Vittoria stared at him, then shook her head.
"That’s what you got from that?"
"I mean," Leo said, "yeah. Basically."
She broke first, the laughter coming out of her before she could stop it, and she pressed her hand over her mouth for a moment before composing herself.
"That’s all you took from reading that."
"You’re a princess," he said again, as though confirming it for the record.
"I knew it. I asked you this."
"You asked me if my family was in the mafia."
"I covered all the bases," he said before she laughed again.
After she came back to herself, she turned slightly on the couch to face him more directly.
"That photo circulating," she said.
"For most models, that’s publicity. That’s good. You want people talking about you in my line of work."
Then she paused.
"But not for me. Not the way I grew up."
Leo listened.
"Growing up, it was good," she said.
"When I was younger, my parents were just my parents. We did normal things, or what felt normal."
She looked at her hands.
"And then I turned thirteen, and it was like a switch. Suddenly, they were busy. Suddenly, there were obligations and appearances and things I was supposed to understand without being explained to."
Her voice didn’t harden exactly, but something in it began to soften, like she had let down every defence she had put up.
"And they started telling me how to act, what to say, who to be seen with, who not to be seen with."
She was quiet for a moment.
"You know, my father didn’t want me to model. He thought it was beneath what I was supposed to represent," she said as a small smile crossed her face that didn’t quite reach her eyes.
"But I did it anyway. And I know that sounds small, but it was the first time in a long time that I felt like something I was doing was actually mine."
Leo didn’t say anything and just let her talk, which she seemed to recognise because she continued without prompting.
"So when those photos came out," she said, "back home, it wasn’t just gossip. It was—" she searched for the right word. "Noticed. By the kind of people who pay attention to things like that for reasons that have nothing to do with romance."
"Like who you’re supposed to be with," Leo said.
She looked at him. "Exactly like that."
"Politicians," he said. "Or the sons of politicians."
"Or anyone with the right kind of name and the right kind of background."
She said it without bitterness, just flatly, like a fact she had long since lived with but detested.
"Someone who fits the picture they have already painted themselves."
Leo held the phone loosely in his hand and looked at her.
"Have you thought about leaving?" he said.
"The family. The whole thing."
Vittoria’s expression shifted into something complicated.
"Yes," she said.
"More than once," she said with a heavy exhale.
"But then I think about my mother and my father, and the thing is, even with all of it, they’re still good to me. Not always present, not always close, but good.
And sometimes I think the distance is almost deliberate. Like they want me to get used to being without them nearby," she laughed softly, before turning to look at Leo, but the latter was only looking at her with a soft gaze, almost as if apologising, which made Vittoria feel fuzzy once again.
"It says everything," she continued and then leaned back slightly.
"My father called me after the photos," she said.
"At length."
"What did he say?"
"Many things." She smiled.
"But as of right now, he still thinks you, the guy in the picture, aka you, are a model."
Leo raised both brows.
"A model."
"Mm."
"Your father," he said slowly, "looked at those photos, studied whatever was visible, drew a conclusion about a person he’s never met, and landed on a model."
"Yes."
"He sounds like a very sharp man, actually," Leo said, with the complete sincerity of someone who was not being sincere whatsoever.
Vittoria turned to look at him with the full weight of her scepticism.
"Truly," Leo said.
"I cannot stand you," she said, which was delivered with the tone of someone who meant the complete opposite, until her stomach announced itself suddenly.
Clearly, and without any interest in the timing.
Leo’s gaze moved downward for exactly one second.
"Someone’s loud," he said.
Her hand came for his shoulder, and he shifted just enough that it landed on his thigh instead, which he accepted as a fair outcome.
"Okay," he said, already standing. "We find something to eat, and then we continue."
He moved toward the kitchen, and she followed, drifting in behind him.
"Can you actually cook?" she said.
Leo stopped.
He turned and looked at her with the expression of a man who had just been asked something he found faintly offensive.
"Can I cook?" he said.
"It’s a genuine question because I do not want my face tomorrow talking about an heiress dying because she ate something she shouldn’t have."
"It’s an insulting question, but at least if that happens, you can choose to haunt me after becoming a ghost. That way, no one will question who you choose to be with!"
Vittoria laughed at that while, Leo turned back, pulled a bar stool out from where it sat tucked under the counter, and then, without particular ceremony, he reached back and took her hand, which caught her completely off guard.
Then he walked her around to the other side of the counter and set the stool down in front of her before holding onto her shoulders and dragging her to sit on the stool.
Leo stepped back around to his side of the counter, rolled his sleeves up to the elbow, and began pulling things from the fridge with the focused calm of someone who knew exactly what they were doing.
"Watch me," he said.
Vittoria settled onto the stool, set her elbows on the counter, and rested her chin in one hand.
"Okay, chef," she said.