If Only (GxG)

Chapter 51 Uninvited

『 °*• ❀ •*°』
Alison's POV

The penthouse is quiet as we step inside.

Blake shrugs off her coat and tosses it over the arm of the sofa, already loosening her blouse at the collar. Her heels click softly against the wood as she heads toward the hallway, her whole body seeming to exhale now that we're behind closed doors.

"I just want to change," she says, voice low, the brittleness of lunch still lingering beneath it. "Five minutes."

"Go for it," I say, kicking off my boots. "I'll make us tea."

She nods, already disappearing down the hall, her footsteps swallowed by the thick rug. I cross into the open-plan kitchen, stretching my fingers toward the kettle—muscle memory, something normal to hold onto. Something grounding after that woman and her sugar-dipped cruelty.

But something's off.

Rodger doesn't come bounding out to greet me.

There's no skidding of paws on the wood floor, no happy bark, no wagging tail thudding into furniture like a little drumbeat of joy.

My brow furrows.

I step further into the flat, the unease slow-building at first—just a ripple in the air, a subtle pressure shift. But then I see it.

Two men. Sitting at the kitchen table.

I freeze.

One is older. Late sixties, maybe. Broad-shouldered and still solid in a way that says power doesn't leave a man, even if youth does. His hair is dark through the top with steel-grey at the temples, cropped short in a military cut. His suit is a deep, precise charcoal, his shoes polished to a mirror shine.

He doesn't look like someone visiting family.

He looks like someone who owns the building.

The younger man beside him is leaner, sharp-jawed, maybe early thirties. His suit is a lighter grey, casual by comparison, but expensive enough to whisper something unkind. He's slouched in the chair like it's all a bit beneath him—but the resemblance is unmistakable. The eyes. The mouth.

Blake's mouth.

They both look up at once.

The older one smiles.

It is not a warm smile.

"Well," he drawls, rising slowly to his feet, the accent unmistakably American—thicker than Blake's, deeper, rougher. It curls through the air like smoke in a closed room. "You must be the little girlfriend I've heard so much about."

My stomach drops.

Every instinct in me screams danger. Not loud or sudden—but slow, creeping. Organised. The kind of danger that wears cufflinks and signs cheques and leaves no fingerprints.

"I figured," he continues smoothly, buttoning his jacket, "since you had lunch with my wife today, it was only fitting you meet Blake's brother and me as well."

My blood turns to ice.

Brother.

The younger man stretches lazily to his feet, flashing a crooked grin like this is the most entertaining thing to happen all week.

"This is Luca," the man says, without breaking eye contact. "My son."

Luca nods and throws me a mock bow. "Hi there, motorcycle girl."

I don't answer.

Because I already know who this is.

This is the reason Enzo once ran from me like his life depended on it. The reason Blake's voice goes flat when the subject of her childhood comes up. The reason she never wanted me anywhere near the edges of her past.