Like I couldn’t be carrying a blade.
Like I couldn’t claw my way out of here if I wanted.
He’s either dangerously confident now—or stupid.
Then again… maybe he’s just like my father after all. Another smug bastard playing god in a shiny suit. Or jeans and a shirt.
He’s definitely not what I imagined the Italians to look like. I expected crisp black suits, slick hair, that businessman-who-sold-his-soul kind of vibe.
His uncle—Pedro, was it?—fit that picture. I think he’s one of the Spallo brothers.
But this family? There’s something off.
Their eyes hold too much. Their presence… hums under my skin with something I can’t name.
And Maleciandro…
My body reacts to him like he’s safety. Like he’s the exception.
But I know better.
Maybe it’s because he looks like sin sculpted into flesh. A hot dream, dressed in danger. And I know very well how those end.
I’m still waiting for his question—anything—but all he does is stare over my head again, like he’s tracking something I can’t see.
Then his gaze drops, slow and deliberate, from my chest to my arm. He frowns, like he’s studying something he doesn’t quite understand.
I lean in, trying to catch a better look at the scar on his forehead now that he’s closer, but then—his eyes snap to mine.
My heart stumbles at the sudden shift.
“Are you sick?”
The question punches the breath out of me. I jerk back a little, my spine pressing harder into the wall.
How the hell does he know?
No one knows. No one’s supposed to.
But he does.
“How do you know that?” I manage to gasp, straightening.
My mind races. Is he involved with the medicine somehow? No—my father’s the only one with access. Isn’t he?
“What’s wrong with you?” he counters, ignoring my question altogether. His face tilts closer to mine, and his voice drops lower—measured, unflinching.
“W-what do you mean?” I stammer. His scent hits me then, sharp and earthy, almost electric. I blink too fast. My pulse stutters.
“Don’t play dumb.”
His tone is all cool steel now. “You seem smarter than that.”
I suck in a breath through my nose, searching his expression for a way out—but his stare doesn’t waver.
“I don’t really know what’s wrong with me,” I finally admit, my voice quieter now.
His aunt said I reminded her of herself. Said I could trust them. That they knew what monsters looked like because they’d lived with them too.
