Page 18

She stared at me as her lips parted slightly, and I couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t think. There was only her face in the candlelight and the way she looked at me like I’d offered her the world.

“You sound very certain,” she whispered.

“I am.”

“Why?”

“Because you deserve it. And because I can see it in you. You’re not the kind of person who stays trapped forever.” And because I need you to be free. Because the thought of you in my world is killing me.

She looked at me as if I had said something profound instead of obvious. Like no one had ever told her she deserved anything before. And something in my chest cracked open.

The antipasto arrived. Olives and cheese, and cured meats arranged on a wooden board. I poured the wine with hands that weren’t quite steady, and when I handed her the glass, our fingers brushed. The contact lasted only a second, but it shot through me like lightning.

She took a sip, her eyes widening slightly. “This is good.”

“It’s from Tuscany. A small vineyard near Siena.” I watched her lips on the rim of the glass and had to look away before I did something stupid. Like lean across the table and kiss her.

We ate in silence for a while, but it wasn’t comfortable anymore. It was charged, electric, and every movement was loaded with meaning. I watched her as she ate, the way she savored each bite like it was something precious, the way she closed her eyes when she tasted the wine. Everything about her was deliberate, careful, and it was driving me insane.

I wanted to know what she looked like when she wasn’t being careful. When she let go.

“Tell me about your family,” she blurted, and I was grateful for the distraction from my own thoughts.

I looked up. “What do you want to know?”

“Anything. Everything. I don’t know.” She paused. “You have brothers, right? I heard my father mention them.”

I told her about them—Giovanni and his iron control, Lorenzo and his reckless charm, Luciano and his paint-stained hands, Antonio and his calm smile, Illyria and her fierce loyalty. I told her about the weight of being the second son, about the choices we’d all made, about the different ways we’d tried to escape or embrace the life we were born into.

And as I talked, I watched her listen. Really listen. Like every word mattered. Like I mattered.

No one had ever looked at me like that before.

“An artist?” She sounded surprised when I mentioned Luc.

“Painter. Luciano—Luc. He lives in SoHo, spends most of his time covered in paint, and forgets to eat. Has an exhibit coming up at a gallery in the city. Abstract stuff, mostly, though he dabbles in sculpture too.”

“That sounds wonderful.”

“It sounds irresponsible.”

She laughed. A real laugh, light and genuine, and the sound of it broke something in me. Made my chest tighten until I couldn’t breathe. Made me want to hear it again and again for the rest of my life. Made me want to be the reason she laughed, the reason she smiled, the reason she felt safe enough to be happy.

I was in so much trouble.

“You don’t approve?” she asked, still smiling.

“I didn’t say that. I just said it’s irresponsible. But he’s happy, I think. Happier than Giovanni or me, anyway.” I couldn’t stop staring at her mouth. At the curve of her smile.

“Why aren’t you happy?”

The question caught me off guard. “What makes you think I’m not?”

“I can see it. In your eyes. You are carrying something heavy.”

She was right, of course. I did carry something heavy. The weight of blood and violence and choices I couldn’t take back. But sitting here with her, I felt lighter than I had in years. Like maybe the weight didn’t have to crush me. Like maybe there was something else, something more.

“It’s the life,” I said finally. “It takes more than it gives.”