9. Pearl
9
PEARL
I 'd always believed books were the closest thing to magic we had in this world.
Standing at my window, watching the morning light stream through the library's massive windows, I could feel that old familiar pull. Three floors of books, just waiting to be discovered.
The library had been teasing me for days. From where I stood, I could see endless shelves through the tall windows, offering glimpses of what was inside. Sometimes I'd spot Giuliano there in the evenings, his dark head bent over documents at a massive desk. Once, I even caught him just reading, looking more relaxed than I'd ever seen him in the soft light.
I was halfway through The Secret History —completely absorbed in Tartt's dark academia world—when he appeared for his morning check. The corner of his mouth twitched when he spotted me curled in the window seat, clutching one of the books he'd brought.
"Let me guess," he said from the doorway, his voice holding an unexpected hint of teasing. "You want to see the library."
"Is it that obvious?" I set the book aside, trying not to look too eager. Like I hadn't been rehearsing this conversation in my head for days.
"Considering I've caught you staring at it every time I pass by..." His eyes held amusement. "Though I have to wonder—if I let you in there, are you going to try something stupid?"
"Please. Like I'd risk damaging any of those books in an escape attempt." I rolled my eyes. "I'm not that desperate."
He actually laughed—a warm, rich sound that made my stomach flip. "Come on then. But if you start quoting Romeo and Juliet , I'm locking you back in here."
"More of a Macbeth girl, actually," I muttered, following him into the hallway. His shoulders shook slightly with suppressed laughter.
He led me through the compound's winding corridors, past massive windows overlooking the coast. Every few steps, the guards we passed straightened imperceptibly. I tried to memorize the route—right at the formal dining room, through an atrium filled with morning light, down a hallway lined with oil paintings of stern-faced men who had to be previous Barbieris.
The library entrance itself was imposing—double doors of dark wood, carved with intricate scrollwork. Giuliano produced a key from his pocket, the kind you'd expect to find in some ancient monastery.
"Not many people come here," he said, turning the key. "My father, occasionally. Sometimes the men, if they need to research something specific." He pushed the door open, and that distinctive scent of leather and paper washed over me. "Mostly it's just me."
The library was even more beautiful up close. Three stories of books stretched upward, connected by wrought iron spiral staircases that looked like black lace against all that wood.
"You actually read them?" I asked, trying to take it all in. "Not just for show?"
"Everything from business law to ancient philosophy." His voice softened. "Though I prefer the classics. There's something about those old stories..." He trailed off, like he'd caught himself revealing too much.
I was already trailing my fingers along the spines, reading titles in a dozen languages. "Your father collected these?"
"Most of them." Something shifted in his voice. "Though he barely reads them. He just likes showing them off to visitors—proof we're not just thugs in expensive suits."
I glanced back at him. "Sounds familiar."
I wandered deeper into the library, breathing in that intoxicating scent of aged paper and leather. The sun slanted through the windows, warming my skin as I moved between the towering shelves. My fingers traced the gilt letters on leather spines, feeling the subtle textures of decades-old bindings.
Giuliano sank into one of the leather armchairs near the window, the dark leather creaking softly under his weight. He'd loosened his tie slightly, a small detail that made him look almost approachable. The way he watched me explore, with that intense focus barely softened by the gentle light, made me feel like the only person in his world.
"Tell me about your father," he said quietly. "Your real father."
The request caught me off guard. I pulled a volume of poetry from the shelf, fingers running over its worn edges. "What do you want to know?"
"Everything. What was he like? Before the accident?"
My chest tightened at the memory. I sank into the chair opposite him, the poetry book clutched close. "He was... God, this is harder than I thought."
"Take your time."
I traced the book's embossed cover, gathering my thoughts.
"He wasn't perfect. Worked too much, missed some school things. But when he was there, he was really there, you know? Like this one time—I was maybe seven—he had this huge meeting with the port authorities. Really important stuff. But I had strep throat, felt awful. So he brought the whole meeting to our house, set everyone up in his study. Had me wrapped in blankets on this little couch he kept in there, drinking honey tea while they talked shipping routes."
"Sounds like he cared."
"He did. Even when he got sick—cancer, not the heart problems everyone thought it was—he tried to keep things normal. Mom and I would bring books to his hospital room, sit with him while he worked. He always made me feel like I was helping somehow." I traced the book's spine, remembering. "Looking back, I think that's when I really started learning about the business."
"And your mother?"
"She tried her best. But watching someone you love die like that..." I shook my head. "It broke something in her. That's when Vittorio swooped in. He was so careful about it, so strategic. Started with business advice, then lunch meetings that turned into dinner dates. Flowers, little gifts. He even bought me this ridiculous teddy bear—I hated it, but Mom thought it was sweet."
