CHAPTER 22
ELENA
Sofia refused sedation.
The doctor at the Long Island house explained that it would help her sleep.
She answered that sleep had recently become an activity men tried to force on Bellandi women whenever they became inconvenient.
The doctor looked at me.
I had no argument.
He cleaned the cuts around her wrists, examined the bruising on her face and confirmed there were no fractures. Sofia remained wrapped in a gray blanket on the library sofa while security moved through the house again.
Adrian had been taken to a private hospital. His arm was dislocated, not broken. The cut near his temple required stitches.
He sent Nico a message before the examination finished.
I hate everyone.
It was the first reassuring thing I had read all night.
Sofia held a cup of tea she had not touched.
“I thought Paolo came from Papa,” she said.
“You recognized him.”
“He used to bring Marco and me ice cream after school. He said Uncle Vittorio wanted me at the hotel because you had found something.”
“You made a reasonable decision with false information.”
“I left the house without telling anyone.”
“So did I when I went after Samuel.”
“You had guards.”
“I also had more information.”
She looked at me.
“I wanted to prove I could help.”
The sentence belonged to both of us.
I sat beside her.
“I know.”
“You are going to tell me I should have waited.”
“No.”
Her eyebrows rose.
“I am going to tell you that you should have shared what you saw before acting,” I said. “Not because I get to decide for you. Because someone was using your need to be included.”
Sofia looked down at the tea.
“That is a very careful distinction.”
“I have been forced to practice.”
Her gaze shifted toward the doorway where Nico stood speaking with security.
“Is he changing?”
The question felt more intimate than if she had asked whether I loved him.
“Sometimes.”
“Are you?”
I looked at the bruises around her wrists.
“Yes.”
Sofia leaned against my shoulder.
We remained there until her breathing slowed.
Not sleep.
Rest.
When Teresa arrived shortly after dawn, she crossed the library without greeting anyone and knelt in front of Sofia.
I knew her immediately, though we had never met.
She was in her late fifties, compact and elegantly dressed despite the hour. Silver threaded her dark hair, which she wore cut at her jaw. Her face was narrow, her eyes the same deep brown as Nico’s, though less guarded.
She took Sofia’s injured hands without asking.
Then seemed to realize the mistake.
“May I?”
Sofia nodded.
Teresa examined the cuts with a tenderness that did not match the dangerous household around her.
“I am Teresa Orsini.”
“I know.”
“Of course you do. Everyone knows too much about everyone except what matters.”
Her gaze moved toward Nico.
He stood several feet away.
Something unspoken passed between them.
Love.
Suspicion.
History.
Teresa rose.
“You should be in a hospital,” she told Sofia.
“I was examined.”
“That is not what I said.”
“She is staying,” I replied.
Teresa’s attention settled on me at last.
Her attention moved over my face, the bruises at my throat and the wedding ring.
“So you are Elena.”
“I was before the marriage.”
One corner of her mouth shifted.
Nico’s aunt had humor.
That seemed unfair.
“I am sorry we meet under these circumstances,” she said.
“I am beginning to believe these are the only circumstances our families have.”
Teresa looked toward Nico again.
“Why did you call me?”
“We found the weapons,” he said.
Her face lost all expression.
“Which weapons?”
“The inventory certified as destroyed after my mother died.”
Sofia sat straighter.
Teresa’s eyes moved briefly toward the guards.
“Not here.”
Nico said, “Tomorrow.”
“You call me before sunrise, tell me weapons connected to my sister’s death were never destroyed, and expect me to wait until tomorrow?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Because Adrian is injured, Sofia was abducted and Elena has not slept.”
The final reason surprised Teresa.
It surprised me too.
He had placed my body into the calculation without turning it into a command.
Teresa studied him.
Then nodded.
“Tomorrow.”
She returned to Sofia and adjusted the blanket around her shoulders.
The maternal gesture caught me in a place I had not protected.
