Chapter Seventeen #2
Ewan, who was sitting in his armchair whittling a piece of cedar wood with a pocketknife, looked up toward the open door. A slow, deeply amused smirk spread across his weathered face.
Don Raphael Castellan-Marchetti filled the doorway. He was dressed impeccably in a tailored suit, the jacket unbuttoned, looking out of place in the rustic, cluttered warmth of the small cottage.
"Don Raphael," Ewan greeted, not bothering to stand up, his Scottish brogue thick with poorly concealed humor. "To what do we owe the pleasure of the Don’s presence this afternoon? Are the grand halls of the manor lacking proper ventilation?"
Raphael cast a dry, warning glance at the old groundskeeper, perfectly aware that Ewan found his daily pilgrimages endlessly entertaining. "I am here to review the quarterly offshore routing summaries, Ewan."
"Right. The summaries," Ewan chuckled, returning his attention to his whittling. "Well, don't let me stop the vital work of the empire."
Raphael stepped into the cottage. He pulled a simple wooden chair from the dining table and carried it over to Azar’s workstation, placing it a respectful distance away, but close enough to catch the scent of her vanilla soap. He sat down, his frame making the small wooden chair creak in protest.
Azar did not stop typing. She did not sigh. She did not tense her shoulders.
"The quarterly summaries were emailed to Ezra’s secure server at 0800 hours this morning, Don Raphael," Azar stated politely, her eyes moving rapidly across the scrolling lines of code. "I can resend the PDF to your personal tablet if the Consigliere has not forwarded it."
Raphael leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees.
He didn't pull out a tablet. He didn't look at the screens.
He just looked at her. He studied the way the late afternoon sunlight caught the auburn highlights in her hair.
He watched the slight, focused furrow of her brow.
He looked at her with so much tenderness that it practically vibrated in the air around them.
"I prefer to review them in person," Raphael murmured, his deep voice a soft, gravelly caress. "In case I have questions regarding the data architecture."
Azar blinked, pulling up the file on her secondary monitor. "Very well. The primary anomaly this quarter was a slight delay in the Sicilian port transfers due to weather. The margins were unaffected."
She spoke with the clinical, flawless detachment of a recorded automated message.
If she felt any discomfort at his proximity, she absolutely refused to let it show.
Azar had spent hours analyzing her own psychological defenses.
She knew that if she snapped at him, if she demanded he leave, or if she showed even a fraction of annoyance, it meant that he still possessed the power to affect her emotional state. It meant he still mattered.
Azar desperately wanted to prove to herself that Don Raphael Castellan-Marchetti had absolutely zero power over her heart. She wanted to prove that he was nothing more than a passing cloud in her sky.
So, she stayed quiet. She stayed polite. She stayed distant.
"The weather in Sicily has been turbulent," Raphael offered, desperately trying to keep the conversation alive. "Have you ever been? In the spring, the coastal roads are quite beautiful."
"I have not," Azar replied seamlessly. "I have not left the estate grounds in six years. Regarding the routing protocols, I have implemented a dual-key cipher to ensure..."
She smoothly pivoted the conversation back to the sterile, lifeless data, cutting off any avenue of personal connection.
Ewan, watching from his armchair, let out a soft snort of amusement. He watched the most powerful man in the country sit paralyzed by the polite apathy of a twenty-seven-year-old data analyst. The mighty Iron Saint, humbled, clinging desperately to a conversation about Sicilian weather patterns.
Raphael did not mind the pivot. He listened to her explain the dual-key cipher, his eyes never leaving her face. He absorbed the sound of her voice, the cadence of her breath, the subtle movements of her hands.
When she finally paused, the silence stretching between them, Azar calmly turned her chair to face him. Her hazel eyes were clear, bright, and devoid of warmth.
"Does that clarify the summaries for you, Don Raphael?" she asked politely.
"It does," Raphael whispered, the ache in his chest a familiar companion. "Thank you, Azar."
"Would you care for a cup of tea before you return to the manor?" Azar offered. It wasn't a gesture of affection, it was the sheer, freezing politeness of a well-mannered host executing a social obligation.
Raphael knew it was a polite dismissal. He knew she was offering him a beverage to mark the end of the professional transaction. But the thought of standing up and walking back to the empty, echoing halls of his manor was unbearable.
"Yes," Raphael said quietly, holding her gaze with a desperate, unwavering devotion. "I would like that very much."
Azar offered a crisp, professional nod. She stood up, smoothing her trousers, and walked over to the small kitchenette.
She did not see the way Raphael’s eyes followed her every movement.
She did not see the agonizing love that the Iron Saint wore openly on his face.
She poured the boiling water into the ceramic mugs, focused on the mechanics of the task, while her mind quietly, methodically calculated the time she had left.
Thirteen months to go.
Three hundred and ninety-five days until she could walk away from this cottage, away from this estate, and away from the man who was currently sitting in her chair, silently offering her a kingdom she no longer wanted.