His voice was low, with that Italian drawl that made everything sound like a secret. He had his arm slung across the back of the seat, casual, but I could feel the weight of his attention. All of their attention.

Mattheo didn't look up from where he was sprawled across the opposite seats, one leg kicked out, a cigarette already between his fingers despite the frowning sign above the window. His eyes, dark and unreadable, cut to me for a second too long.

Lorenzo was wedged in beside Mattheo, all sharp cheekbones and lazy amusement, watching me the way a cat watches a mouse it's already caught.

Draco's voice came from my left, clipped and impatient. He was closer than he needed to be, his arm pressed against mine in the cramped space, his grey eyes fixed on the window, but I could see his jaw was tight.