Chapter 31
GIA
I’m awake before the sun has even managed to burn through the morning mist.
My body has its own internal alarm clock now, one that doesn't chime but rather stabs me in the chest with a cold, sharp needle of adrenaline. I lie there for a moment, staring at the ceiling, my fingers tracing the sheets.
Last night—the heat, the weight of him, the way he looked at me like I was something worth keeping—is still clinging to my skin. It’s eating me inside out, a delicious, terrifying rot that I can’t seem to stop.
Don't think about it. You can't afford to be soft right now.
I slide out of bed, my feet hitting the cool marble floor.
The house is eerily silent. Usually, there’s the distant clatter of the kitchen or the heavy tread of guards in the hallway, but today, the air feels thin and vacant.
I head toward the dining room, my stomach doing a nervous little flip-flop.
I’m expecting a buffet and a half-dozen silent servants.
Instead, I find him.
Rafael is seated at the head of the long mahogany table.
He’s discarded the sling, his left arm resting cautiously on the table, while his right hand flips through a stack of documents.
He’s wearing a crisp white shirt, the top three buttons undone, exposing the hard line of his collarbone and the faint edge of the bandage beneath.
He looks… healthy. Irritatingly, devastatingly healthy.
And God, he looks beautiful in the morning light.
"You're up early," he says without looking up. His voice is a low, morning rumble that settles in my bones, vibrating through the floorboards and straight into my core.
"I couldn't sleep." I pull out the chair to his right, the wood scraping softly against the rug. "Where is everyone? Did you fire the entire staff while I was sleeping?"
"Perimeter rotations," he mutters, finally setting the papers aside. He looks at me, his green eyes scanning my face with a disconcerting intensity that makes my skin feel like it’s humming.
He lingers on my lips for a second too long, and I have to remind myself to breathe.
"The O’Rourkes are quiet. Too quiet. I wanted more eyes on the fence and fewer eyes on my eggs. Sit down, Gia. Eat."
I look at the spread—fresh fruit, pastries, smoked salmon, and a silver pot of coffee. "Is this a trap? Is the kale smoothie hiding in the coffee pot?"
Rafael’s mouth twitches. It’s the closest thing to a genuine smile I’ve seen on him in days, and it does terrible things to my resolve. "No traps. Just food. I’m told your appetite is legendary for someone of your… delicate stature."
"Delicate?" I scoff, reaching for a croissant.
Our fingers brush as I reach for the plate, and a jolt of pure, unadulterated electricity shoots up my arm.
I pull back, but not before I see the way his pupils blow wide.
"I’ll have you know I once ate an entire baguette and a wheel of brie in a single sitting in Paris. It was a dark time, but I survived."
"A wheel of brie?" He leans back, watching the way I move, his gaze heavy and possessive. "I find that hard to believe. You look like a stiff breeze could knock you over. Or a strong pair of hands."
The double meaning settles around us, thick and sweet. I bite into the croissant, the buttery pastry melting on my tongue, and I can feel him watching my mouth.
He’s not even pretending to look at the documents anymore.
"Try me, Butcher. I have a very high metabolism fueled entirely by spite and espresso." I pour myself a cup of coffee, the steam warming my face. "What about you? What’s the Caruso breakfast of champions? Raw steak and the tears of your enemies?"
"Black coffee and whatever doesn't taste like cardboard," he says, reaching for the pot. "My mother used to make these ricciarelli—almond cookies—on Sundays. I haven't tasted anything that matched them since I was ten."
"You have a sweet tooth?" I lean in, a sassy grin spreading across my face, my heart hammering against my ribs. "The Butcher of the East Wing likes almond cookies? That’s going in the dossier. It’s a devastating weakness."
"Don't get ahead of yourself, little Gia.
I also like silence and people who follow instructions.
Two things you seem to struggle with." He reaches across the table, his hand covering mine.
His palm is scorching, a steady, pulsing heat that makes me want to climb across the mahogany and find out if the rest of him is that hot.
"But I find I don't mind the noise as much when it’s yours. "
"Instructions are suggestions, Rafael. Everyone knows that." My voice is breathier than I want it to be. "What was it like? Growing up in a house like this?"
He goes quiet for a moment, his thumb tracing the back of my hand in a slow, rhythmic circle.
"Loud. There were many of us. My father was… substantial. He filled every room he walked into. I spent most of my time trying to be invisible. I learned how to move without making a sound. It’s a useful skill in this life. "
"I did the opposite," I say, my voice softening as I lean into his touch. "I made myself loud. I talked too much, I laughed too loudly. I figured if I was the center of attention, I could control what people saw."
Rafael’s eyes darken. He leans forward, the space between us shrinking until I can smell the cedar and the coffee on his breath. "You don't have to hide anything here, Gia. Not with me."
If only that were true. If only I could tell you everything without starting a war. If only I didn't have a burner phone in my room that counts down to my sister's death.
"I hate olives," I blurt out, desperate to break the spell before I lean in and kiss him.
