Chapter 29
Katarina
I pace the length of the massive Persian rug until the friction burns my soles.
Every few minutes, I stare at the window, searching the winding driveway for headlights—Damiano said he would be home before dinner, but he’s late.
I pick up my phone for the fifth time, thumb lingering over his name.
I know he won’t answer; wherever he is, his phone seems to have been forgotten.
I just want to hear his voice tell me it’s going to be okay.
I keep rubbing my wrists—where Julian’s grip had been.
The skin looks fine, no marks, but I can still feel the pressure of his hands there, the way it tightened until it hurt.
I press my fingers over the spot, trying to erase the memory, but nothing helps.
I stop pacing and push open the balcony door.
The cool, damp night air hits my face, carrying the faint smell of lemon trees from the gardens below.
My mind drifts as I look out at the darkness.
Julian used to find me in crowds within seconds.
Awards shows, press events, late-night sets.
I always knew he was there, waiting for me, and I leaned on him for comfort without ever asking what it cost him.
My own grief was all I could see, and now I can’t tell if I’m guilty for relying on him or for pretending not to see it for what it was.
I slip out of the suite, navigating the corridors that smell like old wax and jasmine. I push open a side door, and the transition to the cold evening air makes me shiver.
The garden looks like a masterpiece at this hour. Romantic lights lit the path as I walked, until the house loomed as a silhouette behind me. When I hear the distant splash of the stone fountain, I start to relax, but when I turn a corner near a tiered basin, I come to a dead stop.
A tall man is standing in front of the fountain, his back to me, one hand resting on the stone rim.
When he turns to look at me, the moonlight catches his silver-streaked hair and the deep lines between his eyebrows.
He wears a thick, well-groomed mustache, and he carries himself with a casual, predatory grace, very much like Lorenzo’s.
My heart hammers against my ribs.
“I—I’m sorry,” I stutter, taking a step back. “I didn’t mean to intrude. I was just—I needed some air.”
He turns to me, leaning on his gold-headed cane. He stares with a tilted head, eyeing me for a few seconds, and my skin pricks all over my body.
“You are no trouble, piccola,” he says. His voice is a rich, gravelly baritone, thick with the rolling vowels of the old country. “You must be the one my Damiano is so intent on keeping, eh?”
“I’m Katarina,” I say, reaching to twist the cuff on my wrists in an attempt to calm my nerves. “I apologize for the trouble. I don’t want to be a burden in your home.”
He keeps staring, his dark eyes narrowing as if he is trying to place my face from a distant memory. His gaze becomes suffocating fast, and I find myself wishing Damiano would step out of the shadows to save me.
“?Os gusta el jardín?” he asks if I like the garden; the sudden use of Spanish stuns me.
“Sí, es precioso,” I answer. “Los limoneros me recuerdan a mi infancia,” The lemon trees remind me of my childhood, I tell him.
He goes very still. His eyes drop to my mouth for a moment, then back to my eyes. Then, measured and deliberate, he asks me where I was born, “?Dónde naciste y te criaste?”
“Nací en Madrid y me crié en Argentina,” I answer. I was born in Madrid and raised in Argentina.
His expression shifts, and the casual lean disappears. He stands still, staring at my face as if he’s seen a ghost.
The Don steps closer, and the scent of expensive tobacco fills the air. The proximity makes my breath hitch. Up close, I realize he doesn’t have the emerald eyes that his sons have. Instead, his eyes are dark brown, almost black.
“And your parents?” he asks, his voice barely audible against the fountain. “Where are they?”
“I don’t remember them,” I say. “I was very young when they died. Mateo was my only family. I have no memories of them of my own.”
The Don blinks slowly before his eyebrows knit together, shadowing his deep-set eyes. He looks older in that second, but no less formidable. When he looks at me again, the suspicion in his eyes is gone. What replaces it is harder to name, but I am certain it looks like grief for a second.
“You look very familiar,” he murmurs, more to himself than me, then stares for one long, unreadable moment before saying, “You are not trouble, Katarina. You are a guest of this house. For as long as you need to stay, you are most welcome. Capisce?”
“Grazie mille. You’re very kind.” I smile, the words come out smaller than I intend.
A Mafia Don just told me I was welcome in his home. I don’t know what to do with that, nor what that costs.
“Kindness has little to do with it,” he says, his voice regaining its rasping authority. “But you are safe here for now. Go inside, bambina. The night air gets damp quickly.”
He gives me a small, stiff nod and walks back toward the house. I watch him leave, my legs feeling like jelly.