Page 47 of Fire and Silk
The footsteps came next.
Not the disciplined, weight-distributed stride of a man trained for stealth. No, this was fury wearing boots. Matteo shifted beside me, one foot angling back into defensive stance just as the garden arch split open.
And there he was.
Domenico Salviati.
Broad-shouldered, sun-browned, muscle cut through his plain black shirt as if the fabric barely held together. His hair was damp from the road, face shadowed by stubble, jaw clenched so tight it carved deep brackets into his cheeks. His eyes locked on me instantly, and I saw what Marco must have seen all those years ago—the softness behind the soldier. Except now, it wasn’t soft. It burned.
He didn’t hesitate.
The distance between us vanished in four strides. Before Matteo could react, Mico’s hand closed around my collar, rough fingers twisting into the fabric at my chest and dragging me forward. My hat tilted. My shirt shifted under the pull.
Matteo’s pistol cleared its holster with the speed of second nature. His stance widened, barrel rising, ready to paint the inside of Mico’s skull across my roses.
I reached up and adjusted the brim of my hat with two fingers, then turned slightly so I could look into the rage-flushed face hovering inches from mine.
“Matteo,” I said, my tone casual, the way one might comment on the weather. “Stay down.”
Matteo’s arm frozen, his eyes locked on me—then the faintest dip of his shoulder as he lowered the weapon. He didn’t holster it. He was obedient, not stupid.
I looked back at Domenico. His grip hadn’t loosened. I could feel the heat of him now, that tightly coiled storm beneath the surface.
“Nice to finally meet you, Salviati.”
He didn’t answer.
Not at first.
The words came a second later, low and controlled but brimming with fury, as if dragged across gravel.
“Where is she?”
Ah, not even a greeting. How disappointing.
I smiled, slow and wide, letting the moment breathe before I spoke again. “Damn. Not even a response? That’s rather rude, considering I’ve been waiting for you.”
I lifted one hand and plucked a petal from a nearby rose, rolling it gently between my fingers before flicking it into the wind.
“I even told my roses we were going to have fun.”
His hands trembled. Not with fear—no, there was none of that in him—but with the kind of restraint that cracked bonefrom the inside. His fingers were still fisted in my collar, pulling the fabric tight against my sternum, knuckles whitening as if his body were the only thing holding back the flood.
“I swear to God,” he said, voice raw, trembling at the edges, “I’ll kill you.”
He stepped in closer, breath hot against my cheek, and he didn’t just speak.
He roared.
“Where is she?!”
The shout broke from him like a shot. A spasm of grief and fury, and before I could answer, spit struck my cheek, hot and wet. It slid down the corner of my mouth, catching on the stubble I hadn’t yet shaved that morning.
I stood still for a moment, eyes half-lidded.
Then I raised my gloved hand, slow and deliberate, and wiped the spittle away with two fingers. I looked at the smear like it might tell me something new about him.
“You’re quite passionate,” I murmured.
