Page 27 of His Savage Ruin
"Thank you," I say, genuinely grateful. I hadn't realized how hungry I was until the scent of perfectly prepared pasta hit my senses.
But it's what else is on the tray that stops me cold.
A small espresso cup, the coffee inside dark and rich, with just a dash of milk swirled on top. Exactly the way I described it to Matteo in the darkness last night.
He must have told them, because Romeo sets it down carefully on the table, as if following an order straight from his boss.
I wrap my fingers around the porcelain, the warmth sinking into my palms. The aroma curls up toward me, familiar, comforting but infuriating all at once. I feel warmth spread through my chest in a way that has nothing to do with the coffee’s temperature. In all my months of marriage, Lorenzo never once remembered how I liked… well, anything. Never cared enough to notice what brought me small moments of joy.
But this man—this dangerous stranger who’s holding me prisoner—listened to a whispered confession in the dark and made sure I had exactly what I wanted.
I try not to let it affect me, try to maintain the emotional distance that keeps me sane. But my hands shake slightly as I lift the cup, and the first sip tastes like comfort and consideration and things I can’t afford to want.
“Good?” Romeo asks from the door.
"Perfect." I let the cup warm my fingers a beat longer, holding the porcelain like a shield. My smile is small, practiced; the kind you give when you want someone to think they've surprised you.
Romeo shifts his weight; Marco stays a statue by the arch. The difference tells me more than either of them would say aloud. Matteo must have told them —and that is something to file away. Men remember orders. Men remember favors. Men have soft spots.
"How long have you worked for Don Romano?" I ask, not because I need to know, but because I am mapping the man in front of me. I watch Romeo over the rim, counting heartbeats and micro-shifts in his face. "You seem devoted to him."
"Eight years." His voice softens and he closes the space half a step, polite protocol softened into something gentler. "He's been good to me."
"I can see that." I set the cup down, tilting my head and dropping my lashes so my eyes seem smaller, more tired. Vulnerable enough to draw pity, unguarded enough to invite trust.
"It must be nice, having someone who actually cares. Who protects instead of—" I let the sentence hang like bait. Let him pick the hook.
"Instead of what?" Romeo asks, and the weight in his voice shifts to something more personal.
"Nothing." I let my gaze slide away, the motion practiced. "Things were different at the Moretti house. They weren't… kind to women." His jaw tightens.
His hands twitch at his sides — the reaction of a man who's been handled gently for years. That twitch is a notch on the map. Marco's immobility is another. One of them bends. One does not.
"Don Romano won't let anyone hurt you," Romeo says quietly. "He made that very clear."
"Did he?" Hope sharpens my tone, but only as an instrument. I wrap my arms around myself, shivering on purpose. "It's just… being locked in this room reminds me of—" My breath hitches; the display is perfect for drawing a man in. "I'm sorry. You're just doing your job." "
No, it's—" Romeo glances toward Marco, then steps a little closer. "Is there anything we can do? To make you more comfortable?"
Exactly what I want. I worry my bottom lip between my teeth, eyes lowering as if I'm deciding, then edge forward until his jacket brushes mine.
"I don't want to get you in trouble," I whisper. "But I've been in this room since yesterday, and the walls feel like they're closing in." I let my voice falter, close enough now that he can hear my pulse. "Do you think… would it be possible for me to stepoutside? Just for a few minutes? You could watch me the entire time."
He hesitates — the moment I've been angling for — and I store the twitch of his indecision like a key.
Romeo's expression immediately becomes conflicted. "I... Mrs. Moretti, I don't think..."
"Please," I press, letting my hand rest lightly on his arm. "Just five minutes. Fresh air, a chance to see something other than these four walls. I promise I won't cause any trouble."
I can see him wavering, his natural kindness warring with his professional obligations. Behind him, Marco's expression remains stony, but he doesn't intervene.
"I can't," Romeo says finally, but his voice carries genuine regret. "Don Romano's orders were very specific. You have to stay in this room."
"What if you asked him? Explained that it's just a short walk with full supervision?"
"I..." Romeo glances back at Marco, seeking guidance. "I could mention it to him when he gets back. I’ll ask if he might consider it."
It's not the victory I was hoping for, but it's progress. Romeo is already compromised, already thinking of my comfort overstrict adherence to orders. With time and careful manipulation, I might be able to turn that to my advantage.
