Emily's POV
Sunlight streamed through the kitchen windows, far too bright for the weight of the realization I had woken up with. The light bounced off marble counters and polished steel, ordinary and calm, completely at odds with the restless churn in my chest.
I was still thinking about the blanket.
The way it had been tucked around Sophia and me last night, careful and deliberate. I had not done that. I did not remember waking, did not remember moving, did not remember covering us.
Which meant Matteo had seen us.
The thought followed me as I stood at the stove, flipping pancakes and pretending my hands were not trembling. Sophia sat at the island, swinging her legs, humming softly to herself as she watched the batter bubble and brown. Butter melted in the pan, the scent warm and familiar, grounding in a way I desperately needed.
Then I heard it.
The steady, unmistakable thud of expensive leather shoes against hardwood. Slow. Unhurried. Confident.
My heart did a heavy roll in my chest.
"Good morning."
Matteo's voice was low, still rough with sleep, like it had not yet decided whether to be gentle or commanding.
I turned, schooling my expression into something neutral. Something professional.
He looked devastatingly composed, already dressed in a charcoal suit that fit him like it had been tailored around his body alone. His tie was perfectly knotted, his hair immaculate, but his eyes betrayed him. They lingered on me for a second too long. Not assessing. Not dismissive.
Aware.
"Morning," I said, leaning back against the counter for support. "I… Thank you for the blanket last night. We must have drifted off during the movie."
His mouth curved slightly, not quite a smile. He crossed the kitchen toward the espresso machine, pressing buttons with muscle memory precision.
"It was a long day," he replied, his back to me. Then, quieter, almost casually, "Sophia told me she feels safe with you, Emily."
The words landed heavier than I expected.
The air in the kitchen thinned, like something invisible had shifted between us. That was more than praise. From a man like Matteo, it felt dangerously close to trust.
"She's easy to care for," I said softly. "She's a good child."
"Is she?" He turned then, finally facing me. His gaze was sharp, searching, as if he were peeling back layers he had not yet decided he wanted to see. "Or are you just very good at making people believe they can trust you?"
The question struck deep.
For a heartbeat, my thoughts flicked to the folder in my suitcase. The grainy photographs. The addresses written in careful ink. The answers I was chasing, quietly, obsessively.
But answers did not keep the lights on.
Debt did not care about closure or truth. It cared about numbers, deadlines, and consequences. About collectors who did not accept excuses. About a life already fraying at the edges.
I was not here just to search.
I needed this job.
I needed the salary, the security, the silence it bought me. I needed to stay invisible, useful, trusted.
"I think trust is earned," I said, forcing steadiness into my voice. "I have not done anything to lose yours, have I?"
He stepped closer.
Not enough to touch. Enough to be felt.
The scent of him filled the space between us, sandalwood and cold rain, clean and expensive and unmistakably him. His presence pressed in, not threatening, not comforting, simply undeniable.
"Not yet," he said.
And the way he said it made my stomach twist.
Matteo lingered for another moment, his gaze flicking briefly toward the hallway that led to Sophia's room, as if confirming she was still asleep. Then he straightened, all sharp lines and control returning to him like armor.
"I have meetings all day," he said, already reaching for his coat. "I will be back late."
"Of course," I replied.
He paused at the doorway, hand on the frame, and for a split second it felt like he wanted to say something else. Instead, he only nodded once and left, the front door closing behind him with a soft finality.
I released a breath I did not realize I was holding.
The house seemed to exhale with me. Sophia was already seated at the kitchen table, her legs swinging gently beneath the chair as she traced circles in a small smear of syrup with her fork.
"Papa left?" she asked without looking up.
"Yes, sweetheart," I said, turning back to the stove. "He had work."
She hummed in response, accepting it easily. I slid the last pancake onto her plate and carried mine to the table, sitting across from her. Breakfast passed easily, filled with her chatter about school and a classmate who refused to share crayons. I listened, responded, laughed in the right places, playing the role I could not afford to fail at.
Afterward, I walked her to the car, fixed her coat, and waved as the driver pulled away. She pressed her face to the window, blowing me a dramatic kiss until the car disappeared down the long driveway.
Only then did the quiet return.
I went back inside, moved through my room with purpose, and opened the suitcase hidden beneath the bed. The folder lay exactly where I had left it. I stared at it for a long moment before pulling it out.
This was not reckless curiosity.
This was unfinished business.
I copied the address onto my phone, checked the time, then slipped the folder back into place. No mistakes. No traces. I changed into something simple, unremarkable, the kind of outfit that helped people forget you had ever passed them.
