Page 23 of Luca
Too perfect. She's practically vibrating with excitement at the chance to wander around my house unsupervised.
"There are a few areas that are off-limits," I add casually. "My study, the basement office, that kind of thing. Family business."
"Of course," she says quickly. "I wouldn't want to intrude."
But I catch the way her eyes flick toward the French doors leading back inside. She's already thinking about doing something she shouldn’t.
I stand up. "I should get going. Meeting starts in an hour."
"Drive safe," she says, but her mind is elsewhere.
I kiss her goodbye and head for my car, then double back through the side entrance. If Sofia wants to explore, I'm going to watch her.
I position myself out of sight and pull up the cameras through an app on my phone. The cameras are everywhere. And Sofia's about to find out exactly where.
She starts in the living room, moving slowly, taking everything in. At first glance, it looks like normal curiosity. New wife getting familiar with her surroundings.
But I've been trained to watch for tells. And Sofia's got them.
She checks under furniture for hidden compartments. Runs her fingers along picture frames looking for concealed devices. Tests door handles to see which rooms are locked.
This isn't feminine curiosity. This is reconnaissance.
When she gets to my study, she tries the handle. Locked, of course. She reaches up and produces something from her hair. A goddamn hairpin. Within thirty seconds, the door's open and she slips inside, closing it quietly behind her.
What the fuck.
Sofia Arcari just picked the lock on my study. The same Sofia who told me last month she couldn't even open a pickle jar without help.
She closes the door behind her. I watch her move through the room systematically. She doesn't touch my desk or rifle through papers
The camera angle catches her scanning then her eyes cut to the corner where my locked liquor cabinet sits. Heavy glass doors, brass lock. Not meant for prevent burglary. Just enough to keep the cleaning staff from pouring Cristal into soda.
She kneels in front of it, hair falling over her shoulder, and pulls the hairpin again. Two clicks and it’s open. The way she handles that lock, she’s done more than jewelry clasps and diary keys. She’s fast. Too fast.
She sits cross-legged on the floor and studies the bottles like they’re artifacts in a museum she’s decided belongs to her. Runs her fingers over the labels — Macallan 72, Brora 40, an unopened Dalmore 62 that could buy her a car if she sold it right.
She stops at the Dalmore. Tilts the bottle in her hands, reading the etched glass, the way you do when you’re weighingwhether something tastes as good as the price tag says it should. Then she smiles and casually breaks the seal.
I can’t believe it.
There’s not a single man in Italy who has the fucking balls to break the seal on one of my bottles without permission.
She doesn’t grab a glass. Instead, she drinks straight from the neck, one clean mouthful, throat working slow like she wants me to see it.
She swallows, closes her eyes for half a second — savoring — then wipes her mouth with her thumb. Returns the bottle exactly where it was, lock clicks shut, hairpin vanishes.
I watch her leave the study, carefully locking the door behind her and replacing the hairpin in her pocket like this is routine. She's done this before.
My phone buzzes. Paolo again: "Boss? You want me to move that meeting to later?"
I text back: "No. Handle it yourself. Tell them I'll call tonight."
Because I'm not going anywhere. Not until I figure out what game my wife is playing.
And who taught her to play it so well.
She spends the next hour moving through the house with purpose, but not the pattern of purpose I expected. She's not mapping security or looking for weaknesses. She's getting to know the place. Getting to know me.
