Chapter 12 #2
"These years you've lived at the manor, used my name to order the staff around, went over the butler's head running household affairs, punished servants on your own," I said. "I turned a blind eye. Your boundaries kept pushing outward, bit by bit. I told myself it was still tolerable."
I paused.
"But tonight isn't."
Bianca took a deep breath, stepped closer again, stopped half a step away. She tilted her head back, looked at me with those tear-bright blue eyes, hand resting gently on my chest, voice softening again with that precise, practiced curve she'd used for years.
"Ezio, calm down. Let's talk this through. After all these years between us, you can't just because of one little thing..."
I released her hand.
"Leave the Upper East Side tonight," I said. "I'll have someone arrange for you to go back to the Colonna family villa. I'll keep covering your expenses." I turned. "That's all I can give you."
"You—" Her voice lost that soft layer instantly, something underneath showed through. "Ezio, what the hell do you think you're doing?! I miscarried for you. My child is gone. I've stood by you all these years, and now, because of that woman who ran off, you're treating me like this?!"
I stopped where I was, back to her.
"That woman," I said, "has nothing to do with this."
"How can she not?!" Her voice shattered completely, went shrill. "You think I don't know? These five years you've never stopped thinking about her, you—"
"Get out, Bianca."
"Ezio—"
"I said, enough."
I turned to look at her, voice not loud, but Bianca froze. She looked into my eyes and finally read what was there.
Silence.
Then her breathing. Fast, uncontrolled.
Then a mess of footsteps.
The second the door closed, the whole apartment went quiet as a tomb.
I stood in the middle of the living room, looking at Bianca's unfinished wine on the coffee table, the magazine she'd been flipping through—opened to a page with a wedding planning ad.
I walked to the bar, poured whiskey, downed a third of it in one go. The amber liquid burned down my throat, temporarily crushing the mess in my chest.
Carmen appeared in the doorway.
"Sir, Miss Juliet's sleeping restlessly. I just checked on her. She's settled now."
I nodded, set down the glass, headed toward Juliet's room.
I pushed the door open gently.
The bedside lamp was on, warm yellow light spilling across the small bed. Juliet clutched a stuffed rabbit, curled into a ball, gold curls scattered on the pillow, dried tears still on her face.
She looked too much like her.
I walked over, pulled the blanket up, covered her exposed shoulder. Her breathing was even, deep sleep, lips slightly parted, occasionally smacking them like she was eating something good in a dream.
I stood by the bed for a while, watching her.
Then I turned, walked out, closed the door softly.
The study light was off.
I walked through the darkness to the back of the bookshelf. Opened that drawer.
Cream-colored.
The sweater wasn't high quality. Regular style from a regular store.
Cable knit around the collar, cuffs slightly pilled, like it'd been worn carefully many times.
I remembered her wearing it in the courtyard, wind strong, she pulled it closed with both hands against her chest, didn't go in to change, just sat there staring off at something.
I'd walked past that day. Didn't stop.
Now I took out the sweater, lowered my head, closed my eyes, buried my face in it.
Vanilla.
Faint. So faint I might've been imagining it, but it was there, lingering in the fibers. Five years, still not completely gone. I breathed in deep, then again, let that scent travel from my nose all the way down, to somewhere I usually kept sealed tight.
My fingers tightened in the fabric.
I told myself this didn't mean anything.
I was just confirming it was still there.
That's all.
Five years ago, she'd been clean and efficient. Didn't even leave me an extra glance.
She took enough money and ran. That was the truth. I had her pegged perfectly—a woman who'd been poor her whole life, chased by debt, the second she got enough cash, first thing she did was shake everyone off and disappear completely.
That explanation worked for five years. Most of the time, it was enough.
But some nights it wasn't.
Like now.
I refolded the sweater, put it back in the deepest part of the drawer. My fingers paused on the panel for a second, then I turned, picked up the whiskey, finished it.
I left the guest room, stood in the hallway for a few seconds. Then I pulled out my phone, dialed a number.
Answered after two rings.
"Don."
Carlo's voice was alert. Alert like he'd never been asleep. Maybe he really hadn't. In his line of work, sleep was a luxury.
"Any new information?"
"On who?"
I was silent for two seconds.
"Olivia Adrian."
The other end went quiet for a long time. Long enough I thought the signal dropped.
"Don, she's already—"
"Shut up." My voice was flat, but every word nailed into the phone like a spike. "You just need to follow orders."
"...Yes."
"Keep looking. Find everything you can. Photos, addresses, people she's seen, places she's been. Every single thing. Don't miss one."
"Understood."
I hung up, leaned against the hallway wall, tilted my head back to look at the crystal chandelier on the ceiling.
The light was blinding.
I closed my eyes. In the darkness, those green eyes appeared again.
This time, I didn't chase her away.
I let her stay there, deep in the darkness, like an ember that would burn forever.
Olivia.
Where the hell are you?