Chapter 24
Katarina
Last night, Damiano held me in the garden until I stopped crying. He pressed his lips to the top of my head and said the three words I have been turning over in my mind since—the three words I always wanted to hear from him.
I love you, Kat. I'm never letting you go.
I had fallen asleep in his arms on the cold ground, and when I woke up, I was in bed. He had carried me inside. Put me to bed. And then he disappeared. Just... gone. Back into the machinery of his life, as if the garden never happened. As if he hadn't said the thing he said.
I saw him once this morning at the end of the hallway. He looked at me for exactly two seconds, nodded once, and turned away.
Two freaking seconds.
I don't know what I expected. For him to say it again, maybe.
In the daylight, where it counts. Where it isn't dark, and I'm not falling apart, and he doesn't have an excuse not to mean it.
Instead, Gio told me he had been locked in his office since before sunrise.
Andreas and Lucian had come and gone twice.
The house moved around him like he was the center of gravity and the rest of us were orbiting him.
I pace the length of the bedroom, carrying a sleeping Pedro in my arms, trying to name what I am feeling, like my therapist taught me. It isn't anger, exactly. It's something closer to the feeling of being handed a precious gift then pretending they didn’t give it to you the next day.
I sigh.
I can't do this anymore. The distance is eating me alive. I need him to say it again—not in the dark, not while I was breaking apart—but here, with both of us steady, and meaning every word.
So I put Pedro on the bed, his paws stretch as soon as he hits the mattress, but he keeps sleeping. I leave the room, my sneakers squeak against the marble floors as I make my way down the hall. I know where he’ll be. In his study, burying himself in work.
When I reach the double doors, they are slightly open. I take a peek inside, careful not to make any sound. The room is dark, lit only by the blue glow of his computer monitors. Damiano is hunched over his desk, looking exhausted. The smell of whiskey hits me the second I walk in.
"Damiano," I say softly.
His fingers pause over the keys for exactly one second. Then he starts typing again. Faster this time, as if the file in front of him is suddenly the most urgent thing in the world.
"I'm busy," he says.
I crane my neck just enough to see the screen from where I'm standing, and see that it’s a shipping manifest he’s looking at.
"You're reading a shipping manifest."
"It's a very complicated one."
I press my lips together to keep from smiling. I stand in front of his desk, crossing my arms.
"You've been avoiding me all day," I say, sounding annoyed. "After last night."
"I haven't been avoiding you," he says, eyes still on the screen. "I've been working."
"Gio said you ate lunch here."
"I was busy."
"You also took a different hallway when you saw me this morning."
A pause. "That hallway is faster."
"It leads to the laundry room."
His jaw flexes, but he keeps quiet. I lean forward and slowly close the laptop in front of him, and he has no choice but to look at me finally.
The silence stretches. He doesn't fill it, and neither do I for a moment.
"You said something to me last night," I say quietly.
Something flickers behind his eyes before saying, "I know what I said."
"Then why are you acting like you didn’t say it?"
Silence.
"And then you spent all day pretending you didn't mean it."
He leans back in his chair, his eyes on me, something unreadable moving behind them. He takes a swig of his whiskey and sets it down slowly.
"I meant it," he deadpans, and it catches me off guard. No deflection. No walls. Just the truth I’ve always wanted to hear. Damiano Cotrini, the man who has been evading my feelings for over a year, said he loved me, as if it were the easiest thing he had ever admitted.
"Then stop running from it," I tell him. "You said it. Now own it."
He looks at me for a long moment. Then he stands, his shadow stretching across the desk between us.
"I'm not good at this," he says. His voice is low, stripped of its usual charm. "You should know that."
"I know," I say. "I'm not asking you to be."
He rounds the desk slowly, stopping close enough that I have to tilt my head up to look at him. He reaches out and grips the back of my neck gently, his thumb tracing my jaw, and even with all the uncertainty still sitting between us, the heat of his touch makes my skin burn.
"Then what are you asking for?" he murmurs.
I step back, out of his reach, and hold out my hand.
"Come with me," I say. "I want to show you something."
