Domenico crossed the room in two steps, his gaze raking over the shabby space before landing on the deflated duffel bag resting at the head of the bed.
"What kind of stunt are you pulling now?" His voice was sharp, accusatory. "Olimpia only said she wanted the master bedroom. Who told you to move into a place like this? Are you trying to guilt-trip me?"
I stood and met his eyes levelly.
"All the other guest rooms are filled with Miss Ferrante's luggage. This was the only one empty. It doesn't matter to me where I sleep."
My flat, unbothered tone infuriated him.
He seized my wrist, his grip brutal.
My sleeve was wrenched upward, exposing a vicious scar that ran more than five inches along my forearm.
Three years ago, I'd thrown myself in front of him to block an assassination attempt by a rival family's enforcer. A combat knife had gone straight through my forearm. I'd nearly bled out on the operating table.
Domenico stared at the scar. There wasn't a shred of sympathy in his eyes. Only irritation.
"Do you walk around with this scar on display every day just to remind me I owe you?"
"Olimpia is easily frightened. She saw the scar on your arm today and was so shaken she couldn't even finish lunch."
"Starting tomorrow, you wear long sleeves inside this house. If you can't manage that, then move out to the gatehouse by the front entrance for a few days. Stay out of Olimpia's sight."
Every word was designed to cut. He was trying to wound me, trying to provoke me into the kind of desperate, heartbroken defense I would have mounted before.
He was waiting for me to break. Waiting for me to crumble, to bow my head and beg for forgiveness.
I looked at his face, twisted with fury, and felt nothing but calm.
I didn't argue. I didn't cry.
I pulled free of his grip, turned, and picked up the black duffel bag.
"Fine. I'll move to the gatehouse right now."
I lifted the bag, stepped past him, and walked straight for the door.
Domenico completely lost it.
He hadn't gotten the reaction he wanted. My compliance, in his eyes, had become the most brazen provocation imaginable. His thumb moved to his right hand on instinct, rolling the heavy signet ring in a slow, grinding rotation, but there was no dominance to assert here. Only a woman walking away from him without flinching.
He stormed after me, ripped the bag from my hand, and threw open the front door of the villa.