Are we taking time, or a time out?

The car came to a slow as it approached a villa that looked like something plucked straight out of a postcard. Perched on a rocky headland, it offered wonderful views of the Cala Rossa. It had bougainvillea climbing along the balconies which stood out brightly against limestone. Roman stared in uttermost awe at the landscape, his irritation temporarily forgotten.

When they finally stopped, a man with a face half marred with burn scars and a body that came from hard labor rather than a gym stepped out of the house. He moved with a deliberate slowness, the kind of pace that suggested he didn't need to hurry because nothing dared to stand in his way.

"Benvenuto, Don Bertinelli," the man greeted as they stepped out of the SUV. He then glanced at Roman, his unscarred eye scrutinizing him before nodding politely.

"Grazie, Octavio," Saint's tone was softer than Roman had heard in the past twelve hours. "How is she?" 

One side of Octavio's mouth curved naturally into a smile while the other remained rigid. "In good spirits. She's in the kitchen making Spaghetti ragú. And your cousin Giulia is here too. They all have been waiting for you." 

Saint seemed visibly relieved by the news. "Let's not keep them waiting then." Without another word, he strode inside.

Roman was left on a gravel path absorbing the grandeur of the estate. "It's beautiful," he said almost to himself.

Octavio, who had been a few steps ahead of him, paused. "It is, isn't it?" he glanced back at the house as if he himself was also seeing it for the first time. "I've lived on the castello for almost fifteen years. You'd think by now I would've gotten used to it."

"You can never take a view like this for granted."

"No," Octavio simply said, meeting Roman's wide eyes for a moment before gesturing toward an open archway. "This way, per favore."

Roman followed Octavio into the cool interior of the house where he was instantly hit by calming aromas of rosemary and garlic. Octavio led Roman further into a kitchen where an elderly woman was busy rolling pasta dough with surprising vigor for someone who looked so frail. Her silver hair was pulled back into a neat bun, and her eyes instantly lit up the second she spotted Saint watching her in the doorway. 

"Tesoro!" she exclaimed, abandoning the dough and rushing toward her grandson. 

Saint chuckled, catching her in a tight hug. "Nonna, slow down. You'll hurt yourself." 

"Nonsense," she huffed, pulling back to inspect him. "Are you being good?" 

Saint smirked. "I'm trying." 

The old woman clicked her teeth before focusing her attention to Roman who shifted his weight from one foot to the other. "And who is this? Your new ragazzo?"

Saint merely glanced over his shoulder. "Just a nobody, nonna. Don't get attached."

Petty prick. Roman's jaw clenched before he forced himself to relax. The casual dismissal shouldn't have stung—but it did, more than he wanted to admit.

"What have I taught you Santino? A guest is never a nobody." Nonna walked up to Roman and cupped his face with flour-dusted hands. "Benvenuto," she said, pressing her cheek to his with a familiarity Roman wasn't sure how to respond to. "You must eat. You're too thin." 

"Oh, I—" Roman began, but she was already thrusting a piece of fresh olive-and-garlic bread into his hands. 

"Now sit."

"I had a big meal earlier on the plane," he tried to explain, but her brows furrowed.

"It's rude to refuse food in a Sicilian household, ragazzeto," she said, folding her arms with the air of someone who expected obedience.

Roman glanced around, finding everyone in the kitchen—Saint, cousin Giulia, Octavio and a lady in scrubs who happened to be nonna's nurse aide—watching him with expectant looks. Sighing, he took a big bite out the bread. "Wow," he managed, earning a satisfied nod from Nonna. "Thank you, this is really good."

As the conversation buzzed around them, Saint gave a sharp nod toward his cousin. "Come with me."

Giulia, a young woman in her early twenties with dark curls blinked. "Allora—now?"

"Yes, now."

Giulia pursed her lips as she glanced around at the others for some hint or explanation but no one seemed to notice. Letting out a quiet breath, she pushed back her barstool and followed Saint, her steps quick to match his unrelenting pace.

"Santino," she tried as they stepped into the hallway. "What is this about?" He didn't slow down.

The door to a study which belonged to Ciro and all the other previous dons before him clicked shut behind them, and Saint crossed the lengthy room over to a mahogany desk in the center.