Our mother had died when Sofia was still young enough to need help fastening formal dresses and old enough to understand that help would not return.
Teresa sat with her until she finally slept.
Only then did Nico approach me.
“You need rest.”
“I was waiting for the phrase.”
“It remains accurate.”
“So does my refusal.”
“Elena.”
I looked toward Sofia.
“She will be protected.”
“She was protected four hours ago.”
Nico did not argue.
Good.
“I am not leaving her alone.”
“Teresa will stay.”
“I do not know Teresa.”
“You trusted a driver because Sofia knew him.”
The words were blunt enough that I almost struck back.
Then I saw regret appear in his face.
The fact was true.
Using my sister’s mistake as leverage was the problem.
“I should not have said it that way,” he said.
“No.”
“I am asking you to sleep for two hours in the room beside this one. The door remains open. Two guards stay in the corridor. I will remain here.”
“You have not slept either.”
“I will after you.”
“That is not a compromise.”
“No.”
His honesty made resistance more difficult.
I looked at Sofia’s sleeping face.
Teresa sat beside her, one hand resting near—not on—her bandaged wrist.
“All right,” I said. “Two hours.”
Nico walked me to the room and stopped outside.
He did not enter.
I slept for three hours.
When I woke, the house was quiet.
The open door showed an empty corridor.
Fear came before reason.
I left the bed barefoot and crossed to the library.
Sofia remained asleep.
Teresa had moved to the chair near the windows.
Nico was gone.
“Where is he?” I asked.
“Kitchen.”
Teresa’s gaze settled on me.
“He stood outside your room for nearly an hour.”
“That sounds uncomfortable.”
“For him or you?”
“Yes.”
She smiled faintly.
I went to the kitchen.
Nico stood at the counter reading messages. His black shirt had been replaced by a gray T-shirt that revealed more of the old burn along his forearm. A cup of coffee waited near the opposite chair.
Correct color.
Correct amount of milk.
I sat.
“You left the library.”
“You were asleep.”
“Sofia was not.”
“Teresa stayed.”
“You trust her.”
“Yes.”
“Even now?”
His gaze moved to the phone in his hand.
“I trust that she would die before allowing Sofia to be harmed.”
“That is not the same as believing she told you the truth about the weapons.”
“No.”
I drank the coffee.
“You said you would sleep.”
“I lied.”
“Poorly.”
“I was not attempting to deceive you.”
“That is generally the purpose of lying.”
He set down the phone.
“The captured man is conscious.”
“What did he say?”
“Very little. He was hired through an intermediary. The order was to take Sofia and identify which sister understood the hotel records.”
“Who was the intermediary?”
“He knew him only as Vale.”
“Lucian Vale.”
“The name attached to Aurelia Imports.”
“Yes.”
“Probably false.”
“Probably.”
He watched me absorb it.
“Paolo?” I asked.
“Dead.”
The answer came without decoration.
“Did you kill him?”
“No. One of his own men shot him while leaving the warehouse.”
Another person silenced before he could speak.
“Vittorio employed him.”
“Years ago.”
“You are protecting my uncle with language.”
“I am preserving the difference between evidence and conclusion.”
My own words returned to me.
I disliked them in his voice.
“That is becoming a habit,” I said.
“I learn through repetition.”
The kitchen became quiet.
The danger had receded enough for the other truth to return.
Our kisses.
His confession.
The choice unfinished between us.
Nico lifted his cup but did not drink.
“You are looking at me,” he said.
“I am allowed.”
“Yes.”
“That sounded uncertain.”
“I am uncertain what you intend.”
The admission warmed something beneath my ribs.
Men like Nico were not supposed to admit uncertainty. They were supposed to turn it into control before anyone could see it.
“I intend to finish a conversation,” I said.
“Which one?”
“The kitchen at the other house.”
His hand tightened slightly around the cup.
“Elena.”
