Chapter 16
I didn’t sleep.
I wasn’t sure sleep was even something my body remembered how to do. I sat in the dark leather armchair in the living room, in the dim light, for what felt like days. The only sounds were the hum of the ventilation system and the distant roar of Milan’s traffic, many floors below.
Every minute was agony. She was here, just a few steps away from me, behind a locked door. I was desperate to go there, to break down that door—not with the previous day’s violence, but with the need to make sure she was still there, that she hadn’t vanished like a ghost.
But I forced myself to stay put. The previous night’s intensity was giving way to a hard truth: one wrong move, and I’d lose her forever.
When the first gray light of Milan began to seep through the windows, I got up. Every muscle was stiff, and my wrinkled suit smelled of her—a mixture of her expensive perfume and the salty scent of her tears.
I went to the kitchen. The industrial espresso machine, which I hardly ever used, hummed in protest.
I needed a plan—something that would bring me closer to her without suffocating her. But how do you approach a wounded lioness that you yourself have caged?
Bianca was a strong and brilliant woman, but as wary as a wild animal; one more misstep and I could lose her—this time, forever.
I did the only thing I could think of… coffee.
I stood in front of the guest bedroom door, tray in hand, two porcelain cups, sugar, cream… It seemed ridiculous. Me, Marco Valenti, looking like a butler in my own home. The humiliation had a familiar taste.
I knocked lightly… silence.
My racing heart pounded against my ribs. Was she gone? I knocked again, harder.
“Bianca?”
I heard a shuffling sound, and then the bolt. The click of the lock being released was the loudest sound I’d ever heard.
The door opened a few centimeters.
She was there. Her hair was wild, a dark, tousled cloud falling over her shoulders. She was wearing one of my black silk robes, which was so big on her that it made her look fragile, almost like a child.
Her green eyes, like mine, were swollen and red, but the hatred in them had been replaced by a deep, cautious exhaustion.
She didn’t say anything. She just stared at me, confused and fearful.
“I…” My voice came out hoarse. I cleared my throat. “I made coffee and tea for you.”
She looked at the tray, then at my face. I could see the battle raging inside her: her pride telling her to slam the door in my face, but my gesture causing her to give in a little—or perhaps she was just too tired to fight with me that morning.
Bianca opened the door a little wider and stepped back, returning to bed. It was a concession… a truce.
I went in. The room was dark, with the curtains drawn. I set the tray on the nightstand.
She was sitting on the edge of the bed, hugging her knees. The silk robe hung loosely off her shoulders, revealing the pale skin of her neck. The sexual tension was immediate and suffocating. The memory of how that skin tasted beneath my lips, the sound of her moan…
I pushed the thought aside. Not now, damn it!
She didn’t say anything. She just picked up the cup, and her hands were shaking so much that the porcelain clattered against the saucer.
I couldn’t take it anymore. I sat down next to her on the bed—not close enough to be threatening, but close enough for her to feel my heat. The desire was a physical pain, a constant thirst to touch her, to place my hand on her belly and feel my son kick.
“I won’t hurt you, Bianca,” I whispered.
She took a sip of tea.
“You’ve already hurt me, Marco.”
The admission was quiet, without anger. And it hurt more than the decanter she’d thrown.
“I know…” my voice was hoarse, “and I’m going to spend the rest of my life making it right.”
She finally turned to face me. Her robe slipped, exposing the gentle curve of her shoulder. The sexual tension was so thick I could taste it. I wanted to push that fabric aside, kiss that skin, lay her down, and show her just how sorry I was—the only way I knew how—but I held back.
“How?” she asked, her voice breaking. “How do you fix the Duomo?”
I didn’t have an answer. Not one she’d accept. So instead of speaking, I sat in her bedroom—in my apartment—and drank my coffee quietly.
She still hadn’t given me the forgiveness I’d been hoping for—not even close. Yet, for the first time, we weren’t yelling… or running away.