Back in the private dining room, the noise and warmth slowly thawed the chill gripping my veins. My colleagues’ laughter, their easy conversations, the way they treated me like nothing had changed—it grounded me. For a moment, I almost managed to forget her words.
Almost.
The door flew open with a violent slam.
Conversation died instantly.
Rocco stood at the entrance, his gaze sweeping the room until it landed on me. He froze for a heartbeat, something dark and volatile flickering across his face. Then his hands clenched, and he barked my name, sharp and commanding, ordering me out into the hallway.
Unease crawled up my spine, but I followed.
The corridor was dim and cold, the air tight with tension. I barely had time to register the shift before pain exploded across my cheek.
The sound echoed.
It was the first time he had ever laid a hand on me.
Shock rooted me in place. My face burned as I stared at him, waiting—hoping—for regret to surface. It never did. His expression was carved from anger alone.
“Why did you go after Antonella?” he demanded, voice low and coiled. “You knew she was injured. I told you I’d explain everything once we got back—but you couldn’t wait, could you?”