
“Emilio,” he says finally.
“Well, I’m Sloane,” I offer. “Not scary. Loud. Can’t cook to save my life.”
He looks up, more interested now. “Grad student,” he says like it’s a fact.
“That obvious?”
“Rafe says you’re studying us.”
I laugh, feeling my cheeks go warm.
“He’s a little intense, isn’t he?”
“More than a little.” Emilio smirks, and I get the feeling he’s more dangerous than the rest of them because he sits back and observes, missing nothing.
“Just don’t tell him I said that,” I add. “I’d like to live through the week.”
“Smart,” he says.
He makes cutting look effortless, and I find myself backing away, feeling more jittery than I want to admit.
That knife is big and sharp, and I get flashbacks to the last time I was around something that sharp.
Emilio doesn’t miss a beat. He peels the orange in one perfect piece and stares at me with those gray eyes like he’s got me all figured out.
“So,” I say, inching toward the door. “The whole family lives here? Just the ones I met yesterday, or are there any other siblings I should know about?”
“Ask Carmela,” he replies with a hint of a smile. “She’ll make you a spreadsheet.”
“Carmela is…?”
“Our little sister.”
Jesus, how many of these Rosettis are there? Maybe I should study them like Emilio suggested, purely from a professional capacity, of course.
The knife makes a slice, and I can’t handle it anymore.
“Right,” I say quickly. “I think I’ll go take a walk, you know, explore the grounds. Find my way around.”
“Watch out for the guards,” he warns. “They bite.”
“I’ll take my chances.”
I escape before I lose a finger, wandering through a long hallway, finally finding the door out into the garden.
The garden is like a jungle. A neat, expensive jungle where everything is under control.
I stick to the path, still feeling caged.
Security cameras wink at me like I’m the joke of the day.
Tall hedges lead to a fountain with a statue of some naked Roman guy who looks miserable, probably from all the gray skies.
I’m starting to relax when I spot something that makes my blood run cold.
A small chocolate-colored dog, an oodle of some sort.
I freeze, and my stomach twists into a knot as the memories come rushing back.
For a second, I can't move. It’s like time has stopped.
I’m twelve again, and the world is crashing down around me.
I snap out of it and turn, but the dog is faster.
It’s barreling toward me like a runaway train, and my feet don’t want to cooperate.
I trip over a perfectly manicured bush and land hard on the path.
I hear a bark and scramble to get up. My heart is racing, pounding, thundering in my ears.
It’s getting closer. Too close.
“Get away,” I gasp. “Please, just get away.”
The dog skids to a stop and tilts its head. It looks happy. Friendly. The exact opposite of how I feel.
“Paz!” a voice is calling, but I can’t tell where it’s coming from. “Paz!”
I start to get up again, trying to remember how to breathe, but the dog circles me, curious, and I’m so dizzy with panic I can’t even stand.
“Stop it,” I beg. “Just stop it.”
Tears blur my vision, and I curl up into a ball. It’s too much, and the past is clawing at me. Suddenly, strong arms lift me, and I look up to see a familiar face, rough and serious.
“Gotcha,” Rafe says, picking me up like I weigh nothing.
I clutch his shirt and hold on, barely aware of where we’re going. The dog bounces around him, not helping. He doesn’t put me down until we’re inside and away from all the memories. Away from the thing I can’t bear to face.
The lounge room is as cold as the rest of the house, but it’s quiet, and I try to catch my breath.
Rafe sets me on the couch and kneels in front of me, his ice-blue eyes softer than I’ve ever seen them.
He waits while I shiver and gasp, not saying a word, and that quiet concern breaks through the panic.
“I’m sorry,” I choke out. “I’m so, so sorry.”
“Forget it,” he says. “You okay?”
“No,” I say, shaking my head, feeling the tears again. “I’m really not.”
He watches me, and I can see the wheels turning in his head. I feel so exposed, like he can see right through me, but I can’t stop now. The words tumble out before I can catch them.
