Page 116 of Caterina
It is not a hostile silence. It is not accusatory.
But it is heavy.
It is full of questions they know better than to ask out loud. And answers they already have.
Erica is the first to break it.
“Caterina.” Her voice is gentle. “Good morning. Did you sleep well?"
"No," I say cheerfully. "No point in lying because you all look like crap too."
Vito’s lips twitch into a smile. “We were worried about you.”
“I’m fine,” I say.
“You don’t look fine,” Antonio says, not looking up from his phone.
“I am,” I say.
That is a lie.
I am not fine. I am a bundle of frayed nerves and raw emotion and lingering desire so potent it feels like a fever. I am an idiot who assaulted her injured bodyguard and then spent the rest of the night either awake replaying it in vivid, high-definition detail, or trying to fall asleep and failing because the memory of Adrian’s hands in my hair was more potent than exhaustion.
“Bianca made coffee,” Teresa says, pushing a mug across the counter toward me. "I figured you'd be needing it."
My gaze flicks to hers.
She knows something.
It’s not in her words. It’s in the look she gives me. A look that is both kind and dangerously perceptive. A look that says, I see you. I see through you.
I look away quickly, my heart starting to pound.
I reach for the mug, my fingers trembling slightly. I hope no one notices.
“You don’t have to pretend you’re not rattled, Caterina,” Luca says, his voice calm and steady. “We all are.”
I’m not rattled.
I am humiliated. And turned on. And terrified.
And completely, utterly out of my depth.
The difference is important.
“I’m fine, Papà,” I say, my voice a little too tight. I take a sip of the coffee, hoping it will give me something to do with my hands. "Really."
“Adrian is up,” Teresa says casually, as if it's a random piece of information.
My coffee mug freezes halfway to my lips.
My head snaps up.
My eyes meet hers.
She knew. She absolutely knew. She knows everything. Oh God.
Her expression is unreadable.
