Up close, in the low light, his eyes are darker than I've let myself notice. Not a color. A depth. The kind you fall into if you stop paying attention.
I don't stop paying attention.
"When I have a better plan."
His expression doesn't change. Not exactly. But something behind his eyes unlocks. My body gets there first — a pull low in my stomach I refuse to acknowledge.
"Eat your brunch, Serafina."
My name in his mouth lands somewhere it has no business landing. Low. Warm. Between my hips.
I eat my brunch.
After brunch,I test the Wi-Fi.
There isn't any. Or rather, there is, but it's locked behind a firewall that returns an access-denied message before I can finish typing the URL. I try three workarounds on the burner. Each one hits the same wall.
Luca anticipated me. Again.
I call Dani from the burner. She's on the pre-approved list — which means someone dug through my life and decided she mattered to me. They were right.
"Oh, thank God." A breath, fast and relieved. "They told me you were in protective custody. Are you okay?"
"I'm okay. I can't say where." I pause. "I need you to cover my shifts for the next—" I stop. Because I don't know how long.
"Already covered." Her voice drops to a whisper. "Serafina, there were men asking about you this morning. At the hospital. Suits. Expensive ones. They already knew your schedule. They were just checking whether we'd talk."
The back of my neck goes cold.
"Don't answer questions about me," I say. "Not to anyone."
"Are you sure you're okay?"
"My sheets are very high thread count," I say. "So it could be worse."
She snorts. We hang up.
The rest of the day passes in the specific misery of having nothing to do. I do laps of the floors I'm allowed on. I read half a medical journal on the burner. I stare at the locked study door for longer than is probably healthy. By the time the light outside fades and the brownstone settles into its nighttime quiet, I've exhausted every option that isn't sleep.
I should sleep.
I lieon top of the covers in the dark and have a very honest conversation with myself about the fact that I'm attracted to my kidnapper.
He's a Moretti. My father's enemy. A man who took my phone and my keys and my entire life and handed me a panic button like that makes it okay. A man with a body count I don't want to calculate and a mouth I can't stop thinking about, and if that isn't the most on-brand thing a Virelli woman has ever done, I don't know what is.
"Stop it," I say out loud to the ceiling.
The ceiling doesn't answer.
The ache between my legs does.
I squeeze my thighs together. It doesn't help. The image is already there. Luca's hands around that glass. The muscle that ticked in his jaw when I pushed back. The half-second in the doorframe when he held my gaze one beat longer than necessary.
I'd felt it then. The charge. Like standing too close to something live.
I'm furious at my own body.
I'm also alone in a room with nowhere to put this, and I am nothing if not practical.
