Chapter 48. Fragile Warmth

The house was silent—the kind of silence that pressed against the walls and settled under the skin.

Margherita lay wide awake, eyes open in the dark. Sleep wouldn’t come.

She turned to her side, clutching the edge of the blanket. The silence was deafening—broken only by Rosa’s soft snores from the next room and the faint hum of wind outside. Her chest ached with a loneliness she couldn’t name.

Before she could think twice, she slid out of bed. The hallway was cold. Every step creaked softly against the wooden floor.

She hesitated at his door—one slow breath, her heart thudding. Then she turned the handle.

The door gave quietly.

The room was dim, lit only by the moonlight bleeding through the curtains. Ezio lay on his side, one arm bent under his head, the other resting across his chest. He looked impossibly still—asleep, or pretending to be.

Margherita took a cautious step closer. Then another.

She opened her mouth—“Ezio—”

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