Page 123 of The Art of Ruin

Then he steps back.

I stand there with my hand still half-curled near my chest, my lips tingling, my entire body suddenly awake in a way it absolutely should not be.

He waits until I open the door.

Only then does he turn away.

And I have no idea what the hell just happened.

Only that I want it to happen again.

19.Adriano

The endof January has come around fast, work is crazy busy and things have settled into a nice rhythm. Casey still looks surprised every time she laughs. The guarded hesitancy she was using to keep her heart safe is starting to ease. I know she checks herself sometimes, though, wondering if she should be more guarded.

Not visibly.

Not in a way most people would notice.

But I do.

I notice the slight hesitation before it happens sometimes, like part of her still expects herself to stop before she gets there, and the way her expression softens after, as though she’s caught off guard by the fact she enjoyed something without immediately ruining it by overthinking.

It happens more now than it did when she first arrived.

Not often, but enough that I’ve started waiting for it.

Which is a problem I prefer not to examine too closely.

“Are you listening to me?”

Matteo’s voice drags me back into the office, and I look up from the report in front of me to find my brothers watching me with varying levels of irritation.

“I heard everything you said.”

“That’s impressive considering you’ve been staring at the same page for ten minutes.”

“I’ve read the page.”

“Three times,” Nico mutters from the other side of the office.

I lean back slightly in the chair, ignoring them as I close the file in front of me. The office around us hums quietly with the steady movement of the building beyond the glass walls—phones ringing somewhere outside, low conversation, footsteps against polished concrete floors. ISM headquarters always feels more alive in the afternoon, people moving faster as the day starts tightening toward deadlines.

Usually, I like that energy.

Today it’s grating slightly.

Mostly because I slept badly—again.

Which, unfortunately, has become a recurring issue since New Year’s Eve.

Not because I regret kissing her.

That part isn’t the problem.

The problem is that I haven’t stopped thinking about doing it again.

Her hand gripping the front of my shirt.