20. Trilby

T rilby

Lower Manhattan is only as large as it is busy. When the traffic quiets, it takes no time to get anywhere. Which is a pity when the last place I want to be is in Cristiano's apartment, alone with him, after everything he just said.

He wants me.

His statement was unequivocal and I don't know what to do with it.

I haven't been able to look at him the whole drive here. But I have been able to watch the streets go by in a blur, not one of them registering in my consciousness.

Instead of holding the door like he normally would, he stands to one side as if he's afraid to come near me. Even his gaze is directed somewhere over my head.

I follow him in silence to the elevator and stand against the opposite wall when the doors close. Like strangers we stand apart, watching the floor numbers zip past, until my ears pop, the bell dings, and the doors slide open again. I wish I could say I feel relieved to be walking back into this apartment again, a place where I feel safe and looked after, but I don't. I'm on edge; a bag of nerves. I don't know what to say or do or how to behave.

I turn around, and we both speak at the same time.

"Thanks—"

"I—"

"You go first," he says with a nod.

"Oh, um, nothing. I just ... I just wanted to say thanks."

He buries his hands deep in the pockets of his slacks and leans his shoulder against a wall. "For what?"

I shrug and look around his apartment, taking note of little things I missed before, like the framed black-and-white photographs of Long Island, a cabinet filled with rotating wristwatches, and a tasteful bar lined with crystal decanters and heavy-bottomed lowballs.

He watches me taking note of all the little details that make up him .

"Would you like a drink?" He walks to the bar and pops the top off a decanter.

The fact he's offering me an alcoholic beverage when he's made it clear I'm the last person who should be touching the stuff suggests he's past caring. I nod, and he pours a finger of scotch into two lowballs before passing one to me.

The tips of our fingers touch and our eyes meet before he pulls his hand away. I sip the liquor and feel its heat spreading out from my chest.

"Thanks for doing all those things," I say.

"What things?"

I drop my gaze to the floor. "Looking out for me. Cooking for me. Keeping me safe."

Silences stretches, and I become painfully aware our breaths are mirroring each other's.

"I can't thank you for shooting Rhett though." I turn my head slowly from side to side.

"Fine." His mouth ticks up in one corner. "But I'd do it again."

I can't help but smile as I cast my gaze back to the floor.

We stand in the center of the room sipping the scotch and watching each other as though this is our last chance. I feel like we're exiled from the world, locked up in this penthouse apartment miles above everyone we know. No one could get up here without Cristiano pressing a few security buttons first. No one would know if we crossed a line.

Awareness prickles between us, along with the weight of his words.

It should be me.

He voiced what I thought was impossible. What is impossible.

I shake the illicit thoughts from my head. If we did cross that line, we could never turn back. It would risk everything I need to build on with Savero for my father's sake.

It's for the best that Cristiano is leaving.

I swallow the rest of the whiskey and place the glass on the bar. I run my fingers along its surface, admiring the polished mahogany and the solid gold trim. It's tasteful and understated—not something I'd expect from a man with Mafia blood running through his veins.

"I need to sleep." I go to walk past him, but his fingers encircle my wrist. It feels like an electric shock, jolting my gaze to his. My heart pummels the wall of my chest as we stare at each other.

Cristiano grinds his jaw and swallows hard. His voice breaks when he speaks. "Remember what I said. Don't lock your door."

He grips me until I nod once, then the tips of his fingers trail down the palm of my hand, making the nerve endings dance across my skin.

The second I close the door I exhale a long breath. I'm proud of myself for walking away. The temptation to step up to him and run my fingers through his hair, pull his lips onto mine, is so great it makes me ache everywhere .

I open the closet and pull out the brand-new shorts-and-top pajama set Cristiano bought, and change into it. I'm so tired, but every inch of my skin is on fire. I can't even pull the shorts up my bare thighs without having to pause and take a breath.

Eventually, I pull back the covers. I'm about to collapse onto the soft mattress when I remember his words. Not the ones where he instructed me to leave the door unlocked, but the ones where he told me to do the exact opposite.

I now know what he wanted to keep me safe from. What he doesn't know is that task is now mine. I'm the one he needs to be kept safe from.

His confession this evening told me everything I need to know. He doesn't have the strength to stay away, so I'll have to find it for us both.

With this resolve I walk to the door, ignore his instruction, and click the lock. Then, in minutes, I'm lying under a soft, newly laundered comforter, fast asleep.