Sunday mornings in Luca Moretti’s penthouse had developed rituals.
Sienna realized it at nine-thirty while standing barefoot in Luca’s kitchen wearing one of his black shirts and absolutely no intention of returning to her own apartment before Monday. Jazz drifted softly through hidden speakers while sunlight flooded the penthouse in warm gold. Somewhere beyond the windows, Monaco glittered obnoxiously against the sea.
Inside, Luca stood at the stove making espresso with the focus of a man conducting financial warfare.
“You’re glaring at coffee again,” Sienna observed from her position leaning against the kitchen island.
“I’m concentrating.”
“You measured the espresso beans individually.”
“Precision matters.”
“That sentence alone explains ninety percent of your personality.”
Luca g