"How old were you?"
"Ten when Dad died. Eleven when they got married. Everything happened so fast. One minute we were grieving, the next we're living in Vittorio's estate and I'm not allowed to use the Divino name anymore." The bitterness crept into my voice. "It all seems so obvious now, but at that time…"
"At the time, you were just kids who'd lost everything." His voice was oddly gentle. "Trust me, I understand about manipulative fathers."
Something in his tone made me look up. "Tell me," I said softly. "About growing up Barbieri."
He was quiet for so long I thought he wouldn't answer. Then: "You ever feel like nothing you do will ever be good enough? Like you're constantly chasing this impossible standard?"
"God, yes."
"That's my father. Everything has to be perfect, has to fit his vision of what a Barbieri should be. Take over new territory? Should have done it faster. Make a good deal? Should have gotten better terms. Even now, running half his empire..." He ran a hand through his hair. "Sometimes I catch myself doing things just because I know they'll please him, and I hate myself for it."
"But you still do them."
"Yeah." He gave a harsh laugh. "Pathetic, right? I'm twenty-nine years old, and I'm still that kid desperate for a 'well done' that's never going to come."
"It's not pathetic." I set the poetry book aside. "We all want our parents' approval. Even when we know we'll never get it."
"Is that why you stayed? With Vittorio? Even after..."
"After my mother's overdose?" I curled deeper into the chair. "Partly. But mostly I just... didn't know how to be anything else. He spent years shaping me into his perfect daughter. The right clothes, right manners, right everything. Sometimes I look in the mirror and I can't even remember what I looked like before."
"What would you change? If you could?"
The question startled me. "What?"
"If you could be anything, wear anything, do anything—what would you choose?"
"I..." I fidgeted with the book's worn spine, not quite meeting his eyes. "You'll laugh."
"Try me."
"I always wanted to wear ripped jeans—the kind Vittorio says make people look homeless. And those chunky sneakers everyone has. Maybe try a different hairstyle..." I touched my long locks self-consciously. "Vittorio monitors every appointment with his approved stylist. Every cut, every shade has to be 'naturally elegant.'"
"What else?"
"This is embarrassing, but... I always wanted to try those horrible sugary lattes everyone drinks. The ones with whipped cream and caramel and everything."
He actually smiled. "Anything else?"
"A million things. Read whatever I want. Go to a real concert. Learn to drive—can you believe I don't even know how? Order pizza at midnight. Wear sweatpants. Paint my room some ridiculous color..." I stopped, feeling my cheeks heat. "Sorry. I'm rambling."
"Don't apologize." He leaned forward, eyes intent on my face. "It's nice seeing the real you."
"Is it? Because sometimes I'm not even sure who that is anymore."
"I think," he said slowly, "she's right here. The girl who wants silly coffee and midnight pizza. Who gets excited about books and quotes Shakespeare. Who survived years of Vittorio's control without losing her soul." His hand found mine, thumb tracing patterns on my palm that made me shiver. "I think she's fucking magnificent."
I couldn't breathe. Couldn't think. Could only stare at where his hand touched mine, sending electricity up my arm. "Giuliano..."
"Tell me to stop." His voice had dropped lower, making heat pool in my belly.
I should have. Should have pulled away, remembered who we were and why I was here. Instead, I found myself leaning closer, drawn by something I couldn't name.
The first brush of his lips was devastatingly gentle. Nothing like the brutal claiming I'd expected. His free hand came up to cradle my face as I melted into him, years of carefully constructed walls crumbling under his touch.
When he deepened the kiss, I heard myself make a sound that should have been embarrassing. But then his tongue swept into my mouth, and I stopped thinking entirely. My hands found his shoulders, his chest, anywhere I could touch. All those nights of watching him in this library, imagining this moment, hadn't prepared me for the reality.
A sharp knock at the library door made me jump. "Boss?" Angelo's voice shattered the moment. "We've got movement. Vittorio's men were spotted nearby."
Giuliano pulled back slightly but kept me close. His chest rose and fell rapidly, matching my own ragged breathing. "How close?"
"Too close. They're searching systematically, working their way toward the coast." Angelo hesitated. "Should we move her to another location?"
"No." Giuliano's hand tightened possessively on the small of my back. "Increase patrols. Change the guard rotation. She stays here…where I can protect her."
Angelo lingered for a moment, and I caught the slight curve of his lips, a knowing look that made my cheeks burn. When they were both gone, I sank deeper into the chair, my heart still racing.
Something had shifted between us, something that went far deeper than simple attraction or whatever this game between captor and captive was supposed to be. For the first time since my father died, someone had seen past the perfect facade to the real me underneath.
The question was—what the hell was I going to do about it?