Chapter Six #2
"My father thinks I should survive on rare steak and cigars," Roselia laughed, dodging a passing sous-chef. "I’m fine, Ana. The recruits are just sloppy, and fixing their footwork takes time."
If someone had walked into the kitchen and informed Roselia that Lorenzo Falco had just promised to fall on his knees for her, she would have assumed it was a poorly executed joke.
She hadn't noticed his lingering gazes. She hadn't noticed him tracking her movements across the courtyards or the sudden, sharp attention he paid whenever she spoke at dinner.
Why would she? She had conditioned herself years ago to treat Renzo as a beautifully tailored piece of furniture—necessary for the structure of the house, but irrelevant to her personal life.
She knew Willa was returning on Friday. The knowledge sat in the back of her mind like a weather report predicting a severe storm.
But she wasn't anxious. She simply mentally mapped out her evasion routes. Maria, the head housekeeper, had already caught Roselia’s eye that morning, giving a subtle nod that meant the new cleaning schedules—and Willa’s requested itineraries—would be slipped under her door by midnight.
Roselia didn't feel isolated. She felt deeply, profoundly anchored.
She looked at Ana, who was currently threatening a baker over the consistency of the pastry dough, and smiled.
She had a father who worshipped her, an extended family that cherished her, and the loyalty of the men she bled with.
She had long ago accepted that Renzo would forever be the blind fool guarding a tower of glass.
It didn't break her heart anymore; it just bored her.
"Come," Andre’s booming voice echoed as he strode into the kitchen, clapping his hands together. He wrapped an arm around Roselia’s shoulders, pulling her into his side. "The men have the southern perimeter secured. Let us go to the terrace and steal Salvatore’s good scotch."
"I heard that, Zanetti!" Salvatore roared from the hallway, though he sounded delighted.
By nightfall, the estate settled into a quiet rhythm. The air cooled, thick with the scent of night-blooming jasmine and the salt of the sea.
Roselia sat on the wide stone steps of the lower terrace, the moonlight washing over the dark fabric of her trousers and the loose silk of her shirt. She was enjoying the quiet, running her fingers rhythmically through the thick, coarse fur of the beast leaning against her legs.
Bruno was a mountain of charcoal muscle, his eyes closed, letting out a soft, contented rumble every time her nails scraped behind his cropped ears.
The glass doors behind them clicked open.
Renzo stepped out onto the terrace. He had discarded his suit jacket, his dark shirt unbuttoned at the collar.
The silver moonlight caught the sharp, predatory angles of his face.
He didn't say a word, simply letting his eyes rest on the woman sitting on the steps.
The urge to be near her—to simply exist in her gravitational pull—had driven him out of his study.
He moved silently across the flagstones, intending to sit on the bench a few feet away from her.
He took three steps.
Instantly, the atmosphere fractured.
Bruno didn't bark. He didn't scramble. The hundred-and-fifty-pound Cane Corso moved with fluid lethality. In a fraction of a second, the dog was on his feet, pivoting his frame to form a solid, insurmountable wall of muscle between Renzo and Roselia.
Bruno planted his wide paws, his broad chest expanding as he lowered his blocky head. He locked his dark, intelligent eyes on the Don, baring an inch of bone-white teeth, and let out a vibration—a low, rumbling frequency of violence that reverberated through the stone floor.
Renzo froze mid-step.
To the dog, the mathematics of the situation were brilliantly simple.
For years, Renzo’s presence meant Willa’s presence.
Renzo protected the threat, therefore, Renzo was the threat.
If the master approached the girl, the girl was in danger.
And Bruno lived for exactly one purpose: to ensure the girl remained untouched.
Roselia sighed, not even bothering to look over her shoulder. She kept her eyes on the dark water. "Bruno, fermo. Stand down."
She finally turned her head, looking at Renzo with an expression of hollow indifference. She didn't look angry or intimidated. She just looked tired of the interruption. "Do you need the terrace, Don Falco? I can take him to the kennels."
Renzo stood perfectly still, looking at the beautiful woman and the beast currently threatening to tear his throat out to protect her.
He didn't feel the sting of rejection. He didn't feel the fury of a master being defied by his hound.
Instead, a slow wave of amusement washed over him, followed immediately by a bursting, overwhelming sense of pride.
He had spent his entire life building an empire of shadows, yet his greatest achievement was an utter accident.
He had raised the perfect guard dog for the woman he loved, providing her with a shield when he had been too stupid to be one himself.
"No, Roselia," Renzo said softly, his deep voice carrying a strange, velvety warmth that made her blink in momentary confusion. A genuine smile touched his lips, transforming his severe features. "I was just coming to tell Bruno what an exceptional boy he is."
Before Roselia could process the sheer absurdity of the statement, Renzo took a deliberate step backward, bowing his head slightly in a gesture of respect to the dog.
He turned, the shadows swallowing him as he walked back inside, leaving Roselia staring after him, bewildered by the ghost of the man who had just stood in the moonlight.