“Is there anything I should see while I’m there?” Miles asks, more to break the tension than anything else. “Anything that shouldn’t be missed?”

Damen squints, pretending to think, even though the answer comes quickly. “All of Florence is worth seeing. But you should definitely check out the Ponte Vecchio, which is the first bridge to cross the Arno River and the only one left standing after the war. Oh, and you must visit the Galleria dell’Accademia which houses Michelangelo’s David among other important works, and perhaps the—”

“Definitely hitting David,” Miles says. “As well as the bridge, and the famous Il Duomo, and all the other items that make every guidebook top ten list, but I’m more interested in the smaller, off-the-beaten-path kind of places—you know, where all the cool Florentines go. Roman was raving about this one place, I forget the name, but it’s supposed to house some obscure Renaissance artifacts and paintings and stuff few people know about. You got anything like that? Or even clubs, shopping, that kind of thing?”

Damen looks at him, gaze so intense it sends a chill down my spine. “Nothing offhand,” he says, trying to soften the look though his voice betrays a definite edge. “Though any place that claims to house great art but isn’t in the guidebook is probably a fake. The antiquities market is loaded with forgeries. You shouldn’t waste your time on that when there are so many other, far more interesting things to see.”

Miles shrugs, bored by the conversation and already back to texting again. “Whatever,” he mumbles, thumbs tapping quickly. “No worries. Roman said he’d make me a list.”

Chapter Six

“I’m amazed by the progress you’ve made.” Damen smiles. “You learned all this on your own?”

I nod, gazing around the large, empty room, pleased with myself for the first time in weeks.

The moment Damen mentioned he wanted to rid the place of all the overly slick furniture he’d filled it with during Roman’s reign of terror, I was on it. Jumping at the chance to clear out the row of black leather recliners and flat-screen TVs, the red felt pool table and chrome-covered bar—all of them symbols, physical manifestations, of the bleakest phase in our relationship so far. Taking aim at each piece with such unchecked enthusiasm that—well—I’m not even sure where it went. All I know is it’s no longer here.

“Looks like you’re no longer in need of my lessons.” He shakes his head.

“Don’t be so sure.” I turn, smiling as I push his dark wavy hair off his face with my newly gloved hand, hoping we’ll get that cure from Roman soon, or at least come up with a less hokey alternative. “I have no idea where that stuff even went—not to mention how I can’t possibly fill up this space when I have no clue where you stashed all the stuff you used to have.” Reaching for his hand a second too late, and frowning as he walks over to the window.

“The furniture”—he gazes out at his manicured lawn, voice low and deep—“is right back where it started. Returned to its original state of pure vibrating energy with the potential to become anything at all. And as for the rest—” He shrugs, the strong lines of his shoulders rising ever so slightly before settling again. “Well, it hardly matters anymore, does it? I’ve no need of it now.”

I stare at his back, taking in his lean form, his casual stance. Wondering how he could be so uninterested in reclaiming the precious artifacts of his past—the Picasso of him in the severe blue suit, the Velázquez astride a rearing white stallion—not to mention all the other amazing relics dating back centuries.

“But those objects are priceless! You have to get them back. They can never be replaced!”

“Ever, relax. It’s just stuff.” His voice firm, resigned, as he turns toward me again. “None of it has any real meaning. The only thing that means anything is you.”

And even though the sentiment is undeniably sweet and heartfelt, it doesn’t affect me in the way that it should. The only things he seems to care about these days is atoning for his karma and me. And while I’m perfectly fine with those occupying the number one and two spots on his list, the problem is—the rest of the page is blank.

“But that’s where you’re wrong. It’s not just stuff.” I move toward him, voice urging, coaxing, hoping to reach him and make him listen this time. “Signed books by Shakespeare and the Brontë sisters, chandeliers from Marie Antoinette and Louis the Sixteenth—that’s hardly what you’d call stuff. It’s history for God’s sake! You can’t just shrug it off as though it’s nothing more than a box of tired old objects you donate to Goodwill.”

He looks at me, gaze softening as he trails the tip of his gloved finger from my temple to my chin. “I thought you hated my ‘dusty old room’ as you once called it.”

“People change.” I shrug. Wishing, not for the first time, that he’d change back to the Damen I knew. “And speaking of change, why are you so freaked by Miles’s trip to Florence?” Noting the way he stiffens at the mere mention of the word. “Is it because of the whole Drina and Roman thing? The connection you don’t want him to know about?”

He looks at me for a moment, lips parting, about to speak, then he turns away and mumbles, “I’m hardly what you’d call freaked.”

“You know what? You’re absolutely right. For a normal person, that was hardly what you’d call freaked. But for the guy who’s always the coolest, calmest one in the room—all it takes is the slight narrowing of your eyes and the most minute clenching of your jaw to know you’re upset.”