“This is an abomination,” he said. “When you meet my family, you’ll need to call it something else entirely.”
My traitorous heart gave a hard, foolish leap at how casually he said it. As if yesterday hadn’t happened. As if he hadn’t left me standing in my apartment doorway feeling rejected and confused and far too exposed.
I folded my arms loosely over my chest. “What do you want, Pietro?”
His gaze settled on me fully then, the playfulness easing out of it.
“Many things,” he said. “Most of them can’t happen until we talk.”
I held his eyes. “That’s very cryptic.”
“Do you have somewhere to be?” he asked as he stood.
The movement drew my attention to his cane, to the way his hand closed around the silver handle hard enough that the knuckles stood out white against his skin. I couldn’t tell whether he was in pain or simply nervous. Either way, it breached some of the walls I had tried to hold on to since last night.
“I’m free for a few hours.”
I saw his shoulders lower slightly.
So he was nervous.
“Could we go to my place?” he asked. Then, too quickly, “Or yours. It’s just that mine is right down the street, but if you’d rather?—”
“No,” I said, before he could retreat any further. “Yes. It’s fine. Your place is fine.”
The walk there was quiet, weighted, as though both of us knew something was coming and neither of us wanted to be the first to break the skin of it.
I didn’t miss Olivero following a few feet behind either. My heart was beating so hard it almost hurt, because whatever Pietro was about to tell me, I sensed there would be no walking it back. Whatever he revealed would change how I saw him, and whatever I did after would probably reveal just as much about me.
When we reached the building, Pietro turned slightly toward the man behind us and gave the smallest shake of his head.
Olivero stopped at once and that alone told me more than I wanted it to.
Pietro scanned the door with his fob and held it open for me. We stepped inside, then into the elevator, where the silence felt even more significant.
“He’s not your friend, is he?” I asked quietly.
“In many ways, he actually is,” Pietro said. “But never tell him that. He’d become unbearable.”
A weak smile tried to pull at my mouth, but it didn’t quite make it.
“But he’s not just that, is he?”
Pietro kept his eyes on the elevator doors. After a beat, his head dipped once toward me.
“No.”
No, of course not.
My mind spun faster. He wasn’t just rich. That much I already knew. He was rich rich, and yes, I looked him up yesterday after he walked away. I’d found enough to confirm he was the heir to some giant conglomerate, the kind of family empire built to impress people who liked boardrooms, private schools, and generational wealth.
But even then, I felt it.
There was something wrong with how curated it all was. The media was too clean, too controlled. Not a life, a version of one. The sort of public image that looked like editing.
His apartment was exactly what I should have expected. Dark wood. Clean lines. Understated in a way that probably cost twice as much as anything gaudy. It should have felt impersonal. Instead it felt controlled. Very Pietro.
He set his keys down on the marble counter and turned to face me. For a moment he said nothing, and the silence stretched just long enough to make my pulse begin to pound.
