Chapter 58 Unwelcome habit

Chapter 58 Unwelcome habit

Dante’s POV

The meeting ends sometime after midnight.

I know because the grandfather clock downstairs strikes once while Antonio is still arguing with Giovanni over routes, and then again by the time the last of them leave my study carrying instructions I expect to be followed without mistakes. The sound echoes faintly through the house, swallowed by thick walls and old money.

By the end of it, the room smells like cigar smoke, coffee gone cold and tension left sitting too long. Papers cover almost every surface around me. Maps. Reports. Names. Numbers. Photographs from the explosion.

I stare at one longer than necessary.

Concrete split apart. Glass shattered. A portion of the west building collapsed inward like it had folded into itself.

Damage can be repaired. Buildings rebuilt. Men replaced.

Trust is expensive. That is harder.

My fingers drag absently over the edge of the photograph before I set it down.

The room is finally quiet, yet my mind isn’t.

Because underneath plans and retaliation and calculations sits an irritating thought I haven’t managed to shake for hours.

Different people know different things.

The words return again.

Not Enzo’s. Not Antonio’s.

Lucia’s.

I lean back in my chair slowly and close my eyes for a second, replaying the moment whether I want to or not.

The way she entered the room earlier without hesitation.

The way her thoughts arrived faster than her mouth could keep up.

How she paced while speaking, stopping midway because something had clicked in her head before continuing again.

She hadn’t sounded uncertain. That’s what stays with me.

Not confidence. Certainty. There is a difference. Confident people seek approval. Certain people don’t notice they need it.

And Lucia—

I exhale quietly through my nose.

The woman has spent months fighting me over every decision possible, yet tonight she stood in front of my desk and rearranged an entire strategy without realizing the weight of what she was doing.

I dislike surprises. I dislike unpredictability more. Which should explain why I’m still thinking about her.

It doesn’t.

I gather the remaining files instead. One stack. Then another. Something to do with my hands.

The house is mostly asleep by the time I leave the study.

The corridor lights have been dimmed. Shadows stretch long across polished floors, interrupted only by occasional lamps left burning for staff moving through the estate.

I pass the library without intending to stop. Then notice the light.

I pause. Take two steps back. The lamp in the corner is still on.

Warm. Soft.

Not enough to illuminate the whole room, only part of it. Enough. My hand remains on the doorway for a second before I step inside.

And there she is. Lucia is asleep on the sofa. Not properly. I can tell immediately.

One of her arms is tucked beneath her head at an awkward angle, blanket half fallen near her waist instead of over her. There’s a folder near her hand and an untouched cup of tea on the table beside her.

Cold now. I know because there’s no steam. My gaze lingers. Not intentionally. Observation becomes habit after years in this life. You learn to register details quickly.

Position.

Movement.

Intent.

Yet none of those explain why I notice the slight crease between her brows even asleep, as though whatever occupies her mind refuses to leave when she rests.

Or why I recognise almost immediately—

She waited.

The realization settles slowly.

Unwelcome.

Because she could have gone upstairs hours ago. Instead she stayed near the study.

Waiting for information. For outcomes.

For—

I stop the thought there. My jaw tightens slightly. The floor creaks beneath my shoe. Her eyes open almost immediately.

Years around dangerous men will do that. For a moment she looks disoriented, blinking against sleep before focusing properly.

Then she sees me. No alarm. No surprise.

Which is strange in itself.

Her voice comes rough with exhaustion. Soft.

“Did it help?” I look at her.

My brows pull together before I answer. “What?”

Her eyes lower briefly toward the file near her hand. “The idea.”

A pause. Then quieter: “Did it help?”

The question sits between us longer than expected. Not because I don’t understand it. Because I do.

Entirely.

She isn’t asking about the meeting. Or whether the men agreed. She’s asking whether what she said mattered.

I should find that insignificant. Instead something uncomfortable shifts low in my chest.

Recognition perhaps. I answer before considering it. “Yes.”

Her lashes lift slightly. I continue: “You were right.”

The words feel unfamiliar leaving my mouth. Not difficult. Simply rare.

People around me spend too much time trying to impress or manipulate. Very few offer something worth acknowledging.

Lucia’s expression changes immediately.

Small and Subtle.vHad I not been looking directly at her, I might have missed it.

Relief.

Not pride. Not satisfaction.

Relief.

As though she had worried she was wrong. As though my opinion carried weight.

The thought irritates me unexpectedly. Because it shouldn’t.

Her mouth curves faintly before exhaustion catches up again almost instantly.

“You should sleep,” I say.

She blinks once. Slowly. “I wasn’t waiting.”

She’s a terrible liar. My eyes shift toward the cold tea. Back to her.

“You were.”

Silence. Usually she argues. Pushes. Questions.

Tonight she only exhales and leans further into the sofa. Tired enough not to fight. The realization feels stranger than it should.

“You’re observant when you want to be,” she murmurs after a while.

The comment sounds careless.

Half asleep already. I almost respond.

Instead my attention catches on the blanket near her waist.

It’s bunched awkwardly. One side nearly touching the floor.

My hand moves before thought fully forms. I pull it back over her.

Simple and practical. Nothing more.

The fabric is warmer than expected from where she’s been lying against it.

Her eyes open again immediately. Confusion crosses her face first. Then something unreadable.

I straighten. “You’ll get sick sleeping here.”

The explanation arrives too quickly.

Her brows pull together slightly. Then she says, voice heavy with sleep:

“Rita says the same thing.”

I huff something that isn’t quite amusement. Not enough to count.

The room grows quiet after that. Wind presses faintly against the windows.

Somewhere deeper in the house, wood shifts.

Lucia’s eyes close again.

Then open. Barely.

“Dante.”

I stop near the doorwayband look back. Her gaze remains lowered.

Not on me. The blanket. Her hands.

Anywhere else.

“Thank you.”

Two words. Soft. Uncomplicated.

I stand there longer than necessary. Because gratitude in my world usually comes attached to obligation.

Fear. Expectation.

This doesn’t.

Which makes it harder to place. I leave without answering.

The corridor outside feels colder.

Or perhaps I notice it more.

Halfway to my room, the thought arrives.

Quietly. Without permission. Not dramatic enough to reject immediately. Only inconvenient.

Because among everything occupying my mind tonight—Casteelo, retaliation, internal leaks—another realization settles itself stubbornly between them.

I had expected the library to be empty. I noticed immediately that it wasn’t.

Worse— After passing it the first time, I went back.

My steps slow. Only briefly.

The understanding sits badly. Heavy in a way strategy never is.

Because habits form before men recognize them. And dangerous ones form silently.

I have started looking for my wife.

The thought lingers for one unwelcome second.

Then another. By the time I reach my bedroom door, annoyance has replaced surprise.

Not at her. At myself.

Because I have spent years learning exactly where to place my attention.

And recently, Without meaning to—

Too much of it has begun settling on Lucia.