AYLA
Una piccola tentazione.
That word was already a breathing, living thing walking beside me by the time we arrived at the gallery.
The moment we walked into the hall, I could swear every head turned in our direction.
Monumental canvases lined the walls: violent reds, restrained blacks, brutalist sculptures carved like broken cities.
With the kind of men and women in nothing but bleeding luxury inside this room, I knew I didn't fit in.
From where we stood, it felt like we were canopied under questioning eyes, lingering gazes, subtle glints of annoyance; and it took a passing second to realize they were all fixed on me.
The odd number.
Don Cassian stood too close. Too close—I felt his scent sip into my skin.
He leaned to the side, his breath brushing the shell of my ear, making me aware of his entire form beside me.
"Look only at the wine, Bambolina."
Why?
Did they have Nero D'Avola on the trays?
