Chapter 4

Alessandria's POV

Alessandria woke up slowly.

The bed was too soft. The light was too bright. The sheets smelled like something she could not name, something warm and sharp and clean. For a long moment she thought she was back in her apartment, and that the book and the wedding and the man with the dark eyes had all been a very long, very strange dream.

Then she opened her eyes and saw the high ceiling with its painted flowers, and the white curtains moving in the breeze from the open window, and the fire that had burned down to soft red coals in the fireplace. She remembered everything.

She sat up too fast, and her head spun, and she had to hold onto the pillow for a moment until the room stopped moving. She looked around. The chair in the corner was empty. Tiziano was gone.

She let out a breath that she did not know she had been holding.

She looked down at herself. She was still wearing his shirt. It was wrinkled now, and soft from sleep, and it still smelled like him. She did not want to take it off. She thought: What is wrong with me? This shirt belongs to a killer. I should burn it. I should throw it out the window. I should find my own clothes and put them on and never think about this shirt again. But it smells so good. It smells like a forest after rain. It smells like heat and danger. It smells like him.

She got out of bed and found a tray on the table by the window. There was fruit and bread and a cup of coffee that was still warm. There was a note written in a hand that was sharp and neat. The note said: Eat. I will be back at noon. Do not leave this room.

She did not know if the note was a kindness or a threat. She picked up the coffee and took a sip. It was the best coffee she had ever tasted. She thought: Okay. First things first. I need to figure out where I am and what is happening. I need to find out if this is real or if I am in a coma. I need to find a way home. But first, I need to eat this bread because I am starving.

She sat down and ate everything on the tray. The bread was warm and soft and tasted like butter and salt. The fruit was sweet and cold and juicy. The coffee was strong and dark and it woke up every part of her. She felt a little bit more human after that.

She walked to the window and looked out. The view was amazing. She could see the whole city from here, the buildings and the streets and the sea in the distance, blue and bright under the morning sun. The storm was gone. The sky was clear. It was beautiful. It was terrifying. She did not belong here.

She turned away from the window and looked at herself in the mirror. Her face was not her face. It was Serafina’s face, soft and round and pale, with big brown eyes and a small mouth. It was a pretty face, but it was not her face. She touched her cheeks. She touched her nose. She touched her lips. She said out loud, “This is weird. This is so weird. I am in someone else’s body. I am living someone else’s life. I am married to someone else’s husband. And I do not know how to get back.”

She looked at her neck. There was a small red mark on the side of it, right where her pulse beat. She touched it. It did not hurt. It looked like a kiss. She did not remember anyone kissing her neck. She thought: Did he do that? Did he come over to the bed while I was sleeping and kiss my neck? Why would he do that? Why would he touch me if he was just going to leave? Why does it feel like a good mark? Why do I not want to wipe it away?

She dropped her hand and stepped back from the mirror. She did not want to think about Tiziano Vescari. She did not want to think about his hands or his eyes or his mouth. She did not want to think about the way he looked at her last night, like she was the only thing in the world worth looking at. She did not want to think about anything except how to get out of this room and find a way home.

She walked to the door and tried the handle. It was locked. Of course it was locked. He said not to leave this room. He meant it. She was a prisoner.

She sat down on the floor and leaned her head against the door. She thought: Okay. I am in a book. I am married to a killer. I am locked in a room. And I have no idea how to get out. But I am not dead yet. That is something. That is a start. And maybe, if I am smart, I can stay alive long enough to figure out how to get back to my real life. I just need to keep my mouth shut and not do anything stupid. I just need to stay quiet and calm and—

The lock clicked. The door opened. And Tiziano Vescari stepped into the room.

She scrambled to her feet too fast and almost fell. She caught herself on the wall and stared at him. He was wearing a dark grey suit today, with no tie, and his hair was slightly wet like he had just come from the shower. He looked at her sitting on the floor, and then he looked at the tray, and then he looked at the mirror, and then he looked at the mark on her neck.

She saw him see it. His eyes got dark. His jaw got tight. He said, “Do you know who gave you that mark?”

She touched her neck again. She said, “No.”

He walked toward her. He stopped too close. He said, “Are you sure?”

She could not breathe. She could not think. She said, “Yes.”

He looked at her for a long moment. His eyes were fixed on the mark on her neck, and there was something in his face that she could not read. It was not anger. It was not coldness. It was something softer and more dangerous.

Then he said, “Okay.”

And he turned away and walked to the window. She watched him. She thought: He knows. He knows something. He knows who gave me this mark. And I think… I think it was him. I think he kissed me in my sleep. I think he touched me while I was dreaming. I think he is not as cold as he wants me to believe. I think there is something else inside him. Something soft. Something that wants me.

She did not say any of this out loud. But she thought it. And he heard every word.

He stood at the window with his back to her, and his shoulders were tight, and his hands were closed into fists at his sides. He did not turn around. He did not say anything. But she could see the way his breathing had changed, the way his chest was moving too fast, the way he was fighting to keep himself still.

She did not know why he was reacting like this. She did not know what she had done. She only knew that the air in the room had changed, that it was thick and warm and full of something she did not have a name for.

He turned around. His face was calm again, cold and still, but his eyes were not. His eyes were burning. He said, “Get dressed. We have things to do today.”

She said, “What things?”

He said, “You are the Don’s wife now. You need to learn what that means.”

She said, “And if I do not want to learn?”

He walked back to her. He stopped in front of her, close enough that she could feel the heat coming off him, close enough that she had to tilt her head back to look at his face. He said, “You do not have a choice. You are mine now. And I do not let go of what is mine.”

She felt her heart pound in her chest. She felt her face get hot. She thought: Why does that sound so scary and so good at the same time? Why do I want him to say it again? Why do I want him to say it closer? Why do I want him to—

He stepped back. He said, “There are clothes in the wardrobe. Wear something nice. I will wait outside.”

He walked to the door and opened it and stepped out. The door closed behind him, and the lock clicked, and she was alone again.

She stood there for a long moment, with her hand on her neck and her heart in her throat. Then she walked to the wardrobe and opened it and looked at the rows of dresses inside.

She thought: Okay. New plan. If I cannot escape, then I will learn. I will learn this world. I will learn this family. I will learn this man. And then, when I know everything, I will find a way out. But first, I need to find out why he looks at me like that. And why I do not want him to stop.