POV: Emilia Conti
I knew she was watching me before I knew who she was.
There was a particular quality to attention when it came from someone powerful—not curious, not aggressive, but deliberate. Like a hand resting lightly on your pulse, not to stop it, but to count.
I felt it the moment I stepped into the dining room.
The space was brighter than usual, sunlight pouring in through the glass walls, reflecting off polished stone and steel. Alessio wasn't there yet. Neither were the usual rotating men who hovered just far enough away to pretend privacy.
Instead, only one woman sat at the table.
She didn't look up when I entered.
That was intentional.
She was tall, composed, dressed in a tailored suit the color of winter ash. Her dark hair was pulled back smoothly, not severe, not soft. Controlled. Like everything about her had been decided in advance and never questioned again.
I stopped a few steps inside the room.
She continued stirring her coffee.
No guards announced her. No one introduced her.
That told me everything.
"You must be Dr. Conti," she said at last, still not looking at me.
Her voice was calm. Cool. Not unkind—but not inviting either.
"I am," I replied.
Only then did she lift her gaze.
Her eyes were sharp. Pale. Assessing.
This wasn't the way men looked at me. This wasn't appraisal or threat or desire.
This was calculation.
"I'm Gianna," she said. "Alessio's sister."
I inclined my head slightly. Not submissive. Not confrontational. Neutral.
"I've heard of you," I said.
Her mouth curved faintly. "I doubt that."
She gestured to the chair opposite her. "Sit."
I did.
Up close, I noticed details that confirmed my instinct. No wasted movement. No nervous habits. Even the way she held her cup was precise—two fingers, exact pressure.
She set it down and folded her hands. "You've caused quite a disruption."
I met her gaze evenly. "That wasn't my intention."
"No," she agreed. "Intent is rarely relevant."
I waited.
Gianna leaned back slightly, studying me without disguise now. "You don't look how I expected."
"Neither do you," I replied before I could stop myself.
A beat passed.
Then she smiled. Brief. Sharp. "Fair."
She tilted her head. "Tell me—did you know who he was when you saved him?"
"No."
"Would you have done it if you had?"
"Yes."
The answer came easily. Truth always did.
Her eyes narrowed just a fraction. "Even knowing what it would cost you?"
"I didn't save him to buy safety," I said. "I saved him because he was bleeding."
Gianna considered that. "That's either admirable or naïve."
"Those aren't mutually exclusive."
Her smile returned, slower this time. "I like that you don't flatter."
"I don't flatter people who don't need it."
Another pause. Longer.
"So," she said, "you've been moved, isolated, monitored, and financed."
I stiffened. "I wasn't aware my financial situation was family discussion."
She waved a hand dismissively. "Nothing that happens in this house is private."
"That doesn't make it acceptable."
"It makes it inevitable," she replied. "Alessio has a habit of acting decisively."
"That's one word for it," I said.
Her gaze sharpened. "Careful."
I met it without blinking. "With respect, I've learned that careful here means quiet. And I'm not interested in being quiet."
Silence pressed between us.
Gianna broke it with a soft laugh. "You're not what I expected at all."
"I'm getting that a lot," I said.
She leaned forward slightly. "Do you know what people are saying?"
"I can guess."
"They think you're a weakness."
My stomach tightened, but my voice didn't waver. "They're wrong."
"They think you're leverage."
I held her gaze. "That's closer."
"They think," she continued, "that Alessio has made an emotional mistake."
"That's not my problem."
Her eyes cooled. "It is if it gets him killed."
The words landed cleanly. Precisely. Like a scalpel.
I took a slow breath. "You think I'm a liability."
"I think," Gianna said carefully, "that you are an uncontrolled variable."
"That's what he calls me."
"Yes," she replied. "And variables make men sloppy."
Anger flared—but I kept it contained. "If you're here to intimidate me, you're wasting your time."
She smiled again. "No. I'm here to understand you."
"Why?"
"Because men underestimate women who don't belong to them," she said. "And overestimate the ones who do."
Something about that sent a chill through me.
"You're watching him," I said.
"Of course," she replied. "He's my brother."
"And?"
"And he's standing on unstable ground," she said. "Public protection creates vulnerability."
"He believes visibility protects me."
"He believes visibility protects him," Gianna corrected.
I sat back slightly. "You don't agree."
"No," she said. "I believe invisibility is power."
"That's convenient," I replied, "for people who already have it."
Her gaze sharpened again. "You're braver than you realize."
"Or more foolish," I said.
She shrugged. "Those often look the same from a distance."
Footsteps approached behind me.
I didn't turn, but I felt the shift immediately—the room recalibrating around a different center of gravity.
Alessio.
"Gianna," he said evenly.
"Brother," she replied, rising smoothly from her chair.
They regarded each other with practiced neutrality. Too practiced to be comfortable.
"You should have told me you were meeting her," he added.
"I didn't ask," Gianna replied lightly. "Just like you didn't ask before rearranging her life."
I stood, suddenly aware I was between them without meaning to be.
Alessio's gaze flicked to me briefly. "Are you all right?"
"Yes," I said. "We were just talking."
Gianna smiled faintly. "I was complimenting her resilience."
Alessio didn't respond to that.
Gianna picked up her purse. "Enjoy your breakfast, Dr. Conti."
Then, to me alone: "Be careful what you let him protect you from."
I frowned. "Meaning?"
"Protection," she said softly, "always comes with a price."
She left without another word.
The room felt colder after she was gone.
Alessio watched the door for a moment longer than necessary. Then he turned to me.
"What did she say to you?"
"That depends," I replied, "on whether you want honesty or comfort."
His jaw tightened. "Honesty."
"She thinks I'm dangerous," I said. "Not because of what I can do—but because of what you might do for me."
Silence stretched.
"That's not new," he said.
"No," I agreed. "But it's the first time someone's said it without pretending to care about my safety."
He studied my face. "And what do you think?"
I met his gaze steadily. "I think she's not wrong."
A flicker of something—anger, maybe—crossed his expression.
"Then you should listen to her," he said.
"I am," I replied. "That's why I'm telling you this."
He took a step closer. "You don't need to fear her."
"I don't," I said. "I respect her."
"That's worse," he muttered.
I almost smiled.
As he turned away, issuing quiet instructions to the guards, I stayed where I was, heart steady but alert.
Gianna wasn't like the others.
She didn't threaten.
She didn't warn.
She measured.
And that meant one thing, clearer than any gun or locked door—
I wasn't just being watched anymore.
I was being evaluated.