Chapter Twelve.

Chapter Twelve.

I pulled the blanket off my legs, kicking it to the side as sweat clung to me. My throat hurt from the scream I hadn't made. The dream refused to disappear. That night. The blood. My mother's final gasp. My father's body that collapsed next to hers.

I sat up, digging my palms into my eyes, trying to erase the image.

It didn't.

It never did.

A light knock on the door startled me out of the flashback. I did not move. Another knock—firm.

I rose, pulling the silk robe tighter around me, and swung open the door without forethought.

Standing there.

Vincenzo Lombardi.

Leaning against the doorframe as if he was the owner of the world—and me.

His robe was open at the neck, revealing enough chest to make it look deliberate. His arms were crossed. He didn't smile. Just glared.

"You were speaking in your sleep," he spoke finally, voice low.

"Listening at my door again?" I snapped, voice higher than I intended.

"I live here." He raised an eyebrow. "When someone starts muttering as though they're being chased, I tend to pop by."

The audacity of this guy. I could hear the pound of my heartbeat in my head. He was too settled, too calm. As if he hadn't just invaded my space without an invite.

"Next time," I said icily, "don't."

He braced off the door and moved closer. Automatically, I stood firm.

"I'd like coffee," he told me.

I blinked. "You mean like as in code or something?"

He grinned. "No. I want a cup of coffee. You're awake. You'll make it."

I glared. "Get your staff to do it. Or, better still, do it yourself."

He tilted his head to one side. "But I asked you."

It wasn't a question. It was a test.

"I'm not your maid," I snarled.

"No," he breathed. "But you are mine. In this house, that means something."

I clenched my teeth, spun around, and stormed into the kitchen without saying another word.

He followed me, silent and relentless, like a shadow that wouldn't let go of my heels.

When I got into the kitchen, I was hot enough to steam water with the flames burning inside of me. I yanked the coffee tin off the shelf and slammed it onto the counter.

He did not help. Just stood there with that calm, snakey stare.

I poured the water. Stirred the cup. Had given it to him.

He took it like a king taking tribute.

"You've got fire," he told me.

I said nothing.

He sipped, then walked over to the bar stool and sat down as though he felt more comfortable there than on the furniture.

"Why'd you yell?" he abruptly asked.

I froze. My hand wrapped around the kettle too tightly.

"I didn't," I lied.

"You did."

I turned to him, my back to the counter where I was wiping it clean.

"I don't remember."

"Hmm."

That was all. Just one word. But it tied something up inside of me.

I needed to get out of there. Before I did something stupid. Before I lost what I came here for.

"I need air," I growled, and took off before he could catch me.

I walked back and forth in my bedroom on the second floor until my legs ached. I took out my burner phone and dialed Matheo.

He picked up on the first ring.

"Frankie," he panted. "You okay?"

"No." I whispered, glancing over at the door. "I had it again. He appeared at my door. Said to make him coffee. He's. watching me."

"He is," Matheo told me. "He's testing for answers. Hunting for weaknesses. Watch out."

"I don't know how much longer I can keep this up. I wanted to kill him there in the kitchen."

"Don't," he warned. "We need information. Not another body."

"I know." I rubbed the heel of my hand against my forehead. "It's just—he's everywhere."

"You're more courageous than him," Matheo whispered. "More courageous than them all. Just wait a little longer."

But I couldn't answer. Because I wasn't by myself.

I rotated slowly.

Lombardi stood by the door. Again. No knocking this time.

His arms crossed. His expression impassive.

How long had he been standing there?

"What are you doing?" I asked, strained voice.

He raised an eyebrow. "Might ask you the same."

I stuffed the phone into my robe. "Personal call."

"To your 'brother'?" he asked, making quotation marks with his fingers.

I forced a smile. "That's right."

He stepped into the room. Closed the door.

My blood went cold.

"Be very careful who you trust, Francesca," he said to me in a low tone. "Loyalty is a thin thing."

And he turned and left, closing the door.

I exhaled, shaking hands.

He knew.

Or at least suspected.

The next day, I moved about the house in a ghost-like fashion. No one spoke to me, and I didn't make an effort to speak. I avoided Vincenzo.

Until nightfall.

I was working in the study, sorting patient files when I heard the quiet footsteps behind me.

I turned.

Isabella.

His stepdaughter.

She looked pale. Worried.

"May I have a word with you?" she whispered.

I nodded, setting the files down. "Of course."

She closed the door behind her, tightening her fists.

"I know what you're doing," she said softly.

My heart sank.

"What are you thinking I'm doing?"

"You're here to destroy him." She stood firm. "You hate him. I can see it in your eyes."

I didn't answer.

Tears threatened in hers.

"He killed my mother."

I blinked. "What?"

She nodded. "Not in the classical sense. But he was him. She knew something. She was going to leave. He made sure she never got the chance."

My throat had gone dry. "Isabella…"

"I want to help."

I hesitated. This could be a trap. But her eyes—those eyes were brimming with something I knew all too well.

Grief.

Anger.

Determination.

"You're not safe here," I said gently.

"No," she breathed. "But neither is he. Not anymore."

We sat together for the next hour. She told me things. Names. Patterns. The parts of the house I hadn't touched. Passwords. Secrets. Codes. All of it.

And I knew it, all of a sudden—I wasn't alone.

I had a partner.

He'd underestimated the two of us.

His first mistake.

And if I played this just right… his last.