5. Aria
ARIA
A warm, clinging layer of dampness covers my skin, the sheets heavy and close against me.
The room hums with the thick, almost overripe scent of sweat and sex, a dark, intimate fragrance that lingers like a brand, soaked into the walls, into the mattress, into me.
I lie in Enzo's bed for a long moment, unmoving, curled into the place where his body had been just minutes before.
Enzo rises without a word.
He dresses with the kind of unhurried grace that makes it impossible to tell if he's at peace or preparing for war.
A shirt is pulled over those scarred shoulders, slacks are hung low on his hips, bare feet are silent on the hardwood.
He doesn't look at me before slipping out of the room.
The door shuts softly behind him, and the moment he is gone, I exhale a breath I didn't realize I'd been holding, allowing the quietness to settle over me.
The adrenaline has left my limbs, but not my mind.
Thoughts clamor in the space he left behind.
Guilt. Longing. Terror, dressed up like anticipation.
I pull the sheets tighter around my chest and stare up at the ceiling, tracing the dark ribs of exposed beams, the strange hush of a home that has seen too much and still speaks in silence.
He left the lamp on beside the bed, a pool of amber casting gentle shadows across the room.
The rest of it stretches out in dusky corners and sharp furniture, all dark woods and clean lines.
There is nothing soft about this place.
No plush rugs or scattered books, no idle clutter, no warmth for the sake of comfort.
It feels like a room built for function, not belonging.
And yet something of him clings to every surface.
I sit up slowly, letting the sheet fall to my lap.
My thighs ache in ways I can't explain, my lips still swollen from his kiss.
I reach for the robe that hangs off the edge of the bed, a black silk number, plain and masculine, worn at the collar.
It smells faintly of his cologne, sharp and dry and threaded with an undertone of pine and rain.
My throat constricts painfully, but I wrap it around myself anyway, tugging it closed and tying the belt tight before stepping onto the cool floor.
Padding toward the window, I part the curtain just enough to see the estate grounds.
Floodlights spill over the distant drive, casting long shadows across the manicured lawn.
Beyond it, only the black line of trees.
I imagine slipping out into that darkness.
I imagine running.
And then I laugh, because where would I go?
Where, once my family catches wind of my pregnancy?
The sole reason I'd come here was to see if I could give Enzo a chance.
"Hard to understand that if he's never around for anything except sex," I mutter to myself.
My fingers twitch.
I walk past the window and run my hand over the tall dresser by the wall.
The wood is dark, probably oak, heavy and polished.
The top is bare, save for a brass watch and a leather-bound notebook with nothing written on the spine.
I hesitate.
Then I open the first drawer.
It's full of socks.
Rolled tightly, arranged in rows.
So precise it's almost unsettling.
The next holds undershirts and folded slacks, stacked in columns so even they look machine-made.
The third has guns. Not one. Three.
All of them black.
All of them clean.
There is a small velvet-lined tray beside them, holding clips, bullets, a silver knife with an engraved handle.
I close the drawer softly.
Across the room stands a tall armoire with double doors.
I open them with both hands.
Inside, his suits hang in severe order, black and charcoal and midnight blue, arranged like soldiers in formation.
Every hem perfect.
Every shirt starched into obedience.
There's a single drawer at the bottom.
I tug it open.
At first, I don't understand what I'm looking at.
There are photographs, but not many.
Some are loose.
Others are stacked neatly, bound with a black ribbon.
No albums.
No frames.
I reach for one.
A younger version of him stares back.
The face is unmistakable—those eyes could burn through decades—but the jaw is softer, the hair longer.
He looks like he hasn't yet forgotten how to smile.
Beside him stands a woman in a pale dress, with olive skin and dark eyes and the same sharp angles to her features.
Her arm is looped through the elbow of a tall man in a linen shirt, whose hand rests on Enzo's shoulder.
A family.
I don't know what makes my chest tighten more.
The fact that he kept this.
Or the fact that he hid it.
The photograph is slightly curled at the edges, worn as though it's been handled often.
Reverently. I stare at it, heart caught somewhere between sorrow and wonder, until I hear the door open behind me.
"You're a nosy little thing, aren't you?"
His voice snaps me straight.