“I slept. I have eaten. Sofia is safe. I am not asking because I cannot bear grief for five minutes.”
His eyes darkened.
“That was not what I believed.”
“It was close.”
“Yes.”
I stood.
Nico remained behind the counter.
Waiting.
The restraint gave me room to become nervous.
Not afraid of him.
Afraid of wanting something while every other part of my life remained uncertain.
“I want you,” I said.
The words sounded less polished than I had intended.
Good.
Nico set down the cup.
“How much?”
The same question.
The answer was clear.
“All of it.”
He did not move.
“Say what that means.”
I almost laughed from embarrassment.
“You require an unusual amount of clarity for a criminal.”
“I require it from you.”
The sentence made my pulse shift.
“I want you to touch me. I want sex. I want to be able to stop at any point without your pride becoming my problem.”
“Yes.”
“Complete sentence.”
His mouth moved.
Not amusement exactly.
“I understand, and if you stop, I stop.”
“I am not forgiving you.”
“I know.”
“I am not choosing the marriage.”
“I know.”
“I may regret this.”
“So may I.”
That answer startled me.
“Why would you regret it?”
“Because wanting you has already compromised my judgment.”
“Then perhaps we should improve your judgment.”
I went to him.
Nico met me halfway.
The first kiss erased nothing.
That was its strength.
I knew who he was. What he had done. What he had hidden. He knew I might leave, that desire did not guarantee permanence and that my grief belonged in the room without governing it.
His hands settled at my waist.
I pulled the gray shirt over his head.
The body beneath it was not beautiful in a harmless way. Scars crossed one side of his ribs. A pale line marked his shoulder. The burn extended from his palm toward his wrist.
Evidence of a life lived too close to violence.
He watched me examine him.
No swagger.
No false modesty.
“What?” he asked.
“I am deciding whether you are worth the administrative difficulty.”
“That sounds promising.”
“It should not.”
I touched the scar along his ribs.
“What happened?”
“Knife.”
“Helpful.”
“You asked what, not who.”
“Language again.”
He kissed me before I could complain further.
The humor dissolved.
He lifted me onto the counter, then stopped.
“Your shoulder.”
“Healed enough.”
“Your throat.”
“Do not touch the bruises.”
“I won’t.”
His hands moved beneath my sweater slowly, allowing each new contact to become a question I could answer by leaning closer or pulling away.
I understood then that control could be present without taking choice.
Nico was controlled in every movement.
The difference was that the control belonged to him, not over me.
When he carried me upstairs, he paused outside my room.
“Here?”
“Yes.”
Not his room.
Mine.
He entered only after I answered.
The sex was not gentle because gentleness would have been dishonest about what had accumulated between us.
It was careful.
There was a difference.
Nico asked when he needed an answer. He listened when I gave one. When pain crossed my shoulder, he stopped before I spoke and changed position without making concern into accusation.
I discovered his silence changed during pleasure. It did not disappear. It broke.
My name sounded different when control failed around it.
Afterward, he lay beside me without pulling me against him.
The distance was offered, not imposed.
I moved closer.
His arm came around my waist.
For several minutes, neither of us spoke.
I listened to the unfamiliar rhythm of another person breathing in the room I had chosen for myself.
“This changes something,” I said.
Nico’s hand became still against my side.
“Yes.”
“I do not know what.”
“Neither do I.”
“That is a poor strategic answer.”
“It is the honest one.”
I looked at him.
His face had softened with exhaustion. Without the public stillness, the old break in his nose and the faint lines beside his eyes made him look less invulnerable.
More dangerous to me, perhaps.
“I am sleeping now,” he said.
“You finally admit it.”
“I have achieved my objective.”
I hit his chest lightly.
He caught my hand and kissed the scar near my thumb.
The gesture was so tender that I had no defense ready.
Nico fell asleep first.
I remained awake long enough to understand that this was the first time since Marco’s death I had shared silence with someone and not felt alone inside it.