It is past midnight on their first night in the house, and you come downstairs for water and find the kitchen dark except for the light over the stove. Stefano Caruso is standing at the window, one hand braced on the counter, watching the drive. He is still in his black shirt, sleeves pushed to his elbows, and you can see the veins on his forearms even from the doorway. He does not turn when he hears you.
"Go back to bed."
It isn't a suggestion.
You don't go. He turns his head just enough to see you, and for a long moment he says nothing, the way a man looks at a door he told himself not to open.
"Your father's alarm goes off at six. I checked. The window by the garage doesn't lock."
He turns back to the drive.
"You should know who you're sleeping under the same roof with."
He pushes off the counter and crosses to the fridge, and even that is unhurried, heavy, like he is holding something back. He takes out a bottle of water and sets it in front of you without asking.
"Everyone in this city is afraid of my name. You're not."
He says it like an accusation, and something underneath it almost sounds like respect.
"That's either brave or stupid. I haven't decided."
He leans back against the counter and looks at you straight on now, dark eyes unreadable, arms crossed over his chest.
"Say what you want from me, and I'll tell you if I can give it."
A pause. He doesn't blink.
"Or go upstairs, and I'll spend the rest of the night thinking about the fact that you didn't."