“You’re not supposed to do anything,” he says simply, pushing off the bench.“Except breathe.I’ve worked for the De Luca family a long time.Mr.Lorenzo looks after those he cares about.”
I pause, my fork hanging halfway to my mouth.“He doesn’t care about me.”
“I wouldn’t be so sure about that.”
“No,” I say quietly.“I’m here because of a contract.I’m basically a transaction.A name signed under his to lock in an empire.That’s all I am to him.”
Carlo’s smile softens.“I’ve known Mr.Lorenzo most of his life.He doesn’t do anything he doesn’t want to.Not in business.And definitely not when it comes to women.Enjoy your breakfast, Signora.”
He wanders off, whistling softly, the sound strangely out of place in a house built to intimidate.
I finish eating at my own pace.Let the food sit heavily in my stomach.Sip the last of the coffee and feel the warmth spread, grounding me.I try to let my body relax into the space, to pretend this is just another morning.But it isn’t.
My eyes never stop moving—corners, doorways, windows, reflections in polished stone.I effortlessly catalog every exit and count the blind spots.Old habits don’t die in a world like this.
I set the empty cup down before standing.
Time to explore.
The kitchen spills into a hallway so wide it could fit a damn sports car.Floors polished to perfection, stone gleaming beneath my bare feet, every inch whispering wealth.The walls are lined with art.It’s too quiet in here.The kind of quiet that makes your skin crawl.Stillness so tense, it feels like the whole house is bracing for impact.
I walk slowly.Unhurried.Drag my fingers along the grooves of the wall panels, every ridge humming with secrets.This place wears its silence like armor, and every step sinks deeper into its spine.
It’s neither warm nor soft.It lacks the smell of home-cooked meals or laughter echoing through the walls.
The sense of being watched lingers.
The kind of house where doors hide lies, and each hallway has teeth.It’s a perfect little kingdom for a man who never follows anyone’s rules but his own.Yeah, this is definitely Lorenzo’s house.
I pass a library big enough to host a damn opera.Velvet chairs, chandeliers, shelves groaning under the weight of knowledge no one here’s bothered to read.
I don’t stop.
Next is a sitting room with floor-to-ceiling windows, sunlight streaming through the glass.
Nope, still not what I’m looking for.
I’m searching for something authentic.Something secret.Something secured.
And when I find it—third door on the right, hidden down a corridor off the main wing that most people probably miss—I stop walking.
This one is different because everything else in this house—the wide halls, spotless rooms, and curated walls of art—are open and impressive.Built to intimidate.Which makes this one door feel more honest than anything else I’ve seen here.
This is where the secrets reside, and I’ve never been good at ignoring what’s forbidden.It’s a flaw.Or maybe it’s how I survive.
I glance back over my shoulder expecting to find Carlo or another of Lorenzo’s soldiers but instead I find no one.
My fingers slide into my hair.I pull out a pin and twist it in my palm.
I always carry one.Had to.Back when I was fifteen and stupid, trying to figure out what the hell was really going on behind closed doors at my father’s house.When whispers turned into bloodstains and I learnt quickly that locked doors meant more than just privacy—they meant secrets.And sometimes, secrets meant survival.
So I learnt, picked locks, watched, and listened.
A bobby pin tucked in my hair to open what they didn’t want me to see.Now, it’s instinct.To get ahead of the secrets before you don’t see it coming.Before they slam into you with the force of a loaded gun and a smiling face.I don’t wait for the truth to find me anymore.I hunt it down.Pry it open.Drag it into the light, bleeding and raw, before it has a chance to gut me first.
I crouch low, breathe slow and steady, just like I’ve always done.
The pin slides into the lock, and I begin working on it carefully and patiently.This one’s tighter.Cleaner.Built to resist curious fingers and malicious intent.Figures.Lorenzo doesn’t do anything halfway.
