Page 85 of Goldflame

Without answering, I turn and walk away. Each step takes me further from what I want and closer to what must be done.

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

AURELIA

Adrian avoids me like I’m carrying the plague.

It’s been four days since I arrived at Lorenzo’s estate—four days of polite nods when we pass in hallways, four days of him leaving rooms the moment I enter, four days of wondering what the hell happened to the man who held me while I sobbed in his office.

I’ve tried cornering him twice. Both times he managed to slip away with some vague excuse about “urgent business.”

God, men are infuriating. At least Julian never pretended to be anything other than what he was—a possessive, volatile storm. Adrian, or “Dante”, is just… a ghost. Present but untouchable.

And I thought he’d changed.

Still, not everything about my new life is disappointing. I’m sitting in the garden with Lorenzo, watching Roby chase butterflies through the late morning sunshine. The way his small legs pump as he races acrossthe lawn, his delighted squeals each time he nearly catches one, fills an emptiness in me.

Especially since he’s family.

“You’re smiling,” Lorenzo observes. He leans back in his chair, looking perfectly at ease in designer jeans and a simple white shirt. “It suits you.”

“Hard not to smile around him,” I say, nodding toward Roby. “He’s… innocent. Untouched by all of this.”

“That’s my greatest accomplishment—keeping him that way.” He takes a sip of his espresso. “You know, he reminds me so much of your cousins back in Italy. Same energy, same joy.”

I turn to face him fully. “I have more cousins?”

“Of course.” He laughs. “The Italian side of your family is huge. Your mother had three siblings including my mother. Those siblings had children, who now have children… you have at least a dozen second cousins around Roby’s age.”

My smile widens into a grin. A family. A real, extended family with connections and history and holidays spent together. People who share my blood, who might have my mother’s smile or her laugh.

“Tell me about them,” I say, leaning forward and resting my chin on my hands.

Lorenzo sets his cup down on the table, his eyes distant with fond memories. “There’s Sophia and Marco—they’re twins, about sixteen now. Absolute terrors. Always plotting some mischief.” He grins. “Then there’s Lucia, she just turned twenty. Studies art in Florence. Very talented.”

He continues, painting portraits of people I’ve nevermet but who suddenly feel essential to my existence. Aunts who make the best limoncello, uncles who argue politics at every gathering, older relatives who tell the same stories over and over.

“The villa in Tuscany is where most gatherings happen now. It’s been in the family for generations.” Lorenzo’s eyes crinkle at the corners. “You should see it in the summer. The vineyards stretching for miles, the stone paths worn smooth from footsteps, the kitchen always smelling of basil and tomatoes…”

I close my eyes, letting myself imagine it. Me, there, surrounded by people who claim me as their own. No Consortium. No revenge plots. Just family and food and sunlight.

“Once this is over,” Lorenzo says, “you can come to Italy with me. I’d love to move back when I can, and I’ll be married to your friend, so you’ll have plenty of company.”

My eyes snap open. “Eleanora.”

“Yes. Eleanora.”

The way he says her name is different from how I say it. There’s some deeper affection behind it, similar to how Emeric says ‘Eleanora’ like he’s breathing her in.

It makes my suspicion about this arrangement grow. Does Eleanora actually know about the engagement? She’s never mentioned it, not once. Wouldn’t that be something important to tell your best friend?

We used to tell each other everything.

Used to.

Well, it’s still possible she may not know.

I groan to myself.God, this is so confusing.Who’s telling the truth and who’s keeping secrets?

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