"I need you to break into The Qube's surveillance system," he said bluntly. "Pull all the footage from my apartment."

Giulia blinked, again. "Wait, what?" she frowned. "Why would there even be cameras in your apartment feeding footage back to The Qube?"

"That's what I need to know," Saint's tone came out harsher than he intended.

She folded her arms. "You don't think..." she hesitated, then tilted her head. "You do know Nico runs The Qube, right?"

Saint's silence was all the confirmation she needed.

"Cazzata," she muttered under her breath. "Niccolo is up to some shady shit?"

Saint exhaled slowly, his shoulders sagging. "Just look into it, Giulia."

She studied him for a moment, then with a small nod, she sat on the desk where she booted up three monitors. In a few minutes Saint was pacing behind her with a glass of blended whiskey dangling precariously from his fingers. 

"Anything yet?"

Giulia didn't even glance up, she kept her focus on the screen. "You need to relax. These systems are not designed to just bend over for me. This could take hours." 

"Why the hell are you in MIT then?" Saint ran a hand through his hair. "I don't have hours." 

Giulia smirked, "Then maybe don't piss your hacker off or it could take days, your choice Don Bertinelli." 

Saint mumbled something in Sicilian and leaned over her shoulder, trying to decipher a stream of zeros and ones on her screen. 

"You breathing down my neck isn't going to speed this up either," Giulia added making Saint back off.

***

Back in the kitchen Nonna eyed Roman appraisingly. "You, ragazzeto, come here," she pointed to the counter. "Wash your hands and help me with this." 

Roman faltered though he still rolled up his sleeves and scrubbed his hands at the sink. He joined her at the counter, where she handed him a piece of dough.

"Roll it out evenly," she instructed. 

Roman tried, but the dough resisted his efforts, coming out embarrassingly lumpy and uneven. Nonna clicked her tongue in disapproval. "No, no. Like this." 

She placed her hands over his, guiding him. "Gently, but with purpose. Capisci?" 

"Alright," Roman muttered, focusing intently on the task. Who knew rolling out pasta could be this difficult?

Nonna watched him for a while before nodding. "Better. You'll make a decent cook yet." 

As they worked, Roman found himself relaxing. The woman had that energy about her that made the place feel like... home. By the time they finished cutting out the pasta, the whole place smelled like Bolognese sauce that was simmering on the stove. 

"Tell me, ragazzeto," nonna began, hands busy peeling a lemon over the counter. "Where did you meet my Santino? He never brings any of his American friends back home."

"Oh, it's quite the story. But if you must know..."

Nonna lifted a brow in intrigue. "Go on. I love a good story."

"Well," Roman began, "I stole 50 million euros from him." 

Nonna's hands froze mid-peel. "Madonna mia, fifty million?"

Roman continued, "It was being kept in a cathedral where I used to be a priest—lovely place, really. Saint found out, came to kill me, as one would've done in such a situation."

Nonna stared at him, mouth slightly agape. "Santo cielo," she whispered. "He wanted to kill you?"

"But when he saw me—" Roman smirked and leaned in slightly, lowering his voice for dramatic effect, "—he decided I was too beautiful to waste. So, naturally, he kidnapped me instead." 

For a moment, silence stretched between them, the only sound the faint rustle of olive leaves outside. Nonna blinked, her face a mixture of disbelief and scandalized. Then, suddenly as if a dam wall broke, her laughter filled the kitchen. 

"You," she said, pointing a finger at him as she laughed, "are a funny man, Roman. Such a storyteller!" 

Roman grinned, deciding not to correct her assumption. 

"Come," Nonna said, waving her hand and wiping her eyes. "Let's set the table. Dinner is ready, and I'm sure you can tell me more of your stories over a warm meal." 

As she walked past him, still chuckling to herself, Roman couldn't help but smile. If only she knew.

The meal was later on served in an intimate dining room, the table was set with hand-painted ceramic plates and glasses filled with rich, ruby-red wine. Nonna explained that the wine came from their family vineyard, and Roman listened politely, but his attention kept on drifting to Saint and Giulia's absence. They'd been gone for over an hour now.

"He does this," Nonna said suddenly, noticing Roman's distraction. 

"Does what?" 