I spin around, the photograph still in my hand.
Enzo stands in the doorway with a white paper bag in one hand and a pair of sandwiches wrapped in butcher paper balanced inside.
His shirt sleeves are rolled to his elbows.
His throat bobs with a hard swallow.
"I—" I start, then stop.
He shuts the door with one foot, and crosses the room slowly, the bag landing on the low table by the window.
He doesn't come closer right away.
He just watches me, that gaze moving from the photograph in my hand to the robe I'm wearing.
One brow lifts.
"Looking for something?" he asks quietly.
I press the photo to my chest, my fingers curling around the edges, the silence between us raw and uneasy.
"I wasn't trying to snoop," I say finally, my voice whispery.
"No?" He moves toward me now. "Then what exactly were you doing?"
The answer won't come, because I'm not sure what I was doing myself.
Maybe I was trying to find a reason to stay.
Or to run.
Or maybe I was searching for some part of him that would make this all make sense, because I am carrying a secret inside me that will not be secret for long, and the only thing I know with any certainty is that it began here, with him.
And somehow, I need to find a way to tell him that.
But it isn't in me right now, the strength needed for a conversation.
So instead, I hold up the photo and ask, "Is this your family?"
His face goes still.
Something ignites behind his eyes, gone before I can name it.
He reaches forward, takes the photograph from my hand with a gentleness that nearly breaks me, and slips it back into the drawer without a word.
Then he closes and locks it. He turns back to me and gestures toward the sandwiches. "You hungry?"
I nod once.
He moves to the bag, takes out and unwraps a sandwich, and hands it to me.
It is warm in my palm, heavier than I expected, fragrant with smoked mozzarella and grilled vegetables layered between slices of golden focaccia.
Enzo says nothing at first, just presses it gently into my palm, his fingers brushing mine with that same unspoken electricity that has hovered between us since the first night.
I glance up at him, unsure of what to say, but he is already walking to the armchair, sinking into it with an elegance that seems unstudied, the kind that comes from being raised not in privilege, but in danger.
I hold the sandwich carefully, my fingers trembling slightly.
I do not want to sit on the bed where everything still smells like us, still feels too raw and private.
So, I cross the room, stepping over the thick woven rug and pausing beside the tall window overlooking the rear gardens of the estate.
The glass is cool beneath my fingertips as I lean slightly against the frame, gazing out at the stone paths that cut through rows of sculpted cypress and potted lemon trees.
I take my first bite.
The bread is soft, still warm from the grill, the cheese molten and tangy, the vegetables sweet with a slight char.
It tastes like something made without haste.
Real food. Real effort.
"You should stay the night."
His voice catches me off guard, low and unceremonious, spoken like he's commenting on the weather rather than offering something I never thought he would.
I blink and turn from the window. "You want me to stay?"
He looks up at me. "Yes."
The answer is simple, but something about it tilts the axis of the room.
He has never asked.
Not before.
Not after the last time.
And certainly not now, not when everything is more complicated than it has ever been.
I chew slowly, trying to gather my thoughts before responding. "I don't know what I can tell my parents."
He reaches for a glass on the nearby table, sips from it once, then meets my eyes with the faintest quirk of his mouth.
"The driver has already been informed. He was told that Luca's wife invited you to stay for the night."
I freeze, halfway through a bite. "You told him that?"
He nods.
I stare at him for a moment, unsure whether I am more startled by the boldness of the lie or by the fact that he so easily thought to protect me, to cover for me without needing to be asked.
I take another bite, slower this time, trying to process the quiet revelation that I still do not know this man as well as I think I do.
Silence stretches between us, as I finish the sandwich, every bite a soothing counterpoint to the tension winding through my chest.
By the time I reach the end, the dizziness that has been teasing the edge of my vision since last night returns with sharper teeth.
The room tilts slightly.
I lean against the frame of the window with one hand, setting the napkin on the sill.
Enzo is already on his feet. "Aria."
"I'm fine," I say too quickly, but the way the room pulses around me betrays the lie.
He's at my side in two long strides, steadying me with a hand at my lower back.
"You're not fine," he mutters, easing me toward the bed. His strength is effortless, not in the way that brute force can be, but in the quiet confidence of someone who's held too many broken things to ever let one fall.
