Page 12 of Stained Honor

Giorgio gives me a look full of warning and dry amusement. “Oh he cares, Emily. Trust me. He cares a hell of a lot more than you think.”

Now that some of his usual calm irritation has returned, he pushes himself off the couch and says, “You’ve got one hour to shower and get dressed.”

I raise an eyebrow. “For what exactly?”

“For several reasons. The most important one being that your smell is slowly killing me.”

My brows crash together instantly. Even though I literally showered this morning, I subtly sniff myself anyway, and the smug grin spreading across his face tells me immediately he’s fucking with me.

I glare at him.

His grin disappears just as fast, replaced by seriousness again.

“And second, whether you like it or not, we’re going out for dinner tonight.”

“I’m not hungry.”

“Yeah, well, I am. And since God forgot to install cooking skills into either one of us, and we can’t hire a chef because of security reasons, and every place that delivers tastes like garbage, I’m officially starving to death.” He gestures dramatically toward me. “Meanwhile, apparently you survive on photosynthesis.”

I open my mouth to argue again, but this time he says something so unexpected it actually shuts me up.

“Please, Emily. For old times’ sake.”

I throw my hands up dramatically while walking toward the bathroom. “Jesus Christ, fine. Stop nagging, I’m going.” I glance over my shoulder at him. “Just admit you wanna go out, find some pretty girl, and get laid, because from what I’ve seen, you’ll eat literally anything. Even my leftovers.”

***

By the time we reach the restaurant, the sky hasn’t completely darkened yet. From the cozy little rooftop terrace, the sea stretches out in the distance, slowly disappearing into the coming night. The cool sea breeze drifts off the water and slips through my loose hair.

I love this small island.

This is where Carlo and I married.

There are no towering skyscrapers here. No suffocating traffic. Just old houses restored beautifully, painted in bright cheerful colors that breathe life into the narrow streets, and restaurants that are spotless without losing the charm of their age.

Even this restaurant, perched on a cliff overlooking the sea, looks like something out of a postcard, with its low white-painted roof and flower pots hanging from every wall and doorway.

Giorgio and I sit at a small round wooden table on matching wooden chairs while we order our food. Poor Giorgio, whose muscles seem to have doubled over the past five years, barely fits in the damn chair anymore.

The restaurant is mostly quiet, wrapped in a peaceful kind of silence.

While staring out at the darkening water, I finally ask softly, “Do you think Carlo will ever forgive me?”

Then I look at Giorgio.

With that same calm, unreadable expression, he asks, “Do you regret what you did?”

I slowly shake my head.

His gaze drifts toward the sea, but he says nothing.

I shift nervously in my chair before finally asking the question that’s been eating me alive for the past month.

“Do you hate me too, Giorgio?”

My heartbeat picks up while I wait for his answer.

Giorgio looks at me, then lets out a mocking scoff and raises an eyebrow. “Emily, you call me your best friend in front of my soldiers. You force me to sit through hours of cartoons with Gabriel. Of course I fucking hate you.”