He blinks, the intensity in his gaze flickering into amusement. "What?"
"Olives. They’re slimy and salty and they taste like disappointment. I pick every single one off my pizza."
Rafael actually laughs—a short, raspy sound that makes my heart swell with a dangerous, unwanted hope. "I like olives. Especially the spicy ones from Calabria. They have a bite. Like you."
"See? This is why we can't be friends. It’s a fundamental incompatibility."
"I don't think 'friends' was ever on the table, Gia," he murmurs, his hand sliding from my knuckles to my wrist, his fingers circling the delicate bone. "I think we passed 'friends' somewhere between the basement and the stables."
The air in the room shifts, thickening with the weight of what he’s just admitted. His thumb strokes the underside of my wrist, right over the erratic leap of my pulse, and I know he can feel it. He’s counting every stutter of my heart.
"Between the basement and the stables," I repeat, my voice breathy, the sarcasm I usually use as a shield failing me entirely. I look down at his hand—large, yet so impossibly gentle against my skin. "That’s a lot of ground to cover in such a short time, Rafael."
"Time doesn't really apply to us, does it?" He leans in, his shadow falling over me, smelling of dark espresso and the crisp morning air.
For a second, I think he’s going to kiss me—really kiss me, the kind that ends the conversation and starts something we can't take back. My breath hitches, my body leaning into his heat of its own accord. I want to tell him he’s dangerous, that he’s ruinous, but the words are trapped behind the sudden, overwhelming urge to just let him pull me under.
Instead, he just holds my gaze for a heartbeat longer, a silent challenge in his dark eyes, before he finally lets go. The loss of contact is like a physical chill.
"Eat your breakfast, Gia," he says, his voice returning to that rough, teasing edge. "You're going to need the energy if you're going to keep being this difficult."
I swallow hard, forcing a shaky laugh as I reach for my plate, trying to ignore the way my skin still hums where he touched me. "I'm not difficult. I'm selective."
We finish breakfast in a comfortable, domestic silence that feels dangerously like a life I could get used to.
He teases me about my third croissant; I tell him his coffee is too strong and will probably burn a hole in his stomach.
It’s easy. It’s relatable. It’s a beautiful, fragile lie that I want to live in forever.
Two nights later, I shatter.
I’m in our private sitting room, the heavy curtains drawn against the dark. I should be sleeping, but the burner phone in my hand is humming with a malevolent energy. A message has arrived, and it’s not just text this time.
My fingers shake as I open the first file. It’s a list. Precise. Brutal.
Leadership Summit: Villa d'Este.
Friday, 22:00. Room 4B.
Security Rotations: 15-minute intervals. Back entry codes attached.
My breath hitches. This isn't just a status report. This is a blueprint for an assassination. He wants me to hand him the Brotherhood leadership on a silver platter. He wants me to kill the man who is currently sleeping in the next room.
Then I open the second file.
It’s a video. My heart stops.
The footage is grainier than the last one, taken from a hidden camera in our family home in Sicily. It’s Laura. She’s playing with her dolls on the rug in the sunroom. She looks so small, so innocent, her dark curls bouncing as she talks to her toys.
But beneath the footage, there’s an overlay. A red dot—a real-time GPS tracker—pulsing right over her heart. And below that, a countdown clock.
72:00:00… 71:59:59…
Oh God. No. No, no, no.
I drop the phone onto the rug as if it’s white-hot. I’m hyperventilating, the air in the room suddenly feeling like it’s being sucked out by a vacuum. My vision blurs, the red dot on the screen burned into my brain like a brand.
He’s tracking her. He’s showing me exactly where he’ll strike if I don't cooperate. He’s not just motivating me anymore. He’s counting down to her death and I’m sitting here falling in love with the target.
"Laura," I whisper, a sob breaking free. "I'm so sorry, Sweetie Pie. I'm so sorry."
I scramble for the phone, my hands slick with cold sweat. I delete the files, my thumbs flying over the screen in a panic. I can't look at it anymore. I can't see the red dot over her heart.
I have to do something. I have to give him something, or he’ll pull the trigger. But if I give him the summit details, Rafael will die. Everyone will die. And I'll be the one who pulled the trigger.
I pace the room, my mind a frantic, jagged mess.
Think, Gia. Think. Give him a crumb.
I pick up the phone again. My heart is a drum in my ears, echoing the countdown on the screen.
Summit location confirmed: Villa d'Este. Timing delayed by two hours due to security sweep. Entry codes being updated. Will provide new ones once verified.
It’s a small lie. A delay. It’s not much, but it might buy her a few more hours. It might stop the clock from hitting zero.
I press send and collapse onto the couch, pulling my knees to my chest. I’m terrified. Of my father, for my sister, and terrified of the man sleeping in the next room—the man I’m currently betraying with every breath I take, even as I crave the heat of his skin against mine.
I love him. And I’m leading him right into a grave.
I stay there in the dark, watching the door, waiting for the world to end.