My stomach clenches. “Who is he?”
Tomasso shrugs like the question is irrelevant. “Don’t know. The guards didn’t let him in. Thought it best to tell you first.”
My blood simmers.
A man.
I don’t know who Liliana knew before me. I know nothing of her world except the cruelty of her father. But the idea of another man—someone she might’ve loved, someone whose memories she still recalls when she’s alone—burns hotter than I care to admit.
I grip the edge of the desk.
I forced her into this marriage. No matter how I spin it, no matter how noble my reasons were. I cornered her into saying yes. I didn’t ask about her life. About her past. I didn’t think I needed to. She was right to call me a presumptuous prick. Is it any wonder she hates me?
Tomasso continues to speak, something about customs clearance on the Marseille dock or Luca needing tation on the Palermo route, but I don’t hear him. I can’t hear him. There’s a ringing in my ears.
He stops. “You’re not listening, are you?”
“Did you get his name?” I ask sharply.
He makes a face. “No. Didn’t seem necessary.” He leans back against the edge of my desk, watching me. “Small guy. Looks like nothing. Nervous. I doubt he’s anything to worry about. Maybe Renato sent him to spy on her. I wouldn't put it past the rat.”
That would make more sense. Renato wouldn’t let go so easily. It would give me a reason to act. To protect. Maybe this is a power move, a message that he still has claim over her. The fucking bastard.
But what if Tomasso is wrong? What if it's someone from her past? Someone vital to her who—
No.
I move briskly to the comm panel on the wall and press the button.
“Let him in,” I say to the guards.
A pause. “Yes, sir.”
Tomasso arches a brow. “You’re going to see him yourself?”
“I want to know who he is,” I reply, my voice clipped. “Let’s go.”
He follows without further question.
We move through the house quickly, down the main hall with its checkered flooring, past the winter salon where light pools in through the high arched windows. The late afternoon light slants in from the tall windows. We cut through the gallery, make a sharp left through the atrium, and into the foyer. It’s where we receive guests. It's neutral territory. No weapons. No threats. Just enough elegance to remind anyone who steps through who I am.
We arrive just as the guest is being shown in. And I understand immediately what Tomasso meant.
The man is… small. Wiry. Nondescript. His shoes are scuffed, his shoulders narrow, His jacket hangs loosely on him, as if he borrowed it from someone bulkier. There’s a nervous energy radiating from him. His eyes dart to every corner of the room before finally landing on me.
When they land on me, I see a flicker of fear.
Good.
I don't offer a smile. I don't offer anything.
He steps forward tentatively and holds out a hand. “Signor Renzetti.”
I stare at the hand and don’t move.
He waits, then lets it fall awkwardly and limply at his sides.
Tomasso makes a sound that’s suspiciously close to a laugh. He finds amusement in this. I shoot him a warning look before returning my gaze to the man in front of me. My glare is withering.
