Lorenzo was finished with the performance.He took my hand and pulled me toward the front doors.One command.“We’re leaving.”No arguments.No debate.When my father stepped in his way and questioned him, Lorenzo shut it down cold.
The room went quiet.
Men who had been laughing minutes earlier suddenly remembered how to hold their breath.Every soldier was on high alert.My father stood there, with his eyes blazing, unable to do a damn thing about it.And Lorenzo simply walked me out anyway.
I grab a pair of black tights from the bag, a cropped tank top, and a zip-up hoodie soft enough to feel stolen.I don’t bother folding anything.I just take what I need and go.
The bathroom door clicks shut behind me.
I step into the warm water and let it wash over my skin, cleansing away the sweat, the mess, and all the noise in my mind.I reach for the body wash on the ledge without thinking.The scent hits me instantly.It’s unmistakably him.Lorenzo.
I scrub myself down with it, slower than I intend, annoyed by how much I like that the scent lingers.As if he’s still here.As if I didn’t wake up alone.
I shut the water off before I overthink it and quickly get dressed.I run my fingers through my wet hair before pinning it up and heading for the door.I’m not hiding in this room.If this is my life now, I’ll face it head-on.
I pad barefoot through the house, the silence swallowing each step.
The hallway seems endless, adorned with large paintings.Everything shines with a sense of old wealth and carefully cultivated influence.
The kitchen is a gallery by itself.Sleek, sterile, and so spotless it could be a showroom.At the kitchen island stands a man—mid-forties, broad shoulders, dark hair silvering at the temples, a pressed white shirt with the sleeves rolled up.An apron is tied around his waist.His stance is military-like, and the way he uses the knife is surgical.
Upon hearing my approach, a smile spreads across his face.
“Signora,” he says, and there’s warmth in his voice.“I’m Carlo.Lorenzo said you’d be joining us.”
Us.
I arch an eyebrow and glance around.
“And where is his royal highness?”
“He had business to attend to.”Carlo gestures toward the stool.“Breakfast?”
I glance at the spread already laid out for me.
Soft and creamy scrambled eggs, a grilled tomato sliced perfectly and charred at the edges, ribbons of paper-thin prosciutto that glisten with fat, and two slices of thick-cut sourdough toasted to a golden brown.My stomach growls.
“I guess,” I mutter, sliding onto the stool, trying not to look too eager.
Carlo pours the coffee without asking and places the cup in front of me.
I take a sip, expecting it to be wrong—either too bitter or too sweet—but it’s perfect.Just the way I like it.
I watch him over the rim of the mug, wary.“So, do I get a rundown of the rules around here?Or is this one of those figure-it-out-yourself kind of prisons?”
He chuckles softly.“This is not a prison, Signora.”
“Then why does it feel like one?”
He doesn’t answer.
I dig into the hot, buttery eggs, with just the right touch of salt.
Carlo props himself against the counter, watching me eat like I’m a puzzle he’s halfway through solving.
“So, you want a tour of the house,” he finally asks.“Or would you rather find your own way around?”
I swallow.“I’m fine.I don’t really know what I’m supposed to do.”
