Chapter Four (Giovanni)

The security room is colder than the rest of the house.

Fluorescent lights hum overhead. Screens line the walls. There's twelve monitors, split into thirty small squares of surveillance footage. Every corner of Cara Sinclair’s mansion blinks back at me in grayscale.

The door clicks shut behind me. I’m alone again. I exhale.

The footage changes with every blink, cameras rotating in slow mechanical sweeps. Nothing unusual. No shadows where shadows shouldn’t be. No movement outside the gates. Just the quiet of a mansion that looks more like a museum than a home.

My gaze drifts to camera #9. The kitchen. She’s still there.

Cara sits at the counter with a glass of water and her forehead pressed into her hand, her blonde hair falling in messy waves around her face. Everything about her looks softer in the daylight the sharp edges sanded down, the glitter washed away.

She looks… human. Not the girl with the stadium voice and the neon spotlight smile. Not the hurricane I met backstage last night. Just a hungover twenty-four-year-old trying to piece herself together. She reaches for the water, sniffs it once, and makes a face like it personally offended her. Still, she drinks. Her whole body shudders at the swallowing motion.

I almost smile.

Almost.

Then she sets the cup down and goes completely still.

Even without seeing her expression fully from this angle, I can tell she’s thinking about last night. The way her shoulders curve forward. The way her fingers twist idly at the hem of her sweatshirt. The way her lips press into a line that says she’s replaying every embarrassing second.

I scrub a hand over my jaw.

I met Clara Sinclair ten hours ago and already she’s a category five headache and yet…I watch her push her hair off her face, revealing the freckles I didn’t notice under the makeup. She yawns, squeezes her eyes shut, and then mutters something to herself, shaking her head like she’s scolding her own reflection.

She’s not glamorous right now, or performing. She’s just existing. It feels wrong to watch her like this but it’s my job and maybe a little more than my job, judging by the way my chest tightens when she slumps forward on her arms, exhausted.

I lean back in the chair, arms crossing. She’s nothing like Sofia. Sofia was quiet storms and soft smiles, all gentleness until she wasn’t. A woman born into chaos but trying like hell to stay soft through it. Cara is the opposite.

A grenade with perfect eyeliner. A heatwave disguised as a pop star. She's loud, messy, rebellious and underneath all of it she's lonely in a way that’s too familiar.

She startles suddenly when Hal walks back into the kitchen. He says something I can’t hear from this angle. She replies without looking at him, waving him away. Then she drags her hands down her face in a gesture that screams: someone bury me alive please. A quiet laugh slips out of me. She doesn’t hear it, obviously. She’d probably throw a shoe at me for it. God, she tried to fire me last night and then not even thirty minutes later tried to kiss me, too.

The look she had backstage, right after I rejected her, stands out to me. That half-second where the mask cracked. Where she looked hurt. Like my “no” wasn’t just a rejection, it was a confirmation of something she already believed about herself. That she’s unwanted unless she’s on her knees or on a stage. I shift uncomfortably in my seat. She shouldn’t have to feel that way. Not in front of me. Not in front of anyone.

Camera #9 flickers. She disappears from view, heading out of the kitchen. A few seconds later she appears on #10 walking down the hall toward her music room. She opens the door, steps inside, and closes it softly behind her.

I click over to camera #11.

It takes a moment to adjust: her music room is different from the rest of the house. Sheets of loose paper are scattered across the piano. Maybe lyrics. Maybe nothing. There’s a sweater tossed over the back of the velvet couch. A half-finished mug of tea sits on the windowsill.

She moves around the room like it’s the only place where she knows who she is. She plops onto the couch, pulls her knees to her chest, and stares at the piano like it holds all her problems in its keys. After a second, she reaches out and hits one note it's soft, tentative. Then another. Her shoulders rise and fall slowly, as if she’s breathing through something. The softer she becomes, the more I feel the tension gather in my jaw. I’ve guarded powerful men. Corrupt men. Men who needed shadows more than they needed light but guarding someone like her? Someone loud and reckless and dazzling and breakable? That’s a different kind of danger. One I can’t punch my way out of.

I watch her until she leans her head back against the couch cushion and closes her eyes. Just breathing. Just being. A real person beneath the headlines. A real woman beneath the glitter. A real vulnerability beneath the arrogance she wears like armor. I drag a hand through my hair.

“This is going to be a problem,” I mutter to the empty room.

I already know she’s nothing like Sofia and she might be even harder to protect.

***

The bookstore bell jingles like it’s mocking me.

I step inside, exhausted down to the marrow, and immediately regret existing in a world that contains sound. Matteo is eating a pastry the size of his face behind the counter. His eyes widen when he sees me.

“Jesus Christ. Who died?”

“Not me unfortunately,” I mutter, dropping my jacket on the floor without caring.

“You sure?” Matteo asks, leaning forward. “You look like a corpse someone reanimated with bad intentions.”

Before I can tell him to shut up, Sofia rounds the corner, holding a stack of new romance paperbacks. She’s glowing. Her hair is in a loose braid, she’s wearing a tank top stretched over her five-month bump, her cheeks flushed and beautiful in that soft, unfair way she always is. It hits me square in the chest like a goddamn hammer.

She beams at me.

“Hi, Gio.”

And then because I am tired, stupid, and an asshole the words leave my mouth before I can strangle them.

“What?” I snap. “Why are you looking at me like that?”

Her smile flickers. “I was just saying hi.”

