Chapter 73 -
Nia thought about Andrea. About the woman who had loved Leo when he was still capable of being loved, before grief had carved him into something cold and sharp. Andrea, who had died in a pool of her own blood while Leo was miles away, handling business, being the good soldier. Andrea, whose ghost lived in every corner of this mansion, in every careful word the family spoke, in every shadow that crossed Leo’s face when he thought no one was looking.
How could Nia compete with that? How could anyone compete with a memory that had been perfected by death, polished into something untouchable by time and guilt and grief?
“You cannot,” she whispered to herself. “So do not try.”
But then she thought about the way Leo had looked at her in the hallway after Micheal’s party. The way his eyes had dropped to her lips, the way his hand had tightened on her arm like he was afraid she might disappear if he let go. The way his voice had cracked when he said he could not let her go, could only stand there looking at her like she was something that mattered.
Or maybe she does…
“Or maybe you are just drunk,” Nia told herself, “and reading things that are not there.”
Her reflection stared back at her from the polished wood of the door. She looked wild. Her hair was a mess, falling out of the braid she had woven it into that morning. Her eyes were too bright, her cheeks flushed from whiskey and determination. She was wearing soft cotton pants and a gray sweater that hung off one shoulder, the kind of clothes you wore when you were trying to be comfortable, not impressive.
This was a terrible idea.
She raised her hand anyway.
Before she could lose her nerve, before the sensible part of her brain could wrestle control back from the whiskey and the sleeplessness and the aching need to understand, Nia knocked.
Her knuckles made contact with the dark wood, and the sound seemed to echo through the entire hallway. Too loud. Too final. She pulled her hand back like the door had burned her, cradling it against her chest while her heart tried to hammer its way free.
Nothing happened.
The silence that followed was so complete that Nia could hear the blood rushing in her ears, could hear her own breathing coming faster than it should. She stared at the door, willing it to stay closed, willing it to open, unable to decide which outcome terrified her more.
“See?” she whispered to herself, her voice barely audible. “He is sleeping. Like a normal person. Because it is two in the morning and normal people sleep at two in the morning.”
The whiskey bottle felt heavier in her hand. She looked down at it, at the amber liquid sloshing gently inside, and wondered if she should just drink the rest of it right here. Maybe if she got drunk enough, she could convince herself this whole night had been a dream. A very stupid, very embarrassing dream that she would never speak of again.
But that would mean going back to her room. Back to the silence and the thoughts that would not stop spinning and the memory of Micheal’s sad eyes when he talked about Andrea dying in a pool of blood. Back to pretending that she did not care about Leonardo DeSanto, that she was still just a prisoner waiting for her chance to escape.
And Nia was so tired of pretending.
She raised her hand again. This time, when her knuckles hit the wood, the sound was sharper. More insistent. The kind of knock that demanded to be answered, that refused to be ignored. Three solid raps that seemed to shake the silence apart.
Then she waited.
Her whole body felt like it was vibrating, every nerve ending on high alert. The hallway was too quiet, too dark, too full of shadows that seemed to lean in close like they wanted to hear what would happen next. Nia shifted her weight from one foot to the other, suddenly very aware of how exposed she was standing here. If Leo opened the door right now, there would be no hiding, no taking it back. She would have to own this moment, this choice, this completely insane decision to knock on the Enforcer’s door in the middle of the night.
“Please do not open it,” she breathed. “Please do not open it please do not open it please do not—”
Footsteps.
Nia’s breath caught in her throat. They were heavy, deliberate, moving closer with each second. Not the rushed steps of someone annoyed at being woken up, but careful, measured, like whoever was on the other side of the door was trying to figure out what kind of threat was waiting for them.
Her first instinct was to run. Every muscle in her body screamed at her to turn around and sprint back down that hallway, to disappear into her room and pretend this never happened. She could claim sleepwalking. Temporary insanity. The whiskey made her do it. Anything but stand here and face whatever was about to happen.
But her feet stayed planted on the dark wooden floor, refusing to cooperate with the smarter parts of her brain. The bottle dangled from her fingers, suddenly feeling less like liquid courage and more like evidence of incredibly poor judgment.
The footsteps stopped right on the other side of the door.
Nia held her breath. The silence stretched out, thin and fragile, like glass about to shatter. She could picture Leo standing there, his hand on the doorknob, trying to decide if he should open it or pretend he had not heard anything. Maybe he was hoping she would give up and leave. Maybe he was as terrified of this moment as she was.
The lock clicked.
The sound was small but it echoed through Nia’s entire body. Her heart kicked against her ribs so hard it hurt. The whiskey in her bloodstream made everything feel both too sharp and too soft at the same time, like she was watching this happen to someone else while simultaneously feeling every single second of it with brutal clarity.
The doorknob turned.
Nia’s hands started shaking. She gripped the bottle tighter, using it as an anchor, something solid to hold onto while the world tilted sideways.
The door swung open.
And there he was.
Leonardo DeSanto stood in the doorway, and Nia forgot how to form words.