Page 14 of Tower of Temptations

PEARL

I'd always believed books were the closest thing to magic we had in this world.

Standing at my window, watching the morning light stream through the library's massive windows, I could feel that old familiar pull. Three floors of books, just waiting to be discovered.

The library had been teasing me for days. From where I stood, I could see endless shelves through the tall windows, offering glimpses of what was inside. Sometimes I'd spot Giuliano there in the evenings, his dark head bent over documents at a massive desk. Once, I even caught him just reading, looking more relaxed than I'd ever seen him in the soft light.

I was halfway throughThe Secret History—completely absorbed in Tartt's dark academia world—when he appeared for his morning check. The corner of his mouth twitched when he spotted me curled in the window seat, clutching one of the books he'd brought.

"Let me guess," he said from the doorway, his voice holding an unexpected hint of teasing. "You want to see the library."

"Is it that obvious?" I set the book aside, trying not to look too eager. Like I hadn't been rehearsing this conversation in my head for days.

"Considering I've caught you staring at it every time I pass by..." His eyes held amusement. "Though I have to wonder—if I let you in there, are you going to try something stupid?"

"Please. Like I'd risk damaging any of those books in an escape attempt." I rolled my eyes. "I'm not that desperate."

He actually laughed—a warm, rich sound that made my stomach flip. "Come on then. But if you start quotingRomeo and Juliet, I'm locking you back in here."

"More of aMacbethgirl, actually," I muttered, following him into the hallway. His shoulders shook slightly with suppressed laughter.

He led me through the compound's winding corridors, past massive windows overlooking the coast. Every few steps, the guards we passed straightened imperceptibly. I tried to memorize the route—right at the formal dining room, through an atrium filled with morning light, down a hallway lined with oil paintings of stern-faced men who had to be previous Barbieris.

The library entrance itself was imposing—double doors of dark wood, carved with intricate scrollwork. Giuliano produced a key from his pocket, the kind you'd expect to find in some ancient monastery.

"Not many people come here," he said, turning the key. "My father, occasionally. Sometimes the men, if they need to research something specific." He pushed the door open, and that distinctive scent of leather and paper washed over me. "Mostly it's just me."

The library was even more beautiful up close. Three stories of books stretched upward, connected by wrought iron spiral staircases that looked like black lace against all that wood.

"You actually read them?" I asked, trying to take it all in. "Not just for show?"

"Everything from business law to ancient philosophy." His voice softened. "Though I prefer the classics. There's something about those old stories..." He trailed off, like he'd caught himself revealing too much.

I was already trailing my fingers along the spines, reading titles in a dozen languages. "Your father collected these?"

"Most of them." Something shifted in his voice. "Though he barely reads them. He just likes showing them off to visitors—proof we're not just thugs in expensive suits."

I glanced back at him. "Sounds familiar."

I wandered deeper into the library, breathing in that intoxicating scent of aged paper and leather. The sun slanted through the windows, warming my skin as I moved between the towering shelves. My fingers traced the gilt letters on leather spines, feeling the subtle textures of decades-old bindings.

Giuliano sank into one of the leather armchairs near the window, the dark leather creaking softly under his weight. He'd loosened his tie slightly, a small detail that made him lookalmost approachable. The way he watched me explore, with that intense focus barely softened by the gentle light, made me feel like the only person in his world.

"Tell me about your father," he said quietly. "Your real father."

The request caught me off guard. I pulled a volume of poetry from the shelf, fingers running over its worn edges. "What do you want to know?"

"Everything. What was he like? Before the accident?"

My chest tightened at the memory. I sank into the chair opposite him, the poetry book clutched close. "He was... God, this is harder than I thought."

"Take your time."

I traced the book's embossed cover, gathering my thoughts.

"He wasn't perfect. Worked too much, missed some school things. But when he was there, he was really there, you know? Like this one time—I was maybe seven—he had this huge meeting with the port authorities. Really important stuff. But I had strep throat, felt awful. So he brought the whole meeting to our house, set everyone up in his study. Had me wrapped in blankets on this little couch he kept in there, drinking honey tea while they talked shipping routes."

"Sounds like he cared."

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