Her hands are still. The quiet between us stretches. The air in the room feels heavier, thickening with everything neither of us is saying.
“Why didn’t you tell me?” The question leaves me before I decide to ask it.
Her hands move slower now. Because it wasn’t yours to carry.
I take a step closer. “Everything that touches you is mine to carry.”
Her eyes lock on mine, the set of her mouth tightening. Her signs are quick this time, sharper. You think everything is yours to control.
The words hang there.
It shifts something in me, the way she throws it at me, the first hint of real volatility I’ve seen from her since she came here.
I don’t answer right away. I look at her, really look, at the tension in her shoulders, the faint rise and fall of her breath.
“This isn’t about control,” I say finally, my voice low. “This is about a man who thinks he can take what’s mine. That makes it my problem.”
She looks away for the first time, her gaze moving to the edge of the desk like she needs to anchor it somewhere. Her hands lift again, but there’s hesitation in the movement. I’m not something to fight over. I'm not worth it.
The words land differently than I expect.
Something in my chest tightens. I move closer, close enough that the space between us feels smaller. “You’re not something to fight over,” I say, my tone quieter now. “You’re someone I will fight for. You're worth it, every fucking fight.”
She doesn’t look at me right away. Her hands stay still in her lap, her breath measured, but there’s a shift in the air between us.
Her eyes come back to mine, steady again, but I can see the weight behind them.
“I’ll deal with Greco,” I say. The words are simple, final. “And until I do, protection around you doubles. No movement without my clearance.”
Her brow tightens faintly, but she doesn’t argue. It’s the closest thing to agreement I’ll get from her now. Saying nothing more because fury still burns beneath the surface, I leave.
The conversation doesn’t settle cleanly. It lingers, a low burn beneath the surface as the afternoon moves on. I keep working, but my mind stays divided, pulled between the weight of Greco’sname and the way Liliana looked at me when she said she wasn’t something to fight over.
She’s quieter through dinner. It’s not the old wariness, but there’s distance there, the kind that isn’t born from fear but from holding too much inside. I let it stand for now.
Later, when the house is quiet again, I find her in the sitting room near the garden. She’s curled into the corner of the couch, the low lamplight catching in her hair. She looks up when I enter, her eyes following me with that same quiet steadiness.
I stop in front of her, the words from earlier still lodged somewhere in my chest. “Liliana.”
She tilts her head slightly, waiting.
“I shouldn’t have spoken to you like that earlier,” I say. The words aren’t easy, but they are true. “I wasn’t angry at you. I was angry at what your father’s debt has brought to our door.”
Her hands lift slowly. You don’t need to explain.
“I do,” I say. “Because I don’t want you thinking my anger belongs to you.”
Her gaze holds mine, her expression still. But there’s the faintest shift in her eyes, a softening so subtle I almost miss it. She doesn’t sign again. She just nods once.
I take that for what it is.
As I turn to leave, I glance back at her once more. The stillness she wears isn’t the same as it was months ago. There’s something beneath it now. Something I don’t fully understand yet. But I will.
And until then, Greco will learn exactly how costly his patience has been.
18
LILIANA
