Page 114 of The Art of Ruin

She smiles, but her expression stays soft. “You sure?”

“I’m sure. Go. Look gorgeous. Dance with your terrifyingly handsome husband. Kiss him at midnight. Be disgustingly in love.”

Nico, already waiting by the door, looks over. “I heard that.”

“You were meant to.”

He slides a hand around Isabella’s waist and presses a kiss to her temple, not caring in the slightest that I’m watching. “She likes it when people acknowledge my terrifying qualities.”

“She tolerates them,” Isabella says, but she leans into him anyway.

I wave them off before either of them can say anything else that makes me feel sentimental. Elena and Rossi left earlier for dinner in town. Matteo has apparently attached himself to some party where he’ll either charm everyone or start a fight, possibly both, and I assume Adriano is out with Letty somewhere child-friendly and glamorous.

For the first time since arriving, I think I might actually have the lodge to myself.

The thought should be comforting, and it is.

Mostly.

I make it about fifteen minutes before the silence starts to feel too loud.

Not bad. Just large.

The kind of quiet that makes your thoughts louder than they deserve to be.

I pull on thick socks, wrap myself in a cardigan, and wander out of my room because sitting in bed pretending I’m relaxed feels more pathetic than admitting I want the fire and maybe something to drink. The hallway is warm underfoot, all polished wood and soft rugs, and the house smells faintly of the cinnamon candles Elena keeps lighting in every room as if she’s personally responsible for making the entire mountain feel festive.

When I reach the main living room, I stop.

Adriano is there.

Not out. Not dressed for a party. Not even working.

He’s sitting on one end of the large leather couch, one ankle resting over the opposite knee, sleeves rolled to his forearms, aglass of something amber on the table beside him. The firelight catches against the hard line of his jaw and softens it just enough to make him look almost unguarded. Not relaxed exactly—Adriano Mancini probably relaxes by issuing instructions to his nervous system—but close.

He looks up as I walk in.

For a second, neither of us says anything.

It’s not awkward, but it feels loaded with unspoken questions. We have yet to discuss the Jasper situation. I’m not sure I want him to know what an idiot I was, but he deserves an explanation. He stepped up for me; he took care of me, which is more than Jasper or any other man ever did for me.

Something about finding him here, alone, in the quiet, feels different from seeing him surrounded by his family. It’s like seeing behind the curtain.

“Oh,” I say, very intelligently, and cringe internally.

His mouth shifts, barely. “Oh?”

“I thought you were out.”

“I was.”

“With Letty?” I ask, again showing the conversational intelligence of Gnat.

He nods, reaching for his glass but not drinking from it. “She ate too much ice cream, insisted she was perfectly fine, then turned green in the car.”

Despite myself I laugh. “Poor thing.”

Adriano quirks a perfect eyebrow. “She disagrees with that assessment. Apparently, it was worth it.”