ARSHILA'S POV
"Hai ragione, l'ho ucciso, e lo farò di nuovo, e ti amo."
He says it against my ear.
Low.
Smooth.
Like it's nothing.
Like he's asking me to pass the salt.
I pull back and stare at him.
"What the fuck did you just say?"
He looks at me.
Dead calm.
A slow, lazy smirk pulls at his mouth.
"Translate it," I demand.
My heart is punching my ribs again and I hate that he can see it in my face.
He holds my gaze for a second longer.
Then—
"Let's have pasta."
I blink.
Are you kidding me.
I roll my eyes so hard I feel it in my spine.
"You're insufferable."
He turns back to the stove like we didn't just have a moment that could collapse a marriage.
He drains the pasta.
Steam rises.
He moves like he's done this a hundred times. Adds sauce. Tosses it. Tastes it. Adjusts something without even measuring.
Show off.
He grabs two plates.
Serves mine first.
Of course he does.
He sets it in front of me on the island.
"Try it."
I sit on the stool.
I don't want to look eager.
I fail again.
I take a bite.
And holy shit.
It's actually insane.
Creamy.
Perfect salt.
The pasta not overcooked.
Not undercooked.
The sauce clings just right.
This man commits emotional crimes and makes five-star pasta.
I chew slowly.
Control your face.
Don't moan.
Do not moan over pasta.
He's watching me.
Of course he is.
Waiting.
"Well?" he asks.
I swallow.
"It's okay," I say casually. "Just like you."
His smirk deepens.
"I know it's good."
God.
He walks to the sink, washes his hands slowly, water running over his fingers.
I pretend I'm not watching the flex in his forearm.
He dries his hands and instead of sitting on a chair like a normal human, he drops onto the couch across from me.
Man-spreads.
Like gravity respects him.
His legs wide.
Back relaxed.
Phone in hand.
Scrolling.
I almost choke on my second bite.
Why are you sitting like that.
Why does that do things to my brain.
I look down at my plate.
Focus on food.
Not on how I want to say, can I sit there and eat, daddy—
Shut the fuck up, Arshila.
Absolutely not.
I eat in silence.
The view behind him is unfair.
Sun hitting his skin.
Italian light doing something illegal to his tan.
He scrolls like he's just a normal guy checking Instagram.
Meanwhile I'm internally fighting demons and hormones.
I finish.
Take the plate to the sink.
Rinse it.
Breathe.
This is fine.
This is domestic.
This is not murder-coded.
I dry my hands and turn—
He's there.
Right in front of me.
I flinch.
"What the hell— are you a ghost?"
He doesn't answer.
He cages me again.
Hands on the counter on either side.
Close.
Too close.
I sigh.
"What now, bro?"
His expression changes instantly.
Not playful.
Not amused.
Questionable.
Slow.
Dangerous.
"Why do you keep calling me bro?" he asks quietly.
I blink.
"What?"
"Do I remind you every time who the fuck I am?" he continues, voice lower now.
I stare at him.
"You prefer dude?"
He stares at me for half a second.
Then that smirk returns.
"I prefer something else."
My brain stalls.
"Like what?"
He leans closer.
Close enough that my back hits the sink.
Water droplets still cool against my skin.
"Arshila," he says softly.
The way he says my name does something stupid to my nervous system.
I hum in response without meaning to.
He tilts his head slightly.
That damn head tilt.
Smoky voice.
Slow.
"Facciamo l'amore?"
I freeze.
I don't understand the words.
But the tone?
The tone is trouble.
The tone is heat and intent and absolutely not innocent.
"What did you just say?"
He doesn't translate.
Of course he doesn't.
I shove him lightly.
My palm presses against his bare chest.
Skin on skin.
Warm.
Solid.
My hand literally burns.
I pull it back like I touched fire.
"Can you stop fucking flexing your Italian?" I snap. "You know I'm not a walking Duolingo."
He chuckles.
Low.
Steps back just enough to give me space.
But not enough to cool the air between us.
"You're dramatic," he says.
"I'm confused," I fire back.
"Same thing."
I glare at him.
He looks so annoyingly good it makes me angry.
The sun through the windows makes his skin darker.
Golden.
His hair slightly messy.
His mouth still curved.
This man is a walking problem.
I shake my head and storm out of the kitchen before I do something reckless.
Fuck.
-----------
It's the next day.
Two days until we leave.
I'm on the top floor balcony with the stupid leather journal on my lap like I'm some poetic wife in a perfume ad.
I'm not writing.
I'm staring at the same blank page for ten minutes.
The kitchen yesterday plays on loop in my head.
His voice in my ear.
