Chapter 17 - When Walls Begin To Fall
1349 Words
When Massimo finishes his call and walks back, there’s something different in his expression. More determined.
“Come on,” he says, extending his hand.
“Where?”
“Lunch. You need to eat.”
I automatically start to protest. “I’m not really hungry-”
“Emma.” His tone drops calm, firm, but impossible to argue with. “You’ve lost weight since arriving in Miami. When did you last have a proper meal?”
The observation catches me off guard. I didn’t realize he’d been paying that kind of attention.
“I eat,” I say defensively.
“Coffee and half a sandwich don’t count.”
How the hell does he know that?
“I should stay and work on-”
“The lighting situation is handled. Isabelle’s making calls, and I have people expediting the customs release.”
He steps closer, and I have to tilt my head back to meet his eyes.
“Right now, your job is taking care of yourself so you can do your job properly. That starts with real food.”
There’s no arguing with that logic, or with the quiet authority in his voice. After the panic attack, I feel drained anyway. Maybe food would help.
“Okay,” I sigh. “Somewhere quick though.”
“Trust me.”
__
Twenty minutes later, we’re in an elevator headed to the top of some glass tower that screams money.
The restaurant is the kind of place where the air itself feels expensive. Floor-to-ceiling windows, white linen, ocean views. I immediately feel underdressed.
The owner greets Massimo by name. Of course he does. He leads us to a table by the window. The view steals my breath, Miami glittering under a sun that looks like it exists just to show off.
“This is… beautiful,” I murmur.
Massimo glances at me, satisfied. “Thought you’d like it. You’ve been buried in work for weeks. You deserve to see Miami from a better angle.”
The menu arrives, and I scan it quickly, stomach twisting with familiar anxiety. Everything sounds rich, elaborate. Too much.
“I’ll just have a salad,” I tell the server.
“No,” Massimo says firmly. “She’ll have the filet with vegetables. And bring bread to start.”
I blink. “You don’t have to”
He looks at me, one brow raised, and somehow I shut up instantly.
“Emma, you need real food. Capito?”
The server nods and disappears, leaving us alone with the view and tension I can’t identify.
“You don’t have to take care of me.”
“Maybe I want to.”
The words hit harder than they should. He doesn’t even flinch when he says them, like it’s the most natural thing in the world. But for me, it feels like stepping onto dangerous ground. When bread arrives, warm and fragrant, Massimo tears off a piece and hands it to me.
“Mangia, piccola.”
“I’m really not-”
“Un morso, Emma. Just one bite.”
I take the bread, mostly to prove I can, but damn, it’s good. Warm, buttery, ridiculous. Before I know it, it’s gone.
He nods, satisfied, as if feeding me was some sort of victory.
“Good,” he says, satisfaction in his voice. “Now tell me about the terrace timeline. What’s our backup if lighting is delayed beyond seventy-two hours?”
I breathe easier in familiar territory, explaining everything, compressed schedules, alternate vendors, risk mitigation.
But halfway through, I realize he isn’t just listening. He’s watching me. Really watching. The kind of focused gaze that feels like sunlight and scrutiny all at once.
When I finish, he leans back slightly and says. “You’ve thought of everything.”
“I try to. I don’t like surprises.”
“Why?”
The question catches me off guard. “Because… surprises usually mean something’s gone wrong. And when things go wrong, people blame you.”
He tilts his head. “Who blames you, Emma?”
Thank God our food arrives before I have to answer. The steak looks perfect. I cut a piece, chew, and the flavor, rich, smoky, perfect hits me so hard a small sound escapes before I can stop it.
A soft, involuntary sigh that’s way too close to a moan.
Oh god.
My eyes fly open. Massimo freezes mid-bite, fork still in the air. His gaze sharpens, amused, but also something else.
Heat crawls up my neck. “It’s… really good,” I manage, pretending I didn’t just make a sound that belongs in a different kind of conversation.
“You sound surprised.” he says, voice lower now, rougher. His expression stays composed, but there’s a flicker of something in his eyes. though his expression never breaks that perfect composure. But the way he watches me makes my skin prickle, like he’s testing how far that little slip could go.
“I don’t usually… I mean, I’m not much of a restaurant person.” I fumble, staring down at my plate, wishing my pulse wasn’t so obvious.
“Why not?”
I shrug, not sure how to explain without getting into territory I’d rather avoid.
“Never developed the habit.”
He studies me again, too closely, too quietly. Then: “This fear of not being enough,” he says. “Where does it come from?”
My knife clinks against the plate. “I don’t, what?”
He cut me off. “You act like you’re waiting for someone to prove you don’t belong. You overwork, you apologize for existing, and when you fail, you punish yourself harder than anyone else could.almost like you’re terrified of proving someone right.”
Each word lands like a precise cut. I swallow hard. “You don’t know anything about my life.” I snap, sharper than I mean, hoping he’ll back off.
He doesn’t flinch. “Then tell me.”
“Then tell me,” he says, not a question, not quite a command just the certainty that he will not look away.
For a second, I almost do. I almost tell him everything, how I grew up being told I was too much, too emotional, too sensitive. How I was never enough, no matter what I did they always find a way to say that I did it wrong or bad, or to just find something to critise.
But I can’t. Not yet.
“It’s complicated,” I whisper.
“Le cose importanti lo sono sempre,” he says softly. The important things always are.
I look away, embarrassed by how right he is.
Then, out of nowhere, his voice changes.
“I was engaged once.”
I blink. “You were?”
He nods slowly, eyes distant. “Twenty-three. Thought she saw me, not the name. I was wrong.”
He talks quietly, almost like confessing to himself. “She sold information to a rival. Nearly ruined a deal that took years. I learned fast, trust is earned in blood, not words.”
His jaw tightens, hand curling briefly on the table before relaxing again.
“So I test people now,” he continues. “Push them. See if they break before I hand them anything worth holding.”
I should feel uncomfortable. But instead, I just… understand.
He looks up, meeting my eyes, and his voice softens.
“You’re different, Emma. Sei diversae. You don’t play angles. You care. Too much, maybe, but… it’s real.”
My chest tightens. “I’m not sure I know how to be anything else.”
“Bene,” he murmurs, gaze steady. “Don’t change.”
For a long second, neither of us looks away. The noise of the restaurant fades, and there’s just his eyes gray, quiet, impossible to read. We just sit there, staring at each other, I feel that his eyes pierce throught me, and they see everything, every scar, every little thing that I try to hide.
So I ask, quietly. “Tell me about your family.”
- Writer
