The house was silent in the way cathedrals were silent, but there was no holiness in it. The floor shone white and black beneath crystal chandeliers. Oil paintings watched from the walls. Somewhere, water murmured in a fountain.
Clara’s cheap shoes squeaked against the marble.
She hated the sound.
Matteo stopped before double doors of dark wood.
“He is still recovering,” he said. “Do not upset him.”
Clara stared. “He kidnapped a waitress from a diner.”
“Invited.”
“Dragged.”
“Strongly encouraged.”
“Then maybe he should be upset.”
This time Matteo did not smile.
He opened the doors.
Leo Salvatore stood by the window.
That was the first shock.
She had expected a bed. Tubes. Weakness. The wreckage of the man she had seen bleeding through white cotton.
Instead, he stood tall and straight in a black shirt open at the throat, one hand resting lightly against the window frame. Only the faint tightness around his mouth betrayed pain. His skin was pale beneath the olive tone, and a bandage showed beneath the edge of his shirt when he turned.
He was younger than she had imagined. Early thirties. Dark hair. Sharp cheekbones. Eyes so gray they looked almost silver in the lamplight.
Beautiful, Clara thought unwillingly.
Then she hated herself for thinking it.
His gaze moved over her face, her coat, her work shoes, and finally the bruise on her arm where her sleeve had slipped.
Something changed in his expression.
Not softness.
Possession.
“Leave us,” he said.
Matteo hesitated.
Leo did not look at him.
“I said leave.”