I scrub a hand over my face. Matteo coughs loudly. A warning. A what the hell  is wrong with you cough but the damage is done. Sofia sets the books down gently, too gently, like she’s afraid one wrong noise will set me off again.

“I… I’m gonna take a nap,” she murmurs, not looking at me anymore.

She disappears up the stairs to the apartment.

The silence she leaves behind is suffocating and immediately guilt detonates inside my chest. Matteo throws a balled-up muffin wrapper at my head so hard it bounces off with a crack.

“What is WRONG with you?”

I drop onto the nearest chair. “I didn’t mean it.”

“Oh REALLY?” Matteo throws his hands up. “Because it sure sounded like you woke up this morning and chose violence.”

“I haven’t even slept yet.”

“You can be tired without being a dick to a pregnant woman.”

“I KNOW.”

“Good. So go apologize.”

“Later.”

“Now.”

“Later, Matteo.”

He pinches the bridge of his nose. “She’s five months pregnant, hormonal, exhausted, and carrying your emotional baggage because you won’t deal with it like an adult—”

“Matteo,” I warn.

He levels a look at me. “Tell me what the hell is going on.”

I rake both hands through my hair. “I started a new job last night.”

Matteo freezes mid-breath. “I’m sorry, you what?”

“I took a job.”

He blinks in disbelief. “But… Luca paid everyone severance. You’re set for like two years.”

“I know.”

“So why? You got bored? You miss getting shot at? You like paperwork again?”

“I needed… space.”

Matteo’s mouth hangs open. “From who?”

I stare at the stairs where Sofia disappeared. He follows my gaze.

“Oh,” he says. “Ohhhhh. Okay. Damn.”

I grunt, exhausted.

“…but also,” he says, eyes suddenly lighting up, “what job? Who hired you? Are they hot? Are they rich? Oh my God, is this a mafia thing? Did you take another mafia job? I swear to God, Gio, if you drag us all back into crime—”

“It’s a private-bodyguard contract.”

Matteo’s eyes go round. “For who?”

I hesitate.

He leans in. “Tell me or I swear I will go upstairs, wake Sofia, and let her emotionally destroy you with disappointed big-sister energy.”

I sigh. “Cara.”

“Cara… as in… CARA CARA?”

“Yes.”

He slams both hands on the counter. “THE POPSTAR? THE MEGA-RICH, SHINY, CHAOTIC TALENTED MENACE TO SOCIETY?”

“That’s the one.”

“THE WOMAN WHO SET HER STAGE ON FIRE BY ACCIDENT?”

“Apparently.”

“THE WOMAN WHO THREW A GRAMMY AT HER EX?”

“Yep.”

“THE WOMAN WHOSE LAST MUSIC VIDEO HAD A LIVE TIGER??”

“Yes, Matteo.”

He is vibrating. Actually vibrating.

“Oh my God,” he whispers. “My best friend works for America’s favorite disaster princess.”

I glare. “This isn’t funny and we aren’t friends.”

“It’s HILARIOUS. Tell me everything.”

“No.”

“GIO.”

I groan. “She’s… difficult.”

Matteo gasps dramatically. “In what way? Does she scream? Does she throw diamonds? Does she drink champagne out of a shoe?”

“She was high.”

“On what?”

“I don’t know. Everything.”

“What was she like?”

“A mess.”

“Was she nice?”

“No.”

“Pretty?”

I hesitate. That’s enough for him to gasp again.

“Oh my GOD she’s hot.”

“I didn’t say that.”

“You didn’t deny that.”

I pinch the bridge of my nose. “She tried to feel me up.”

Matteo squeals. Actually squeals.

“DID YOU LET HER?”

“No.”

“WHY NOT?? She’s CARA.”

“She was intoxicated.”

“That didn’t stop half the country.”

“It stopped me.”

Matteo stares at me for a long moment, then slowly nods, impressed for once.

“Wow. Proud of you.”

I grunt.

He kicks his feet up on the counter. “So. You’re gonna let this popstar trainwreck distract you from Sofia?”

“Yes.”

“Proud of you slightly less now.”

“Matteo.”

He sobers. Really looks at me. “You hurting?”

I shut my eyes. “Yeah.”

“You still in love with Sofia?”

“I’m trying not to be.”

He nods slowly.

“Then space is probably good.”

I nod once, throat tight.

Matteo clears his throat. “So… the popstar. She live in a castle? Does she have a diamond bathtub? Does she smell like money and bad decisions?”

“Matteo—”

“I’m INVESTED.”

I give up.

“She lives in a mansion. It’s big, beautiful, and empty.”

His teasing fades. “Empty?”

“Yeah.”

He watches me carefully. “Like lonely?”

“Very.”

Matteo sits back, suddenly quiet. “Damn.”

I rub my face again. “I don’t know what I’m doing.”

He nudges my shoulder with his.

“You’re trying to survive loving someone you can’t have. That’s what you’re doing.”

My chest aches. I stare down at my hands.

“I hope I’m going down a path that finally makes me happy,” I murmur.

Matteo leans back and kicks his legs up again. “You will, Gio. Even if the path is full of insane popstars and emotional carnage.”

He grins.

“Honestly? Fits you.”

I huff a laugh but upstairs, Sofia shifts in her sleep. Everything inside me shifts with her and I know Matteo’s right. I need space, distance, and I need a life that isn’t built around waiting for someone who already chose someone else. Even if it kills me to walk away.