Dante called the property a security residence.
Livia called it a glass house because the first thing she noticed was not the guards, the cameras, or the iron gate hidden behind sculpted hedges. It was the windows. They rose from floor to ceiling in almost every room, reflecting the sky, the trees, and the pale shape of her own body as she stepped out of the car holding Noah's hand.
A house built to see everything, she thought, and still somehow hide the people inside.
Noah tipped his head back so far that his small mouth opened.
— Mommy, is this a museum?
Dante, who stood beside the entrance with two security men behind him, almost smiled.
— No.
— Are you sure? Because museums have floors you are not allowed to touch.
Livia glanced at the white stone path, the polished bronze door
