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She smiles like she knows that.
The side door swings open, and another woman I met at my first visit to the compound strides in from what looks like the gym. Isabella’s workout clothes are damp with sweat, and a Glock’s strapped to her hip like an accessory. She offers none of Sophia’s easy-going welcome as she circles me, her eyes sharp and assessing.
“I half-expected you to not show up.”
“With men camping outside my apartment, I didn’t think I had much choice.” I release a dry chuckle. “I’d rather be safe than sorry.”
A flicker of what might be approval crosses her face.
“You’ll do.” She grins and addresses Marco. “She’ll need range time and hand-to-hand training. Don’t wait on that.”
Izzy sweeps out of the room before I can ask whether I’m undergoing onboarding or hazing.
In her wake, a lean man with shaggy blond hair and a heavy beard appears at the doors, a tablet tucked under his arm. He extends his hand while sizing me up in a single glance.
“Nico Ferrante. I handle strategy for the famiglia.” His grip remains firm as his ice-blue eyes trace over me. “Welcome to the compound, Doc. Marco talks about you more than he’d like me to mention.”
Marco shoots him a look that could curdle milk. In response, Nico grins and disappears.
Later, I’m posted up on the couch in Marco’s quarters when a tall, ruggedly handsome man strides into the space with Sophia beside him. Framed in the lamplight, the two of them radiate an effortless aura of power and warmth.
When the man comes forward, Marco steps in front of me and gives a nod.
“Meet the padrino, Lucia.”
Enzo Ricci towers over me. Silver strands weave through his dark hair at the temples, and he wears his authority like a holster for a myriad of weapons.
He studies me, and I meet his gaze because glancing away from a man like this would be a costly mistake. “Thank you for having me, Mr. Ricci. I understand the unusual nature of this arrangement.”
His expression doesn’t change, but I catch the faintest softening before he shrugs. “Any friend of Marco’s has a place here.” He turns to Sophia. “We should let them settle in.”
Sophia squeezes my hand once. “Please join us for dinner tomorrow evening at the main villa. We’d love to get to know you properly.”
Once they leave, the room shrinks to just Marco and me.
Marco carries my suitcase inside and sets it down. For the first time, I take in the full scope of the open-concept space. A bed sits against the far wall, a desk by the window. Closer to the center, a matching leather couch and armchair face a low rug, creating a small living room zone. A walnut bar separates the area from the narrow kitchenette along the back.
I stare at the huge mattress topped with a cloud-thick dark gray duvet, the kind of bedding that swallows you whole the moment you sit down. After months of sleeping on a hospital break room cot and a lumpy apartment mattress, it’s disturbingly inviting. I still can’t stop thinking about how it’s the only bed in the room.
“I’ll take the couch.” Marco waves toward the leather sofa by the armchair, reading my face before I can speak.
I look at the couch, then at him. Though a generous size by most standards, the sofa falls short by about three inches and can’t contain the 6’2 man currently offering to fold himself onto it.
“Fine.” I place my plate on the kitchenette counter and claim the bed, pulling back the duvet with the territorial efficiency of a woman establishing borders.
He opens a drawer, selects a gray t-shirt, and tosses it over to me. “For sleeping. Unless you packed your preferred pajamas.”
I did, in fact. A perfectly reasonable set of pajamas waits in my suitcase three feet away. Instead, I pick up his shirt, the cotton soft and worn and carrying his scent in every fiber. I convince myself it’s a practical choice. If I must sleep in an unfamiliar bed, then I can at least enjoy the comfort of an oversize shirt.
In the bathroom, while changing, I refuse to examine why I chose his shirt over my own pajamas.
For the next two hours, I lie in the dark listening to him shift, grunt, and shift again. The leather creaks every time, so no nighttime hush ever gets a chance to fall. A man built like Marco Santori can’t sleep on a couch designed for reading and afternoon naps.
At some point, the medical professional in me overrides my petty satisfaction.
“Marco.” My voice cuts through the dark.
The creaking stops. “Yeah?”