He looks at my outstretched hand for a beat, something unreadable crossing his face. Then he takes it.
I lead him out of the office. On the way, we pass Gio and Julian, who look at us with wide eyes. I ignore them.
I take him to the same building I stumbled upon last night, wandering in the garden. I had found the elevator by accident, and ended up in the basement—in the dark, heart pounding, before I turned the wrong corner and saw the light under the door that showed me what Damiano is capable of.
But before that door, there had been another one.
I push it open, and the air smells like burnt fireworks and industrial cleaner. I flick the light switch on, and a long, low room stretches ahead of us, targets hanging at intervals on the opposite side.
Damiano goes still behind me.
"You found this," he says.
"Last night. Before I found the other room." I walk to the wall of weapons and take down a handgun without hesitating. I check the chamber with ease, just the way Mateo taught me. I feel Damiano watching me from behind, looking for any sign of the girl who cried in the garden—waiting to see if I’ll hesitate. I don’t.
The gun is heavy and cold, but it feels normal in a way that should probably scare me.
"Is it heavy?" he says, stepping behind me.
Suddenly, he’s pressed against my back. His chest is a solid wall of heat as he wraps his arms around me, his hands covering mine on the grip of the gun. His breath is hot against my ear, and for a second, I almost lose my focus.
"Keep your feet wide," he whispers before sliding his right foot between mine and forcing them further apart, the move catching me off guard, and my knees nearly buckle.
"Line up the sights. The recoil will be strong. Don't fight it. You have to control the weapon. You have to—"
"I know how the gun works, Damiano." I feel him freeze as I cut him off.
I don't wait for a response. I step out of his arms, missing the heat immediately, and move to the firing line. I look at the paper target fifty feet away and anchor my feet into the concrete.
Pop.
The recoil jolts through my arms, but I’m used to it.
Pop-pop.
The empty casings hit the floor with a clink.
Pop.
I exhale, watching the small cloud of smoke drift away. I don't lower the gun until the slide locks back. I flick the safety on with my thumb without even looking. I look at the target. Four holes. Three are grouped tightly in the center of the forehead. The fourth is right in the throat.
I turn back to Damiano, who hasn't moved an inch. He’s standing there with his arms at his sides, staring at the target like he’s meeting me for the first time. The shock on his face is satisfying.
"Where did you learn to do that?" he asks. His voice is low, stripped of all that arrogance. I give him a small, bitter smile.
"Mateo didn't teach me to wave at cameras. He started training me when I was fourteen. It was our choice of bonding activity.” I walk over to him and hold the gun out.
"He told me that if I was going to be a strong, independent woman, I had to learn how to kill anyone who tried to make me a victim. "
Damiano takes the gun, his fingers brushing mine.
"Mateo taught you all this?"
"Everything," I whisper, leaning in until he’s inches from my face.
"He taught me how to strip a gun and how to hit a moving target. He taught me everything he could to protect myself. But he didn't teach me how to avoid falling in love with a mobster. One that treats me like I’m so fragile but has no qualms killing anyone else."
I pull away and walk toward the elevator. I can feel him staring at me, his gaze heavy and intense.
"You can stop treating me like I’m made of glass now, Damiano," I say over my shoulder.
"I’ve been broken before, but I’m still here.
If we are going to find out who was behind this, you’re going to have to treat me like a partner.
" I say as I watch him stare as if he wants to say something more, but couldn’t.
When the elevator doors began to close, I couldn’t help but feel a pang of disappointment when he didn’t follow me.
Then, just before the doors close, his hand forces them back open. He reaches out for me, his movements fast and hungry. He pulls me out of the elevator and pins me against the cold concrete wall, his body a familiar weight against mine.
"You just made me look like an idiot in my own shooting range," he murmurs, his lips almost brushing mine. "I think I deserve a reward for surviving that."
“That’s not my fault.” I grin.
Then he puts a chaste kiss on my lips.
“Not made of glass, huh?” He repeats my words to me.
“Uh-huh…”
“Should we test it?” He tilts his head to the right, his eyes hungrily skating through my features.
I smile.