“Good evening, Mr. Ricci,” she said, bowing her head slightly. “I have prepared the guest suite.”

“Thank you, Elena,” Damiano said. “Please bring us some tea and turn on the study television.”

She nodded and disappeared into the kitchen without another word.

Damiano led me toward a smaller room off the main living area, lined with dark wooden bookshelves.

A large leather armchair sat in front of a flat-screen television mounted on the wall.

I sank into the chair, my muscles aching from the tension of the last twelve hours.

Damiano stood near the window, his hands clasped behind his back as he looked down at the city.

“You did not have to do this,” I said, my voice cracking slightly.

“I did,” he replied without turning around. “Marcus was an annoyance to my business. This was a logical solution.”

“You did it to protect me,” I said.

He turned slowly, his face expressionless, though his eyes lingered on my bruised wrist.

“You were under my roof,” he said. “That makes you my responsibility.”

Elena returned, carrying a silver tray with a porcelain teapot, two cups, and a small plate of sliced lemon.