"Carrying the weight of the whole family on his shoulders," she replied, her voice tinged with both pride and sadness. "It's hard for him to put it all down, even when he's home. You'll get used to it."

Roman wasn't so sure. 

The evening wound down, and the household shifted into quiet, the clinking of glasses and laughter had dwindled after everyone dispersed for the night. Roman stood, stretching his neck, and glanced at the dark hallways. "Where can I find Saint?"

Octavio, who had been silently watching a dog show on TV, nodded in the direction of the stairs. "End of the hall, last door to your left."

***

"You're sure it wasn't a glitch?" Saint leaned against the edge of the desk watching the monitors displaying various security feeds from the club. 

Giulia frowned. "Positive. The footage doesn't just disappear like that unless it was tampered with." 

Saint ran a hand through his hair. "I hope you understand how important it is for what we're doing here to not get out of this room." 

"It won't," Giulia interrupted. "Not until we figure out who's behind it first." She paused, studying Saint. "You really think it's Nico?" 

Saint turned his gaze to a window.  "I want to believe Nico would never betray me like that," he finally admitted. "But if I'm wrong—"

"—it would be a kick to the teeth. Your own brother..."  Giulia trailed on Saint's line of thought.

"Don't," Saint warned. 

Giulia raised her hands in mock surrender. "Just saying, Santino." 

Before Saint could respond, the door to the study burst open, and Roman strode in looking like an offshore hurricane. 

"Ever heard of knocking?" Saint barked, glaring at Roman.

"Maybe if you weren't dodging me all day, I wouldn't have to resort to acts of barbarism," Roman shot back, closing the door behind him with more force than necessary. "We need to talk." 

"Not now." 

"Yes. Now," Roman said, stepping further into the room. 

Giulia glanced between the two men, sensing the rising temperaments. "Should I...?" 

"No. Keep working," Saint said, his tone clipped. 

Roman didn't care. "How long, Saint?"

"How long what?"

"How long are you going to keep ignoring me?" 

Saint finally turned to face him. "I said now's not the time." 

Roman took another daring step forward, standing just a few inches away from Saint. "I'm sick of you acting like a child. You're mad? Fine. I get it. But don't shut me out." 

Saint set his glass down with a sharp clink. "Are you done?" 

Roman glared at him, but the anger in his chest began to ebb. "No, I'm nowhere near done."

Saint's eyes narrowed, his voice dropping dangerously low. "I already established I do not wish to have this conversation right now."

"And I'm saying, stop running away every damn time something doesn't go your way!"

"I'm handling this situation in my own way, Roman."

"No, you're not! You're avoiding me."

Giulia shifted uncomfortably in her seat, torn between typing and fleeing from the room.

Saint's voice was icy when he spoke. "This is getting out of hand and I hate making a scene."

"I don't give a damn if the entire house hears this!" Roman shot back, his temper fully unleashed now. "You want to talk about making a scene? How about the fact that you keep shutting me out like all this is my fault?"

Saint clenched his fists at his sides, his voice dangerously calm. "I'm not pointing fingers. This is about timing. And right now, I don't have the time or patience to coddle your insecurities."

Roman's breath caught in his throat. "Coddle my insecurities?" He let out a humorless laugh. "You've got some nerve, Santino. Making it seem like I'm the problem when you're the one who can't face the truth. You're scared, and instead of dealing with your emotions, you push me away."

"Get out," Saint said quietly, his voice shaking with suppressed rage.

"Not until we talk this out like adults."

Saint stepped forward, closing the already small distance between them, "You think you know me, Roman? You don't. So when I say get out, you get the fuck out."

"You do not tell me what to do, Saint."

"You should've stayed in Chicago."

Roman's face fell. He just stood there, speechless. Then he turned on his heel and walked out of the study, slamming the door behind him. The sound echoed throughout the space, leaving a suffocating quiet in its wake.

Giulia glanced up at Saint, "That was harsh, even for you." 

Saint grabbed the whiskey glass he'd set down earlier and hurled it against a wall with a force that made it shatter on impact. "Tell me you found something?"

As if on cue live feeds from Saint's apartment came into focus. "Well, would you look at that?" Giulia said. "You were right. Someone's been a peeping tom." 

Can this night get any worser? "Get Nico on a secure line. Now."