Page 17

She held my gaze for a long moment, searching for something, and I felt exposed under that look. Like she could see straight through me, see every violent thing I had ever done, every dark corner of my soul. But I didn’t look away. Couldn’t look away.

Finally, she nodded and set the menu down.

“I don’t even know what I want,” she said.

I do, I thought. I want you. I want to hear you laugh again. I want to know everything about you. I want to keep you safe from everyone who’s ever hurt you.

“Do you trust me?” I asked instead.

“I don’t know you well enough to trust you.”

“Fair enough. Do you trust me enough to let me order for you?”

A small smile tugged at the corner of her mouth, and my chest tightened. That smile. Christ, that smile could bring me to my knees.

“I suppose that depends on what you order.”

“I’ll take that as a yes.”

When the waiter returned, I ordered in Italian—antipasto to start, then cacio e pepe for her and osso buco for me, a bottle of Chianti to share. The waiter nodded and disappeared again, and Madigan watched me with something like curiosity in her eyes.

“You speak Italian,” she said.

“My father insisted. He said if we were going to carry the name, we should know the language.” I was acutely aware of how close we were sitting, of the small table between us that suddenly felt like both too much distance and not enough protection.

“Do you go there? To Italy?”

“No. My family is not allowed,” I carefully said, not sure what or how to explain my family’s exile from our homeland. Instead, I asked, “Have you ever been?”

She shook her head, and I watched the movement of her hair, the way it caught the light. I wanted to touch it. Wanted to know if it was as soft as it looked.

“I’ve been nowhere, really. Just New York and Boston when my mother wants to go home. My father doesn’t like me traveling.”

“Why not?”

“He says people would use me to get to him.” She looked down at her hands. “I think he just doesn’t want me to see that there’s more to the world than what he’s shown me.”

There was something in her voice, resignation mixed with longing, and it made my chest ache. Made me want to show her everything. Paris and Rome, and every beautiful place in the world. Made me want to give her everything she’d been denied.

“Where would you go?” I asked, my voice softer now. “If you could go anywhere.”

She looked up, surprised. “What?”

“If you could go anywhere in the world. Where would you go?”

She was quiet for a moment, thinking, and I memorized her face in that moment. The slight furrow between her brows. The way she bit her lower lip. Every detail.

“Paris,” she said finally. “I’ve always wanted to see Paris. The museums, the art, the architecture. I want to walk along the Seine and sit in cafés and just... exist somewhere that isn’t here.”

“You will,” I said, and I meant it with every fiber of my being. I would make it happen if I had to burn the world down to do it.

“You don’t know that.”

“I do.”

“How?”

“Because you’re going to leave. Eventually. You’re going to get away from the life you know, and you’re going to see Paris and anywhere else you want to go.” I leaned forward, unable to stop myself. “And I’ll take you there myself if I have to.”