Chapter 3
MADISON
Damiano picks me up at eight, right on time. He brushes a soft kiss against my lips, teasing. I sigh when he pulls away.
His dark brown eyes twinkle. “Madison. You are a vision tonight.”
“Thank you.” I smooth down the fabric of my little black dress—the sheath I found in one of Great-Aunt Vivienne’s closets. I had it dry-cleaned earlier in the week. “This was my great-aunt’s. I think it’s pretty old, but it’s kept well.”
“It complements your beauty. I am the luckiest man alive.” He steps into my space again and brings his face to my neck. “Bella, I crave you. I must get you to the restaurant before I do unspeakable things to you.”
“I like the sound of unspeakable things,” I whisper.
He chuckles, his breath tickling my ear. “First, food. Then, unspeakable things.”
Soon, we’re sitting at a table in an intimate corner of Mitsuko’s, a Japanese restaurant in the Salding district. I feel glamorous in my dress, and Damiano’s suit fits him beautifully.
We get to talking about my house, and I tell him a little about Vivienne. I show him my star sapphire ring that she gave me, the one I always wear. Then I add, “There’s a secret, too. I think she had a love affair with someone in Russia.”
“Really?” He grins, intrigued. “During the Cold War, I imagine?”
“So it would’ve been the Soviet Union. Yeah.” I think back to the letter I read today. “Maybe they weren’t lovers—maybe they were writing in secret code. Maybe they were spies.”
Damiano and I toss some theories back and forth, enjoying what is now low-stakes drama.
During the height of the Cold War, nothing would’ve seemed light about this to my great-aunt.
But now, many years later, we’re free to speculate.
I think she would get a kick out of it, honestly.
Especially because, to my understanding, she had zero government ties. The spy theories are complete fiction.
The whole time we speak, Damiano’s attention is on me, and solely me. I realize with a pang that this is how it used to be with him, before his work got so demanding. I’m the center of his universe tonight. While I don’t always need that kind of attention and focus, I’ve missed it.
After a delicious meal of Japanese food, Damiano pays the check without allowing me to offer. “Next time, it’ll be my treat,” I say.
“Next time.” His eyes are intent on mine.
I think he realizes I was starting to pull away after all his work interruptions, but now we’re making plans for the future.
If I can get this version of Damiano more often—the playful version, who isn’t frustrated by constantly putting out fires at work—I can see a future here.
We leave the restaurant and I shiver in the cool autumn night.
Damiano tucks me against his side. “Come home with me, Madison.”
The night has gone so well, I don’t want it to end. “Yes. Of course.”
“Good.” His smile is devious. “I want to ruin you in one thousand ways. It’s time for those unspeakable things we talked about.”
Damiano’s building is just down the street—it’s the tallest one here, and I’m tempted to make a dick joke, but the building is truly magnificent. It’s luxurious, but not flashy or gaudy.
We park in the underground garage. Damiano assesses our surroundings as we walk to the elevators.
Is he nervous? He has to insert a key and punch in a code before the elevator doors open.
Even then, there’s a tension to his stance.
I squeeze his hand, wondering if he’s worried, for some reason, about bringing me here.
Does he think I wouldn’t approve of his place? Surely he isn’t that insecure.
“This building is called Palazzo dei Nove, right?” I ask.
“Yes.” Finally, his gaze lands fully on me, for the first time since we pulled into the garage. “My apartment is at the top. Seth lives on the floor below mine, when he’s in town.”
“Does he travel a lot?”
A scowl twists his lips. “Not usually, no.”
The elevator chimes. We step into a hallway gleaming with natural wood and creamy-white walls. Damiano unlocks the door directly in front of us and ushers me into a beautiful penthouse apartment. He helps me out of my coat and places it on a hook next to the door. I add my handbag to the next hook.
“Make yourself comfortable.” He kisses my cheek. “I’ll get us some drinks.”
He moves toward what I assume is the kitchen and leaves me to explore the large, but cozy living room.
A set of steps leads into a sunken area with a couch, coffee table, and plush chairs.
I try to picture Damiano chilling in this room.
I can imagine him kicked back in one of those comfy-looking chairs, watching TV or reading a book.
I move to a set of wall shelves. It holds some books, but there’s just as much empty space as not. Zero knickknacks. To some people, it might seem that Damiano doesn’t actually live in this penthouse, but I get the sense that he doesn’t like having a lot of stuff.
A crash comes from the kitchen, and Damiano exclaims in Italian.
“Are you okay?” I call. “Can I help?”
“Everything’s fine.” He laughs. “I dropped a cup. Just give me a minute, bella. I’ll be right there.”