I sink into the sheets without resistance.
My limbs feel heavy, boneless.
His hand grazes my ankle as he draws the covers over me, a gesture so tender it tugs something deep in my chest.
I watch him as my eyelids grow heavy.
I want to say something.
To tell him about the secret I carry.
To ask him what it would mean if he knew.
But the words dissolve before they form.
The last image before sleep takes me is the faint outline of him moving through the room, closing the door with a soft click behind him.
When I wake, the sun is already high, the bedroom swathed in late-morning light that filters through the gauzy linen curtains.
My body aches in places I didn't know could ache, but the sensation is pleasant, dulled by rest and memory.
I lie there for a moment, blinking slowly, taking in the unfamiliar surroundings.
Enzo's bed is large and sharply made, the sheets a dark slate color that contrasts with the pale stone walls and the minimalist art hanging in careful symmetry above the headboard.
Everything in the room is understated, clean, masculine.
With a little groan, I get up and head to the expansive bathroom with sleek marble counters and a rainfall shower that steams almost instantly when I turn the tap.
I step under the stream, letting it wash away the sleep and the thoughts I cannot yet name.
When I emerge, wrapped in one of his towels, I find a clean stack of folded clothes resting on the armchair: a crisp white button-down shirt and a pair of perfectly tailored dark jeans.
I dress slowly, breathing in the faint scent of cedar and smoke clinging to the fabric.
His scent.
The jeans fit almost perfectly, cinching slightly at my waist, and the shirt falls to mid-thigh, oversized and soft, like something borrowed and treasured.
I hesitate only a moment before rolling up the sleeves and buttoning it to the top.
The hallway beyond his room is hushed, and as I make my way through the estate, the sheer scale of it begins to dawn on me.
The Salvatore mansion is sprawling, a newer construction that pretends at old-world elegance but lacks the timeworn history that lingers in Lombardi halls.
The corridors are lined with gilded sconces and hand-cut crown molding, but they smell of new polish and fresh plaster rather than antique wood and forgotten secrets.
I pass a grand staircase and a towering mural of Luca Salvatore standing beside a sleek black thoroughbred.
This place is a monument to wealth accumulated quickly, the kind that speaks in gloss and sharp angles rather than heritage.
The living room I enter is lavish, but too pristine to feel lived in.
Gilded mirrors hang above polished consoles.
Velvet armchairs flank a massive stone fireplace that has likely never seen a flame.
Floor-to-ceiling windows flood the room with light, and the staff moves through the space like clockwork, each one engaged in tasks with silent precision.
None of them acknowledge me.
In time, I enter a living room and pause by a window, if only to catch my breath.
I'm deep in thought when Valentina Salvatore enters the same room in a tasteful, fluid, muted green dress.
She carries herself with grace, but there is a steeliness beneath it, something carefully sharpened.
"Excuse me, are you Mrs. Salvatore?"
"Yes," she says, tilting her head slightly. "Who are you?"
"Aria Lombardi," I reply, offering a hand she takes with brief politeness. My eyes flick toward the hallway. "I was hoping to speak with Enzo. Is he available?"
She shakes her head. "I wouldn't know. He doesn't exactly check in with me."
Her words strike an odd chord, but I choose to maintain civility.
She's married to Luca Salvatore.
She has every reason to have ghosts of her own to tend to. "I understand. Do you mind if I wait here?"
She nods and I take a seat, folding my hands carefully in my lap.
The silence that stretches between us is poised, and in time, it becomes clear that neither of us is here just for polite conversation.
"I'll go look for him," she finally says, her voice clipped. "My husband should know where he is."
I watch her retreat, her heels soft against the marble, and I remain seated, too aware of every inch of myself in these clothes, in this house, in this war between families that no longer feels like it can be drawn in clean lines.
My phone rings once more, the fifth time in the last two hours.
Each missed call is either from Mama, Papa, or Luciana.
I'm running out of time to make a decision.
If I choose Enzo, it will mean waging war with my family, giving up everything my father stands for.
And if I don't, I'm damned anyway.
I'll have to run, have to find a way to make ends meet without the luxuries of the world I've been born into.