Two weeks.
He had said two weeks like it was nothing. Like two weeks in Paris was the natural and obvious thing to do with a second day of marriage after a first day involving gunfire and hidden staircases and approximately four hours of sleep. I didn't know whether to find this extraordinary or to add it to the growing list of things about Matteo Vitale that simply required a recalibration of my existing framework for what was normal, what was possible, what a life could look like when it was built to entirely different specifications than the one I'd grown up inside.
I was still looking at the window when he spoke.
"Alana."
My name in his mouth still did something I hadn't authorized. Low and unhurried, the same register he used for everything, like volume was a resource he'd decided
