Chapter Twenty – The Forbidden Wing

Chapter Twenty – The Forbidden Wing
MALIA

His brow furrowed.
“And who exactly did you think I was?”
“A pervert who changed me out of my bloody clothes,” I replied flatly.
That earned me a groan.
“I told you I didn’t touch you. Claire and Isabella handled it.”
“Yes,” I said. “But you still watched me sleep.”
“I was making sure you didn’t die.”
“Uh-huh.”
His chuckle came low, real. “Fine. Maybe I stared a little.”
I turned, amused by his honesty—but he was already looking at me.
And that silence—that flicker—felt louder than anything else.
I looked away first. Maybe because I wasn’t ready to unpack what I’d seen in his eyes. Or maybe because I was starting to feel something dangerously close to comfort. And that couldn’t be allowed. Not here.
We moved on, circling back into the main hall.
“This wing,” he said, gesturing down a long corridor, “is all empty—for you to do with as you please.”
“Why?” I asked, tilting my head.
He hesitated. “To give you space.”
That surprised me.
“I didn’t ask for space.”
His expression flickered—conflicted, cautious.
“No. But Blaine thought you’d want it.”
“I’m not afraid of him. Or you.”
His eyes darkened—not with threat, but something unreadable.
“You should be.”
I raised my chin. “Maybe I should. But I’m not.”
We stood in that tension for a beat too long before he stepped aside and motioned toward the stairs.
“The rooftop garden,” he said, voice quieter now. “You’ll find me there most nights. If you ever need... air.”
I didn’t answer, but I tucked the offer away.
We had already passed the grand piano room, the library that smelled of old wood and quiet secrets, and even a hallway lined with paintings—faces I didn’t know, but hung with pride. Every step felt like I was walking through someone else’s memories. None of them mine.
And yet... I found myself wanting to know more.
Not about the house.
About him.
Marcello had been oddly restrained. No flirtation, no snark—just quiet professionalism, like he truly was nothing more than a staff member giving a tour. His hands stayed behind his back, posture stiff, like he was holding himself back from something.
The silence between us stretched too long, and just as I opened my mouth to break it—he turned sharply, skipping a hallway.
Too sharply.
My eyes narrowed.
I paused at the corner, just enough to glance down the hallway he’d clearly meant to avoid.
The air there felt... off. Dimmer. Heavier.
Like the walls knew secrets and didn’t want to share them.
He noticed I wasn’t following and turned back, voice clipped. “There’s nothing important there.”
A poor lie.
I crossed my arms loosely. “Then you won’t mind showing me.”
His jaw flexed. “It’s not part of the tour.”
“Why not? It’s part of the house I’m now living in.”
When he didn’t answer, I pushed again.
“What is it, a dungeon? A secret torture chamber? Come on—I promise not to touch anything.”
Marcello’s eyes narrowed slightly. Just enough to make my stomach flip.
Whatever was down that hallway wasn’t just forbidden.
It was personal.
“You won’t need anything from there,” he said, voice lower now. Controlled—but tense.
Which only made me more determined.
I stepped toward it.
“Stop,” he said sharply.
I didn’t.
In an instant, he was in front of me. One hand pressed to the wall beside my head, the other gently—yet firmly—on my shoulder. Not forceful. Just enough to remind me he could move faster than I’d ever seen him.
“Why are you so insistent on testing boundaries?” he asked, voice a whisper.
His breath grazed my cheek. His body heat curled around me like smoke. My heart stuttered, lungs pulling tight.
He smelled like dark spice and clean warmth and something I didn’t want to name.
“Because you make them sound like invitations,” I whispered.
That caught him.
His jaw twitched—less guarded now. His eyes dropped to my mouth for half a second.
Then, just as fast, he stepped back.
The warmth vanished. Distance returned.
His voice came rougher. “This wing is off limits. Blaine DeCavalcante’s orders.”
“Why?”
“You’re not ready to see what’s down there.”
He turned. “Come. There’s still the sunroom.”
But my feet stayed rooted. My eyes dragged back to the dim hallway.
Why did it feel like part of him was hidden there?
He called over his shoulder, “Still standing there? The sunroom doesn’t bite. Usually.”
I tore my gaze from the shadows and followed, slower now.
“I think you get off on withholding things,” I muttered.
“I get off on a lot of things,” he said dryly. 
I rolled my eyes and brushed past him on purpose.
He didn’t react. But I saw the flicker. That little tilt of his head, like I’d become a riddle he hadn’t solved yet.
We reached the sunroom.
Golden light flooded through the glass walls. Beyond them, the garden and the ocean blurred together. Potted citrus trees framed the room, and in the center, a pale chaise faced the waves like a quiet throne. The air smelled like rosemary and salt.
“Here,” he said. “This is where you come when you’re tired of me.”
“So... I’ll be here a lot?”
“I’d expect nothing less.”
I drifted toward the window, placing my palm against the warm glass. Outside, the crimson maples swayed lazily in the breeze.
“Who does that wing belong to?” I asked.
He didn’t answer right away.
“You’re asking the wrong person, principessa. The Capo Bastone doesn’t want anyone there. Especially not you. I’m just following orders.”
The ache that flared in my chest surprised me.
I let it go. For now.
But not forever.
He led me back to my room, finishing the tour.
When he moved to walk past me, I caught his wrist.
It startled us both.
“Thank you,” I said. “For this.”
His gaze dropped to our hands. Something passed through his expression—too fast to catch.
“You’re welcome,” he said softly.
And then he walked away, leaving a ghost of his warmth in my palm.