Since the shooting, Alessandro hadn't left my side. No matter where I went, he was there—vigilant, protective, and unyielding. His constant presence bordered on suffocating, yet I couldn't bring myself to resent him. A small, stubborn part of me found his protectiveness reassuring, though I refused to admit it out loud.
That evening, after hours of pacing in our bedroom, I decided I couldn't take it anymore. The weight of unanswered questions was suffocating me, and I needed the truth. No more deflections, no more cryptic remarks.
I made my way to his office, pausing in the doorway, which was slightly ajar. Alessandro sat behind his desk, his sleeves rolled up to reveal forearms etched with faint scars that hinted at a life of battles—both literal and figurative. His focused expression softened as his eyes scanned a document under the warm glow of the desk lamp, the light casting sharp angles on his chiseled features.