Tous les chapitres de : Chapitre 11 - Chapitre 20

By the time I make it back to my suite, my hands still smell like antiseptic, and Dante’s almost‑apology is stuck in my head like a half‑finished chorus.*There’s something I should’ve said years ago—*Then New York called, and the moment evaporated.“Please tell me that face is just about bad coffee,” Mia says, looking up from my bed where she’s sprawled with a laptop on her stomach. “Because if it’s about him, I’m legally required to mock you into sanity.”“He’s fine,” I say. “Some knuckle‑to‑goon contact, nothing life‑threatening.”She narrows her eyes. “You bandaged him, didn’t you?”“His hand,” I say quickly. “Not his ego. That would require surgical intervention.”Mia grins. “My girl’s got jokes again. Progress.”I drop onto the chaise near the window and stare out at the sea. The waves keep coming, indifferent to our little mafia soap opera on the hill.She closes the laptop and sits up. “So. What happened, really?”“He called D’Angelo an investment‑collecting asshole,” I say.

By the time I stagger back to my room from the studio, my mouth still tastes like him.I scrub my teeth. Twice. It doesn’t help.Mia is sitting cross‑legged in the middle of my bed with a bag of chips she definitely bribed someone for, watching some game show in rapid‑fire Italian.She looks up, freezes, and narrows her eyes.“You look like you got hit by a truck,” she says. “Or kissed by one.”“Shut up,” I say, heading straight for the bathroom.She gasps dramatically. “I knew it.”I close the door on her cackle and splash cold water on my face until my skin stings.The mirror is no help. My lips are a little too red, my pupils a little too wide. I look like a girl who almost made a very old, very satisfying mistake.“Okay,” I tell my reflection. “We’re not doing that again.”The reflection lifts an unimpressed eyebrow.*Yet,* my stupid heart whispers.“Traitor,” I mutter at my own chest.When I come out, Mia’s lying on her stomach, feet kicking in the air.“So,” she says. “How’s the

It takes them a week to build my new cage.Okay, technically it’s been in the works longer—architects don’t draw up plans overnight—but that’s how it feels: seven days of hammering, drilling, and men in dusty boots tramping through corridors that used to be silent.Seven days of the internet dissecting my absence like a corpse.Seven days of Dante coming and going at odd hours, smelling like smoke and expensive coffee, his bandage slowly disappearing under healing skin.“Stop pacing,” Mia says, flopping onto my bed. “You’re going to wear a groove in the marble, and then Dante will send an invoice.”“I’m not pacing,” I say, turning mid‑stride. “I’m…cardio.”She snorts. “Your Fitbit is in hell.”A knock interrupts any comeback I might have.Luca stands in the doorway when I open it, hands in his pockets, tie loosened like he got distracted halfway through being formal.“Field trip,” he says. “If you’re done destroying your step count.”“Where?” I ask warily.“Studio,” he says. “Version

The gatehouse feels like a stage someone built out of stone and bad decisions.It’s a small building just inside the outer wall—thick door, thick windows, thick air. A table, a few chairs, a bank of monitors showing grainy camera feeds from around the property.I’m not supposed to be here.Which is exactly why I’m pressed against the narrow window in the side corridor that overlooks the courtyard, heart pounding as the SUV rolls to a stop at the outer gate.From up here, I see him climb out.Rafael looks out of place in this world of armored cars and armed men. He’s in a black button‑down and dark jeans, curls wind‑tossed, a guitar case slung over one shoulder like he brought his own weapon to the standoff.He argues with a security guard for a solid thirty seconds—hands flying, eyes flashing—before Luca steps in, says something low, and gestures toward the gatehouse.They disappear inside.I turn and bolt for the stairs.“Luna,” a voice says behind me.I skid to a stop.Dante stands

Rafael arrives three days later, like a secret being smuggled in under the floorboards, and most of the staff don’t even look up.They bring him through the service entrance just after dawn, when the shift changes and the light is still blue. Mia and I watch from the studio window as a nondescript black car rolls up the side drive, far from the main gates.Luca steps out first, scanning the tree line. Then Rafael unfolds from the back seat, guitar case in hand, shoulders stiff.“They didn’t actually blindfold him,” Mia murmurs. “I’m disappointed.”“He threatened to bite,” I say. “Luca doesn’t need that on his HR record.”The men disappear into the lower corridor. A minute later, there’s a knock on the studio door.Mia practically vibrates. “Art husband,” she whispers, then clears her throat. “Get it together, me.”I open the door.Rafael fills the frame, eyes already on me.For a second, everything inside me loosens.“Hey,” I say.“Hey,” he says.Then, his gaze travels past my shoulde