Chapter 20: Chapter Nineteen – A Tour in Tension

BLAINE

As I walked down the corridor to Malia’s room, I caught my reflection in the tall window glass—composed, unreadable, cold. Once I reached her door I knocked.

“Come in,” her voice called—stronger than I’d expected.

The door creaked as I stepped inside.

She sat curled on the windowsill, sunlight catching the curve of her cheek, her arms wrapped around her knees as she watched the garden below.

The moment her gaze landed on me, the softness vanished.

“Oh. It’s you.”

The disappointment clung to every word.

“Sorry to disappoint,” I replied evenly. “Isabella asked me to give you the tour. Show you around so you don’t accidentally wander into the gun vault or worse—back into my room.”

Her head turned, brows raised. A beat passed before a smirk tugged at her lips.

“Should I be worried about what’s in your room, Marcello?”

My name on her lips did something to me. Sharp. Immediate.

Fucking dangerous.

“That depends. Do you tend to open boxes labeled ‘private’?”

“Only if someone tells me not to,” she said sweetly.

Her eyes didn’t waver—challenging, curious.

“Why are you suddenly the one showing me around?” she asked.

“Isabella wasn’t feeling well,” I said casually—leaving out the part where I was the reason she couldn’t breathe properly for a few seconds. Malia didn’t need to know that version of me yet. I cleared my throat and motioned to the door. “Shall we?”

She slipped down from the windowsill and brushed past me, her arm grazing mine like it was nothing.

I didn’t move. Just exhaled—steady, quiet—reminding myself that I was the one in control.

We stepped into the hallway.

I need to remember: I am just another staff member.

An emotionally stable, low-profile employee who didn’t watch her sleep last night like some obsessed lunatic.

MALIA

He was nervous.

Marcello — this tall, sharp-edged enigma of a man — was trying to act casual, but I noticed the stiffness in his shoulders. The way his jaw tensed ever so slightly each time our arms brushed. He tried so hard to stay unreadable. It was almost cute. Almost.

I was thinking about what he’d said earlier. Just a few hours ago, I’d been in his room, and there had been nothing to suggest he was hiding something. I told myself I was overthinking. That it had just been a snarky comment. But the curiosity lingered anyway.

It was hard to believe two days had passed since I’d arrived here. Friday had disappeared in a haze — sleep, painkillers, exhaustion. I hadn’t stepped foot outside his room until now. I hadn’t seen the rest of Crimson Garden yet.

Needless to say, I was curious.

From what I’d glimpsed through the windows, the place was huge. Two stories at least, stretched wide.

The villa was… absurd.

Clean architectural lines softened by Sicilian charm — warm tones, curved archways, floor-length windows framed by climbing vines. Crimson accents, dark wood, wide-paneled floors that whispered with every step. Every detail was pristine but not sterile. It didn’t feel like a hotel or a fortress. It felt like a home dressed as a palace.

My room was across from Marcello’s. At least twice the size of my old apartment — and somehow tailored exactly to me. That still made my skin crawl in the quiet hours.

How had they gotten everything so right?

The cherry blossom mural beside the bed. The desk, perfectly stocked with every art supply I’d ever dreamed of affording. The shelves — not just filled with the books I owned, but also titles I’d always wanted, and others I’d never heard of but already wanted to read.

The thought sent a chill down my spine.

But I pushed it away as I followed him silently.

He explained who stayed where. My room was at the end of the hallway on the left. Marcello’s directly across. Blaine’s was next to mine — apparently the largest in this wing — and next to him, Gabe, the consigliere. I hadn’t met him yet, but Isabella had mentioned his name with a kind of cautious respect. On the other side, adjacent to Marcello’s, were Isabella and Claire’s rooms.

It surprised me that the Capo Bastone — heir to the Mafia throne — slept this close to his staff. But maybe that said something about him. About power that didn’t need to posture. About a man who didn’t separate himself from those beneath him.

Maybe. Or maybe it was all part of the illusion.

“And this,” he said, stopping at a wide double door, “is the library.”

The air changed the moment we stepped inside.

My feet slowed instinctively. Fingers brushing against the leather spines lining the mahogany shelves — some cracked and ancient, others gleaming with gold titles. The room smelled like ink and time.

He didn’t speak. Just watched me.

And for the first time since all of this began… I forgot what he was.

“This is… amazing,” I whispered.

“You can come here whenever you want,” he said, his voice quieter now. “It’s yours too.”

I turned to him, startled by the sincerity in his tone.

“Is it?” I asked. “Because nothing here really feels like mine.”

His expression didn’t change. “That can change.”

We moved on to the rooftop garden — tucked above the second floor like a secret the house didn’t share with just anyone. Stone paths curved through beds of wild-looking flowers and creeping vines. Everything looked overgrown, natural… but I could tell it had all been arranged with surgical precision. Crimson blooms spilled over the edges of raised beds. Trellises curled around climbing plants like they were dancing in slow motion. The air smelled like earth and sun-warmed petals. A curated wilderness, made to feel free.

The kind of place where you could lose track of time.

Maybe even lose yourself.

Next was a lounge-like living area — cozy and modern, with a plush sofa, soft lighting, and a wide aquarium glowing along the far wall. Fish flicked through the water, vibrant and surreal.

At the end of the room, a smaller stairwell curved downward into the kitchen.

It was bright, sleek, and surprisingly warm — all creamy stone, soft gold accents, and hanging copper pans that caught the sunlight. It felt… lived-in. And safe.

“Breakfast is usually here. Lunch and dinner are in the dining hall,” he said.

I raised an eyebrow. “So formal.”

He shrugged. “Old family. Old rules.”

I leaned against the counter, folding my arms. “And what are the new rules?”

“Don’t steal knives. Don’t stab the staff. And don’t take my coffee mug.”

I blinked. Then laughed. “Is that an actual rule?”

His lips twitched. “It is now.”

For a moment — just a breath — it was easy to forget the truth. That I’d been kidnapped. That this was a forced engagement. That the man beside me was Mafia.

For a few steps, he was just someone showing me around. And I was just someone he didn’t hate.

As we stepped out into the back garden, I looked up at him. “Thank you,” I said softly.

He paused. “For what?”

“For not being who I thought you were.”