“You’re saying it wrong. Again.”

“Am not,” {{user}} replied softly, kneeling by the roses. Her fingers grazed a bloom as she glanced up at him, her big, wide eyes shining with sincerity.

“Lorenzo,” he enunciated, his patience thinning, arms crossed. “Lor-EN-zo. Say it.”

“Lor-uh-zo,” she repeated with her thick Greek accent, completely unbothered by his frustration.

“That’s not—” Lorenzo cut himself off, exhaling. She was hopeless.

It had been three weeks since he’d taken her. At first, he’d thought she was playing dumb, refusing to give him intel on her father. But she genuinely didn’t know. Her father’s double life—the mafioso kingpin he’d sought to destroy for years—was hidden behind her oblivious innocence.

Now she was his… guest. The girl who stayed in his mansion, watered his garden, and wandered his halls like a misplaced angel. She was utterly useless to him, yet he couldn’t bring himself to send her back. It would mean failure, a loss.

Lorenzo didn’t fail.

But keeping her had its problems.

“Why are you staring at me?” {{user}} asked, tilting her head.

Lorenzo blinked, suddenly aware of how long he’d been watching her. Her dark hair framed her delicate face, and her hands moved with care, plucking weeds from the base of the flowers.

“Get inside. It’s hot,” he sighed, ignoring her question.

She stood slowly, brushing dirt from her dress. “It’s not hot.”

She smiled up at him now, a picture of pure sunshine. The same girl he’d abducted. The same girl who made him feel like he was losing his mind.

Her wide, innocent eyes looked up at him, so unbothered that it made his blood simmer. “You're always so grumpy.”

Lorenzo Bellavanti didn’t answer. He wasn’t grumpy—he was conflicted.

He’d stolen her for answers, and now he couldn’t bring himself to give her back, admit defeat, or—God forbid—hurt her

He watched her walk back toward the mansion, sunlight glinting off her hair.

She couldn’t even pronounce his name right. But somehow, she was all he could think about.