"He'd feel better hearing that from you directly." The smile widens. Still doesn't touch his eyes. "You know how he is. Old-fashioned. He likes his family close."
There it is.
I stop walking. "Is that what we're calling it?"
Marco tilts his head. Patient. Immovable. The human equivalent of a locked door. "He just wants you home, Serafina. Where it's safe."
"I have an apartment I'd like to return to tonight. I can walk to work from there."
"You have a family." His voice stays warm. His eyes don't. "In our world, that comes first. You know this."
Our world.
"Tell my father I appreciate his concern." I take a step back. "And that I'll call him when I'm ready."
I turn and walk before he can answer. Fast. Purposeful.
Behind me, Marco says nothing.
That's almost worse.
I don't go backto the surgical floor.
I take a left at the end of the corridor, then another, cutting through radiology and down a back hallway most attendings don't bother to learn. I know every exit in this hospital. I mapped them in my second week, the way my father taught me to map every room I enter.
Know your exits, Serafina. Always.
Thanks, Dad. Actually useful for once.
The staff stairwell door is heavy, gray, and gloriously unmarked. I push through it and take the stairs down toward the parking level, gym bag over my shoulder, already running calculations. Different exit. Different route home. Lose the SUV, deal with the bank tomorrow, figure out what the hell is on that drive before anyone else.
I round the landing between the first and second floors.
And stop.
He's just standing there.
Luca Moretti.Black suit, impeccable. Jacket on, hands in his pockets, standing in the middle of a concrete landing like he was placed there specifically to ruin my morning.
How long has he been there?
How did he even know about this stairwell?
My pulse does something stupid, and I want to kill it. He's even worse up close. Of course he is. Sharp jaw, cruel mouth, built like someone designed him specifically to make women make poor life decisions. The fluorescent stairwell light should make him look harsh and institutional.
It doesn't.
It's deeply, cosmically unfair.
"You followed me."
"I was here first." His voice is low. Unhurried. The kind of voice that's never had to raise itself to be heard.
"Semantics."
"Accuracy." His gaze moves over me. Quick. Thorough. The way you assess a situation, not the way you admire one. "You made Marco Succi in under ten seconds. Then you ran."
"I walked."
