Chapter 38
Chapter Thirty Eight
Elsa
The water is hot enough that it turns my skin pink, and for a few minutes I just relax into it—let the heat seep into my muscles, let it quiet the tremor that keeps trying to come back.
Antonio ran the bath for me and led me to it like he’s done it a hundred times. Like taking care of me is as natural as breathing.
That thought alone makes my throat tighten.
I sink deeper, letting the water lap at my collarbones, and my mind does what it’s done all day: replays everything on a loop until it feels like my own skull is going to explode.
But not all of it is the danger. Not all of it is Bellandi and the acquisition.
I’ll expand mine to fit you.
Antonio said it like it was a done deal already, like it wasn’t a life he’d have to dismantle and rebuild.
Move to New York.
The idea lands in my chest with a strange, sharp mix of relief and terror. Because a part of me wants it so badly it hurts. Wants to wake up and have him there. Wants to walk into my apartment and smell him, feel him, hear him in the next room like it’s normal.
But it isn’t normal.
Nothing about this is normal.
He says he can do his job from New York, but what job is that, really? It’s not a laptop-and-headset situation. It’s not emails and Zoom calls. It’s… him.
Being in rooms with people. His presence and charm. And that’s just the front-facing part of it. I don’t even know what kinds of things he does for the Family that the world doesn’t know about. Those are things you can’t do behind a screen either.
And then there’s the matter of security.
They were already stretched thin when he was with me in the city for that short time. I know that now. I know now what it takes to keep someone safe when men like Bellandi decide I’m a problem.
But Antonio isn’t just “someone.” He’s the don’s brother. A target.
No matter how capable he is—no matter how efficiently he’s protected me all week, no matter how easily he moved through my office ceiling as he led us out of danger—distance is a risk.
Being far away from his people is a risk.
A big city like New York doesn’t protect you.
It just gives them more crowds to disappear into and more places for danger to hide.
And more than all of that… the thing that makes my stomach twist even worse—
He loves his family.
It’s in the way he talks about them, the way he checks in, the way he says their names. It’s in the way he looks when he talks about a niece or nephew or a brother or a family dinner, like it’s not optional, like it’s oxygen.
How would he live that far away from them?
He would miss the dinners. The loud table. The arguments that end in laughter. The nieces and nephews he adores. The babies on the way.
Could I really do that to him?
Could I really accept that sacrifice and pretend it wouldn’t sour eventually?
Because I know how resentment grows. Quietly. Patiently. It doesn’t show up the first month or even the first year. It shows up after enough missed moments and swallowed wants and small compromises that turn into a life.
And then it becomes my fault, and then I’m the one he’ll resent.
I close my eyes and let my head rest back against the tub. The heat is starting to make me light-headed, or maybe that’s just the day catching up to me again—Northstar, the ceiling, the gunshots, the death threats while hiding in a closet. It was a mistake.
The thought is brutal, but it’s honest.
Not him. Not the way he makes me feel.
The mistake is what it costs.
Because where does that leave me?
If this becomes public, if the board decides I’m compromised beyond repair, my reputation is trashed. My career is trashed. Even if I leave Northstar, what then? What do I do then? Throw it all away? I don’t know if I can do that, no matter how much I love him.
I have no interest in going back to modeling. None. Not after everything I saw. Not after the way it made me feel like a commodity instead of a person. Even if I have the name, and the connections, and the face for it, I don’t want it.
Antonio has money. I have money too—from work and family.
That isn’t the point.
I can’t sit around and do nothing. I can’t be kept. I can’t be the woman waiting at home while my man goes out.
Then the resentment will come from me, and is that really any better?
My stomach rolls again, sour.
I press a hand to my abdomen, breathing slowly, trying to figure out if it’s the heat, the adrenaline crash, the fact that I’ve barely eaten, or all of it at once.
Probably all of it.
I swallow hard and force myself to sit up a little straighter, water sloshing softly.
Okay. Eat something. Later. When I can stand. When I feel confident my legs can hold me. Not from too much sex this time. No, nothing nearly as fun as that.
I draw in a slow breath, then another, and stare at the tiled wall like it might tell me how to do the impossible.
How to keep him.
And how to make sure neither of us ends up paying for love with something we can’t get back.
I push myself upright in the tub, palms braced on the slick porcelain, and the movement makes my stomach roll again—heat, adrenaline, not enough food, too many thoughts.
I force myself to stand anyway, and the bathroom door opens behind me.
He’s already moving, like he felt the exact second I decided to get out.
“Dolcezza,” he says, and there’s an edge of concern under the gentleness. He grabs a towel off the rack. “I was coming to get you.”
“I’m fine,” I say.
He doesn’t argue. He just steps in close and wraps the towel around me, and then his arms go around me.
Before I can even protest, he lifts me—up and out of the bathtub like I weigh nothing—and sets me on the floor, his mouth finding mine at the same time, a soft kiss that turns my knees weak all over again.
The way he touches me like I’m precious. Like I’m his. Like he has decided, somewhere deep and immovable, that I’m worth all of this.
A wave of love hits me so hard it’s almost nauseating.
Helpless love.
Terrifying love.
Because I can’t bargain with it. I can’t negotiate it into something else, something logical.
His lips leave mine, and he rests his forehead against mine for a beat.
The fun weekend feels like a lifetime ago, even though it’s still only Monday. Like it belonged to a different version of me, of us. Those who were able to love freely without any worries.
Antonio’s hands slide up my arms, thumbs brushing warmth into my damp skin.
“Are you hungry?” he asks softly.
I swallow. My stomach answers for me. “Yeah.”
His mouth twitches. “Okay.” He kisses my temple. “Bianca sent food over.”
Bianca, resident chef. His brother’s wife and mother of his nephew. Pregnant with another niece or nephew.
Something in my chest tightens at the reminder that there’s a whole family attached to him. A whole world I’m suddenly orbiting.
“It’s her love language,” he adds, like he’s trying to make me smile. “Feeding people.”
I manage a breath that’s almost a laugh.
He guides me out of the bathroom, one hand at my back, as if I might get lost.
His bedroom is big and designed simply, like the rest of his apartment. Done in sleek, masculine colors, it still manages to radiate comfort instead of being cold.
He goes straight to a dresser and pulls out a pair of sweatpants and a sweater, soft and worn-in.
“For you,” he says, and sets them on the bed.
I stare at them for a second too long.
Because the reality hits me all at once, sharp and humiliating.
I don’t have anything.
No bag. No purse. No laptop. I didn’t even think to grab my phone from my purse before he lifted me into the ceiling. No clean underwear stuffed into a tote because I’m always prepared.
I have literally nothing. I’m standing in his apartment, wrapped in his towel, in his life.
Completely reliant on him.
A part of me recoils at the vulnerability. Another part—traitorous, aching—wants to sink into it.
Antonio’s gaze flicks over my face, and I know he sees the shift. He sees everything.
“Hey,” he says quietly, stepping closer, lowering his voice like the walls might be listening. “I’m going to set the food out.”
He lifts a hand like he wants to touch my cheek, then stops himself, gentle restraint. “Take a minute. Breathe. I’ll be right outside.”
I nod, even though my throat feels tight.
He presses a kiss to my forehead, then leaves, pulling the door mostly shut behind him.
And I’m alone.
Just me, his bed, the clothes he picked for me, and the weight of the truth sitting in my chest like a stone:
I love him.
And I don’t know what that’s going to cost.