Chapter 39 -
The air in the guest wing tasted of lemon wax and the cold, metallic scent of a storm that refused to break. Nia sat cross-legged on the oversized bed, her spine pressed against the velvet headboard. In her hands, she clutched a battered copy of Wuthering Heights, the edges of the pages softened by years of someone else’s touch. For an hour, she had managed to vanish. She was no longer a ghost in the DeSanto mansion; she was on the moors, lost in a different kind of madness.
The book was a relic. It belonged to Andrea, the girl who died and left a hollow space in this house that no amount of marble could fill. Nia traced the masculine handwriting in the margin: Heathcliff is an ass but I understand him. She wondered if Leonardo had written that, or if he was simply living it.
A floorboard creaked in the hallway. Nia did not look up, but her thumb tightened against the paper. The silence in the mansion was never empty; it was heavy, filled with the presence of men who moved like predators through the shadows.
A sharp, rhythmic knock rattled the heavy oak of her door.
Nia closed the book. The transition from the moors back to her gilded cage was violent. She looked at the door, her heart performing a slow, thudding rhythm against her ribs.
"Miss Wallace." Matteo’s voice was as flat as the marble floors, stripped of anything resembling warmth.
"I am busy, Matteo," Nia called out. Her voice sounded thin to her own ears. "Does the cage door need to be checked again?"
The handle turned. Matteo did not wait for an invitation. He never did. He stepped into the room, his black suit tailored to hide the bulk of the weapon at his hip. He stood with his hands clasped behind his back, his expression a mask of professional boredom.
"The boss wants to see you," Matteo said.
Nia felt her stomach drop, a cold sensation spreading through her limbs. She did not move. "I just saw him at breakfast. Has he already run out of people to threaten?"
Matteo did not smile. He did not even blink. "He did not specify his agenda. He only specified the time."
"And let me guess," Nia said, sliding off the bed. She felt small in the vastness of the room, her bare feet sinking into the plush carpet. "The time is later."
"The time is now," Matteo corrected.
Nia looked at the yellow floral dress she wore, a garment retrieved from her old life by men who had no business touching her things. It felt like a costume. She felt like a doll being moved across a chessboard by a player she could not see.
"He is in the study," Matteo added, stepping aside to clear the path. "Do not keep him waiting. He is not having a good day."
"Does he ever have those?" Nia asked, walking toward the door.
"Once," Matteo murmured, so low she almost missed it. "But that was a different lifetime."
As Nia stepped into the hallway, she felt the familiar weight of the mansion settle over her. The golden light of the afternoon did nothing to warm the corridor. She followed Matteo, her mind racing through every conversation she had overheard and every look Leo had given her. She was a prisoner, a witness, and a liability. And as she approached the heavy double doors of the study, she realized with a start that her breath was hitching in anticipation of seeing him.
The study smelled of expensive tobacco, aged leather, and something else—something cold and sharp like the air before a snowfall. Leonardo stood by the tall windows, his back to the room. He had discarded his suit jacket. His white shirt was stark against the darkening sky outside, the sleeves rolled up to reveal the powerful tendons of his forearms.
Matteo closed the door behind Nia, the click of the lock echoing like a gavel.
"You took your time," Leo said. He did not turn around.
"I was in the middle of a chapter," Nia replied. She crossed her arms, trying to find a sense of balance. "Some of us enjoy worlds where the villains are made of ink instead of muscle."
Leo turned then. The light from the desk lamp caught the hard angles of his face and the faint, jagged scar that traced his lip. His gray eyes were turbulent, a storm held in check by sheer force of will. He looked at her, and Nia felt the air leave her lungs. It was not just a look; it was an assessment.
"You were in Gabriel’s room again," Leo said. It was not a question.
"He had a nightmare," Nia said, her voice softening despite herself. "He wanted a story. I gave him one."
Leo walked toward her. He moved with a predatory grace, his footsteps silent on the rug. He stopped just inches away, close enough that she could feel the heat radiating from his body. He reached out, his hand hovering near her neck, before his fingers caught a loose strand of her hair and tucked it behind her ear. The contact was electric, a brief flash of warmth that made her tremble.
"I told you not to get attached," he whispered. His voice was a low rasp that vibrated in her chest. "Attachments are a death sentence in this house."
"Then why do you let him stay?" Nia challenged, her eyes locked onto his. "If it is so dangerous, why keep him in this cage?"
Leo’s jaw tightened, a muscle jumping in his cheek. He looked away, his gaze drifting to a framed drawing on the wall—a lopsided house in bright crayon.
"Because he is the only thing that reminds me I am still human," Leo said. The admission seemed to cost him.
"You are a coward, Leo," Nia said, her voice barely a whisper. "You hide behind your rules and your guns because you are terrified of feeling anything for someone who is still breathing."