The evening air was thick with silence, that kind of heavy quiet that made even the tick of a clock sound louder than it should. Elena paced the length of the balcony, her silk robe whispering against the tiled floor as she stole glances back at the bedroom. The Don—Matteo—sat in the chair near the fireplace, his dark shirt undone just enough to tempt, his eyes following her like shadows she couldn't shake.
"Stop pacing," Matteo's voice broke through, low, commanding, threaded with irritation. "You're making me dizzy."
"I'm not pacing," Elena shot back, though her steps quickened, defiant.
"Yes, you are. And you're doing it because you want me to ask what's on your mind."
She froze mid-step, her hands curling at her sides. "You think everything is about you."
"That's because, cara mia, everything in this house is about me. You should have learned that by now." His lips curved in a dangerous smirk.