Before leaving, I paused at the door and glanced once more around the room. Matteo's house. Sophia's laughter. A salary that stood between me and financial ruin.
I locked the door behind me anyway.
The taxi ride into the city felt longer than it was. My knee bounced as Milan unfolded outside the window, beautiful and indifferent. When the driver finally stopped, my stomach tightened.
The building in front of me was old, its paint peeling, balconies sagging with rusted railings. Laundry hung overhead like tired flags. This was not the Italy of postcards.
This was where secrets went to hide.
I paid the driver and stepped out, my pulse loud in my ears. The address matched.
I stood there for a moment, phone clutched in my hand, heart warring with logic. Matteo's words echoed faintly in my head. Trust. Safety. Not yet.
I had never been good at waiting.
Squaring my shoulders, I walked toward the entrance.
This was my first stop.
And somehow, I knew it would not be my last.
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The building looked wrong.
That was the first thing I noticed as I stepped inside. The walls were stained with age and neglect, the kind that clung to a place no matter how many times it was repainted. The stairwell smelled faintly of smoke and something metallic underneath it, like old rust or dried blood. I tightened my grip on my phone.
This was the address.
If my father had ever lived here, it was not the kind of life I imagined him choosing. Or maybe that was the lie I had told myself for years.
I approached the man seated behind the reception desk. He barely looked up, his attention fixed on the newspaper in front of him.
"Excuse me," I said carefully. "I'm looking for a man named Thomas."
I pulled up the only picture I had of my father and slid my phone across the counter.
He glanced at it once, then shook his head.
"Non parlo inglese."
Of course.
My shoulders sagged slightly. I opened my mouth to try again when a voice spoke behind me, smooth and unhurried.
"Sta cercando un uomo di nome Thomas."
She's looking for a man named Thomas.
I turned.
And forgot how to breathe.
He looked unreal. Not in a polished magazine way, but in a sharp, dangerous way, like someone who did not belong in places like this yet owned them anyway. His black suit fit him too well, hugging broad shoulders and a lean frame with deliberate precision. Dark eyes studied me openly, assessing, curious.
The man at the desk responded immediately.
"Thomas non vive più qui."
My heart sank.
"What did he say?" I asked, turning back to the stranger.
"He said Thomas doesn't live here anymore," he replied, his gaze never leaving my face.
I swallowed. "Could you ask him if he knows where I might find him?"
The stranger inclined his head slightly and turned back to the desk.
"Dove possiamo trovarlo?"
Where can we find him?
The man hesitated this time. His eyes flicked to me, then back to the stranger.
"L'ultima volta che ho sentito dire che lavorava per la mafia."
A chill crept up my spine.
I looked back at the stranger, uneasy. "What did he say?"
"He said the last time he heard," the man replied smoothly, "Thomas was somewhere in Sicily."
That was not what the receptionist had said.
But I did not know enough Italian to challenge it.
Sicily.
Another dead end wrapped in a new direction.
"Thank you," I said quickly, already backing away. "I appreciate your help."
I turned to leave, suddenly aware of how exposed I felt in this place.
His hand closed around my wrist.
Not tight. Not aggressive.
Possessive.
I froze.
"What's your name?" he asked.
I hesitated. Every instinct told me not to answer, but politeness won the battle. Or stupidity. I wasn't sure which.
"Emily," I said. "And yours?"
His lips curved into a slow smile that did not reach his eyes.
"Caleb," he said. "We'll see each other again, Emily."
The certainty in his tone unsettled me more than the grip on my wrist.
He released me and walked past, disappearing into the building as if the conversation had already ended on his terms.
I stood there for a moment, my pulse racing, then hurried outside and flagged down a cab.
Only when the door shut behind me did I let out the breath I had been holding.
The ride back to the Rinaldi estate felt too long.
Too quiet.
When my phone vibrated in my hand, I almost dropped it.
Unknown number.
My stomach twisted as I opened the message.
It was a picture.
Of me.
Standing outside the building.
With Caleb.
My chest tightened.
Below it, a single line of text glowed on the screen.
I wonder what Mr Rinaldi would think if he knew you were visiting such interesting places.
My fingers trembled.
This was not a coincidence.
This was not curiosity.
This was surveillance.
And somewhere deep in my gut, a terrible realization began to form.
Whatever war Matteo was fighting, whatever enemy he had sworn would feel everything he felt, I had just walked straight into its path.
And I was no longer invisible.
Oh! I was fucked.