Italian sliding over my skin.
That sentence.
I don't understand it.
But I feel it.
And that's worse.
Just because he made pasta and didn't slam me against a wall doesn't mean I'm not suspicious.
People can sauté garlic and still bury bodies.
I tap the pen against the page.
Two days.
We go home in two days.
And the only thing I'm going to miss?
His fucking tan.
I glare at the thought.
Because I know the second we land back home he's going to fade back into that creamy, unfairly smooth, almost angelic skin tone like he didn't just spend days under Italian sun looking like temptation sponsored by God.
Stupid thought.
I shake it off.
Focus.
The sea air is warm.
The gate below looks small from up here.
And then I see it.
Movement.
A tiny figure at the gate.
I squint.
It's a kid.
Small.
Like… actually small.
Maybe eight?
Nine?
His clothes are worn. Not filthy. Just… tired.
He's standing on his toes trying to look through the bars.
He doesn't see the guards inside.
Or maybe he does and he doesn't care.
I feel a smile forming before I can stop it.
He's so tiny.
He's just standing there like this mansion is a zoo and he's looking at exotic animals.
I want to call him inside.
Like some idiot.
"Hey, come up, we have twenty bedrooms and trauma."
I can't.
Obviously.
Still.
He's cute.
And then—
A car comes fast down the road.
Too fast.
My stomach drops.
It's coming straight toward the gate.
Toward him.
I don't think.
I just snap my eyes shut.
I'm ready for the sound.
The crash.
The scream.
My heart jumps into my throat.
Silence.
No impact.
No scream.
I open my eyes slowly.
The car is stopped inches from him.
And I know that car.
Of course I do.
Zayan's.
The kid is glued to the gate now.
Frozen.
Oh fuck.
He's going to get mad.
He hates chaos.
He hates disruption.
This tiny thing just scared the shit out of his driver.
Izar steps out first from the driver's seat.
Calm.
Controlled.
He walks around and opens the back door.
And then Zayan steps out.
Black suit.
Of course.
Who the hell wears a black suit in the middle of the afternoon like they're about to attend a mafia board meeting?
He does.
He shuts the door slowly.
Adjusts his cuff.
And starts walking toward the kid.
Not fast.
Not slow.
Just steady.
Menace coded.
I lean forward over the balcony rail without realizing.
The kid is crying now.
Not loud.
Just quiet little shakes.
His shoulders are trembling.
Zayan stops in front of him.
Stares down.
And I hold my breath.
He crouches.
He actually crouches.
My brain glitches.
He crouches in a black tailored suit in front of a crying kid like this is normal.
He says something.
Italian.
Of course.
I can't hear it.
I hate that I can't hear it.
The kid sniffles.
Nods.
Zayan smiles.
Not that fake one he gives at events.
Not the cold one.
This one is… real.
Soft at the edges.
He reaches up and ruffles the kid's hair.
The kid laughs.
A small, nervous laugh.
Zayan laughs too.
Quiet.
Like he forgot how to be scary for a second.
What the hell.
He cups the kid's cheek with his thumb.
Gentle.
Not performative.
There are no cameras here.
No board members.
No investors.
Just guards who don't even look surprised.
He says something else.
The kid nods again and answers back.
I swear to God if I knew Italian I would sell my soul right now.
Zayan takes his wallet out.
Pulls out a thick stack.
Not one note.
Not two.
A handful.
Big ones.
He presses them into the kid's hand.
The kid's eyes go wide.
He laughs again.
That pure kid laugh.
I grab my phone without thinking and start recording.
Not to expose him.
Not to use it.
Just… to watch later.
To replay.
To study.
Because this doesn't match the man who whispered murder in my ear.
Zayan says something to Izar without standing up.
Still crouched.
Izar nods.
Smiles at the kid.
Actually smiles.
Then Izar gently takes the kid's hand.
Leads him to the car.
Opens the door.
Helps him inside like he's precious cargo.
Izar gets in the driver's seat.
The car leaves.
Just like that.
Zayan stands there alone for a second.
Then turns.
Walks inside the mansion by himself.
No entourage.
No theatrics.
Just him.
And I'm smiling like an idiot.
My chest feels too full.
Too warm.
He doesn't know I'm watching.
He didn't do it for anyone.
So what the fuck is he?
In public he's sharp.
Controlled.
Untouchable.
In private he cages me and says things that make my spine heat up.
And now this.
Crouching in a black suit in front of a scared kid.
Laughing.
Touching his face gently like he's afraid to hurt him.
I'm so stupid to suspect him .
He can't do that,i don't think he killed luca .
How can someone like that kill someone brutally?