A loud knocking sounds on the door. I look toward the kitchen, but Damiano didn’t seem to hear it.
The knocking happens again, an insistent series of raps.
Is he expecting someone? Maybe Seth returned from Europe.
Although I hope Damiano didn’t call Seth over without telling him I’m here.
I couldn’t bear to be an unpleasant surprise—again.
“Damiano? There’s someone at your door,” I say.
He swears again, this time over the sound of running water.
Whatever, I’ll get the door.
The person on the other side bangs on it again before I can reach it. Jeez, impatient. I can’t imagine Seth knocking like that.
“Damiano!” a female voice says on the other side. She continues in Italian, but I hear the word “emergenza.” Emergency?
Concerned, I hurriedly turn the handle and tug open the door. A woman faces me. She has black hair, the same length as mine, a couple inches past her shoulders. Her light brown eyes narrow from panic to suspicion as she looks me up and down.
“Hey, what’s wrong?” I ask, looking past her, down the hall. “Should I call nine-one-one?”
“Who are you?” Her tone is blunt, bordering on rude.
I thought there was an emergency, but she doesn’t sound scared at all. Hackles raised, I say, “I’m Madison, who are you?”
She sneers, staring at me like I’m a piece of shit on her shoe. “I’m Damiano’s wife, puttana.”
I freeze, hand on the door. The woman pushes past me, into Damiano’s apartment. She was holding a bag, which she tosses on a little table near the door like she’s done the same thing a thousand times.
Like she belongs here.
“Damiano!” she yells, following his name with a tirade in Italian as she walks toward the kitchen.
Damiano meets her halfway, his gaze on me. “Madison, I—”
I can’t believe I’m in this position. Is this why I don’t have other friends? Because I can’t read situations? All the red flags were there, waving, and I didn’t realize it until now. All of those phone calls and texts, the “work emergencies,” the abrupt departures.
How he fucking left me in Mirarosa to get a ride home with Seth, who doesn’t even like me.
The woman—his wife, puttana—continues shouting in Italian. Damiano holds up his hands, talking back to her. I don’t know what they’re saying.
I have to go.
“Madison.” Damiano’s voice is hushed. “Can you give me just a couple of minutes, I will explain—”
His next words are cut off by a renewed tirade from the woman. His wife. Fuck. My eyes fill with tears, but I will not cry, not for something like this. Not for a man like this.
“Just five minutes, please,” Damiano says.
“Take all the time you need. I’m done.” I grab my purse and coat from the hooks by the door and race across the hall to the elevator.
Damiano calls my name and says something to his wife in Italian. I can hear his footsteps, but he isn’t moving fast enough to catch up. I don’t think he cares to. And why should he? He’s been found out. The game is over.
We’re over.
The elevator takes me down. Once it reaches the ground floor, I hope it keeps going to the center of the earth.
I would like to obliterate everything, every memory of the last fifteen minutes.
My reflection in the elevator’s mirrored walls shows my face pale with shock, my eyes wet with unshed tears.
How fucking stupid could I be?
And Seth…Seth. He had to have known. Why didn’t he warn me? Was this all a game to him?
I feel sick. Oh god. I’m going to hurl.
The elevator stops, the doors open to the building’s lobby. I stumble out, leaning forward and clutching my stomach.
“Miss, are you okay?” an elderly gentleman asks.
“Fine. I’ll be fine, thanks.” I hurry to the lobby doors and step outside, into the cool night.
Deep breaths.
Loud, laughing people stumble past, arms linked. They travel in a pack, obviously club-hopping. After they pass, the sidewalk is deserted.
I slowly straighten and take another deep breath. I won’t be sick—I’ll be just fine. Damiano Romano is merely another asshole in a long line of assholes I’ve known. It’s a good thing I found out about his wife as early as I did. I haven’t had time to get attached.
Who am I fucking kidding? I’m attached. I was falling for that man. One minute he’d be saying the filthiest things, and the next, the most romantic, sweetest words would come out of his mouth. He looked at me like I was the most important person on the planet.
And it was all a lie.
I put my hands over my eyes, pressing hard, trying to keep the tears inside. I won’t cry—I refuse to fucking cry.
Except, I absolutely need to cry. Not here, though. First, I’ll get home. I have to arrange a trip to the other side of San Esteban. I find my phone in my bag and order a ride.
As soon as I finish with my phone, someone slams into me from behind. I yelp in surprise.
I barely catch a glimpse of him as he grabs me by the throat. I flail, defenseless. He pulls my wrists behind me, then presses me against the building.
This night is the worst.