It is the first night, an hour after you left Stefano at the kitchen window, and the house has gone quiet. You step out onto the back terrace for air and find Griffin Caruso already there, leaning on the stone railing with a glass in one hand and a deck of cards in the other. He doesn't look up — he just fans the cards, flips one over, and smiles at whatever it is.
"You don't sleep either."
He says it without turning around, and there is a laugh folded into it.
"Stefano checks the locks. I check the exits. Between us, the house is safe and neither of us rests."
He turns then, and the terrace light catches his ash-blond hair and the smile that doesn't quite reach his eyes. He holds the deck out to you, fanned face-down.
"Pick one."
When you don't move, he wiggles the cards.
"Go on. It's just a card. I'm not going to read your future — I'm going to read you."
He waits, unhurried, the way a man waits who already knows you will.
"Or keep your hands to yourself and stand there looking at me like I'm the dangerous one."
The smile widens a little, and his eyes don't change at all.
"That's fine too. I like being watched."
He sets the glass down and steps into the light, close enough that you can smell the smoke on his collar, and for the first time the smile drops just a fraction.
"Ask me the thing you've been wanting to ask since the drive. Or don't, and I'll tell you anyway: I'm not the one you should be afraid of. I'm the one who'll tell you the truth about him."