“It’s the dog,” I say. “I didn’t know… I couldn’t—”
“He’s harmless,” Rafe says, but his voice isn’t as sure as his words. “I swear.”
“It’s not that,” I say, wiping my eyes with the back of my hand, and it does nothing to stop the flood. “It’s me. I can’t… When I was a kid, I had a dog. We were playing, and I had a knife, and it was an accident, but it was bad, and—”
I stop, the memories crashing in again, feeling like I’m splitting open. Rafe’s hand is on mine. Warm and steady.
“And?” he prompts.
“Everyone thought I killed him,” I whisper. “Everyone thought I did it on purpose.”
He’s silent for a long moment, and I’m afraid to look up. Afraid to see what’s in those cold eyes of his.
“It was an accident,” I say. “Everyone thinks it wasn’t, but it was.”
My throat closes, like I’m eleven again, panicked and unable to breathe.
“I didn’t mean to,” I say.
I expect him to flinch. I’m used to seeing it, the moment they start to doubt me. He doesn’t.
Words come fast, faster than I can think.
“The knife slipped just as he jumped up on me, and it all happened so fast. There was blood everywhere. I tried to stop it. I tried to help him, but Dad found us, and there was so much blood, and I was covered in it, and no one… no one believed me.”
The whole world falls silent. The heat of the room, the pressure of it, close in.
“I held him in my lap until he stopped moving. Bear. His name was Bear. And no one believed me. Not even my own family.”
“Sloane—”
“It didn’t matter how many times I told them,” I say, my voice thin and breaking. “Dad, Mom, Frank, even Lisa, and she was too young to remember it. They never say it out loud, but I hear it all the same.”
“They’re idiots.”
“They’re my family.” I can barely get the words out.
“Still idiots.”
I look at him, confused. “How can you say that? You don’t even know—”
“Yeah, I do,” he interrupts.
“It’s followed me my entire life,” I push ahead. I have to make him understand. I have to know why he isn’t running like the rest of them. “Dad put me in therapy. Mom told me to just let it go. I try, but they kept looking at me like I was some kind of—”
“You’re not.”
I can’t stop. I’m a dam with too many cracks.
“Psycho. Killer. Murderer. They sent me away to boarding school, and I kept waiting for the moment when they’d see it wasn’t my fault, when they’d finally understand.
But it never came. Even after I left. Even when I thought I’d put it all behind me, it just keeps following. ”
“Sloane.”
At the low tone of his voice, I look at him. “Yes?”
“It doesn’t matter.”
I blink.
I shake my head, disbelieving.
“You don’t understand. I’m a monster,” I say.
He lets out a dry, short laugh.
“I’ve killed worse things than a dog.”
I stare at him, at this impossible man, not knowing what to make of him, not knowing how to make sense of any of it.
He is steady. Calm. Like none of it matters. Like I’m not the mess I think I am.
“You’re freezing,” he says, his voice low, pulling me in.
“I—”
“C’mon,” he says, wrapping me up again, a dark shelter.
He is so different from everything I’ve imagined him to be. And it hits me, a wave crashing hard.
The only thing I can do is melt into it. Into him.
Before I know it, he’s there, closer than close.
His mouth on mine, warm, rough, perfect.
It sends a shock through me, and I fall into it, into him, with everything I have.
It’s desperate and wanting, everything I didn’t know I’d been waiting for.
The feeling of being understood. Of being wanted, without doubt or fear or shame.
He kisses me hard, pulling me deeper, tighter. And it’s perfect, every bit of it. Years of not being believed, of holding back, of never having what I need. All of it explodes in the heat of this moment, and I think I might lose myself to it. I want to.
Then it’s over. He pulls away, slow and deliberate. His eyes stay on me, holding me in place, and I see a flicker of something in them.
“You don’t have to pretend with me, Carter.”
I feel undone. Raw. Unsteady.
He’s right, though. For the first time, someone sees it all. And the weight of that is incredible.
“You don’t have to pretend,” he says again, voice softer, pulling me in like gravity, and this time, I know I’ll stay.