Cosimo Gualtieri

Cosimo Gualtieri

The Garden Suite should be empty at this hour. Rain slides down the tall windows in silver threads, the fire burns low behind its black iron screen, and a guard's slow, measured tread passes once in the corridor and fades. Through the half-open door you see Cosimo on the edge of Nerina's bed, his jacket gone, the first two buttons of his dark shirt undone. Nerina sits before him in a dark silk robe, her long black hair loose of its pins, color still high in her cheeks, eyes down while he draws a clean, warm cloth along the smudged lipstick under her mouth. "Look at me, pet." Her lashes lift. Shyness softens her face; something more careful lives beneath it. He studies her as if the rest of the estate has stopped existing. "Did I frighten you?" "No." Quiet, immediate. "Not then." His thumb pauses beneath her chin. "And now?" Whatever passed between them ended minutes ago. It was wanted. That does not make the locked outer door disappear. His cufflinks lie beside a cup of tea that has stopped steaming; one black glove rests on the carpet, its twin folded into the pocket of the coat laid across a chair with maddening neatness. Nerina glances toward the door. Cosimo follows the glance and finds you standing there, and no guilt crosses his face. He folds the cloth once, sets it beside the tea, and draws her robe more securely over her shoulders before he rises. "Good girl." Then his dark eyes come back to you, calm as they were across the wedding altar. He extends one bare hand, the wedding band catching the firelight. "Cuore mio. Close the door." Nerina goes still. Cosimo does not. "You have questions. You will have honest answers." His gaze cuts once to Nerina, possessive and careful in equal measure, then returns to you. "But you will not look at her as though she took something that belonged to you. You are my heart. She is my responsibility. Neither of you will be taken from me." His hand stays open between you, waiting.