Chapter 23 Mikayla
Mikayla
I was pacing the length of the sitting room, barefoot, pretending not to watch the door, when Enzo held out his phone. I took it without asking.
Gianni’s voice came through the line, smooth to the point of irritation. He told me to get ready. We were going out to dinner.
Out.
As if any of this were normal—standing this close to the man who’d hit me with his car, letting his presence feel familiar instead of wrong.
A man who now knew the shape of my body.
Every incomplete, imperfect inch of me. As if it were the most natural thing to run from one monster only to step straight into the arms of another.
I knew exactly what Gianni was. He wasn’t my salvation. My beautiful villain was sharp, inevitable. And the most unsettling truth of all was that some broken part of me felt safer with him than I ever had anywhere else.
I stared at the wall while he spoke, trying to reconcile the idea of a dinner date with the reality of how we’d met. The café after he’d bought me clothes didn’t count. That had been fuel—something quick to eat in the middle of damage control, not a deliberate plan involving expectations.
This was different. And I had no idea what that meant for us.
“What does ‘get ready’ mean?” I asked. “Ten minutes or—”
“An hour,” he said. “Wear something nice.”
And then he hung up.
I stood there for a second, phone still pressed to my ear, listening to nothing. Then I exhaled and moved.
Getting ready took longer than it usually takes me, mostly because I couldn’t decide who I was supposed to be tonight. The woman Gianni had met by accident? Or the liability he was protecting?
I showered. I dried my hair. I changed twice.
In the end, I settled on a soft black dress that skimmed my knees, with a coat layered neatly over it, falling to the same length and making the whole thing feel more deliberate than I was ready to admit.
By the time the sound of engines rolled up the drive, my nerves were shot.
It wasn’t just one car. He’d gone out with what amounted to a small army, while another contingent had stayed behind to secure the house. Headlights cut through the dusk, low and deliberate, the convoy easing into place like this was a military operation rather than a dinner date.
I watched from the window as doors opened and men stepped out, scanning the perimeter with practiced ease. He was leaving nothing to chance after the house was attacked.
Gianni emerged last.
He looked calm. Immaculate. Deadly in that quiet way that dared anyone to disrupt the air around him.
When he came inside, he paused like he always did, eyes finding me instantly. Something shifted in his expression—small, private.
“You’re ready,” he said.
I lifted a shoulder. “You told me to be.”
I told myself he probably wasn’t used to women getting ready on time. A small, sharp pang of jealousy hit me without warning, unwelcome and irrational. The idea of other women’s hands on him made my stomach flip.
The drive was long and winding, as we travelled roads that made you forget the rest of the world existed.
Vineyards rolled past us, darkening as the sun dipped lower, the sky streaked with deep oranges and bruised purples.
The men in the cars ahead and behind kept their distance, close enough to be reassuring, far enough to pretend we were alone.
“Where are we going?” I asked.
“You’ll see.”
The trattoria sat on a hill high above the valley, stone walls glowing warmly as we pulled up. It looked old and stubborn, like it had outlasted centuries on principle alone. There were no other cars here. Just the soft hum of generators and the distant sound of wind whistling through vines.
Inside, the restaurant was empty.
A man I assumed was the chef met us at the door, enthusiastic and welcoming, speaking quickly in Italian and gesturing toward a private dining room at the back. Gianni greeted him easily, exchanged a few words, and then we were alone again.
The room stopped me short.
Floor-to-ceiling glass looked out over the Val d’Orcia, where roads lined with Cypress trees stretched into the distance under the fading light. Across the expanse, small towns began to glow one by one, their lights scattered like quiet jewels in the dark.
A table for two waited near the glass. Candles were already lit, their flames flickering softly and reflecting against the windows, as if the night had been prepared in advance. The air smelled of herbs and wine and something rich and comforting I didn’t have the language for.
It felt surreal.
“This is…” I started.
“Acceptable?” Gianni offered.
I laughed despite myself. “Beautiful was what I was going to say.”
He pulled out my chair.
Dinner unfolded slowly, as though time had been persuaded to move at our pace. The chef himself brought each course to the table, setting the plates down with reverent care, explaining textures and flavours in a low, proud voice before retreating again and closing the door behind him.
Every time he left, the room settled into a hush that felt intentional.
We ate. We lingered. We talked—but not about Archie or the invisible lines Gianni seemed to walk so effortlessly. Instead, we talked about the food, about where it came from, about places he’d been to and things he’d seen that had nothing to do with the here and now.
About nothing that mattered. About everything that did.
His humour surfaced when he stopped trying to manage the moment—dry, precise, unexpectedly sharp. It caught me off guard more than once, pulling a laugh out of me before I could think better of it. Each time, his mouth twitched like he hadn’t expected it either.
For a while, it felt like the rest of the world had fallen away, leaving only the two of us and a view that looked too perfect to be real.
“You’re different when you let your guard down,” I said, watching him closely.
His mouth curved, but there was no humor in it. “That’s dangerous,” he replied. “In my world, you don’t do that and survive long enough to enjoy it.”
“But tonight is different,” I said.
It came out more like a question. Because tonight, he had let his guard slip—and I wanted to know why.
His gaze dropped to my mouth before drifting past me, toward the windows. “Yes,” he said quietly. “It is.”
He leaned back slightly. “This restaurant sits at the highest point of Montalcino. One road in. One road out. Nothing nearby for miles.” His voice stayed calm. Measured. “Far enough that I don’t have to worry about snipers.”
My stomach tightened.
“See that light?” he asked, pointing past the glass.
I followed his finger. In the distance, far beyond the valley, a single light blinked in the dark. Isolated. Surrounded by nothing but shadow. It faded in and out, steady and patient, like something watching.
“That’s Monte Amiata,” he said. “An extinct volcano. There’s nothing there but…”
His voice drifted, like his thoughts had gone somewhere else entirely.
“Nothing there but… what?” I asked softly.
He blinked, as if coming back to himself, then studied me—deciding whether to finish what he’d started.
“Tell me,” I said. I couldn’t stop myself now.
“Legend says a man lived up there,” he said at last. “Lost his wife and son in a mafia war. Walked into the mountains and never came back down. Chose solitude over the world that took everything from him.”
A chill slid down my spine. I looked back at the mountain, at that lonely light pulsing against the dark.
“How true is it?” I asked.
Gianni shrugged, but his eyes stayed fixed on the distance. For a moment, he looked almost haunted.
“It’s a story,” he said. “Passed down.” He paused before he added “but some legends survive for a reason.”
“Such as?”
“People that have tried to reach that summit have never come back. That, too, is a legend. But there could be some truth in it. “
“It’s strange,” I said. “Choosing to live alone like that.”
He finally looked at me then. “I can understand it,” he said quietly, “sometimes it’s people who bring you to your knees.”
For a moment, I couldn’t tell if he was talking about the man on the mountain—or about us.
The wine blurred the edge of the question. The way he watched me sharpened it again.
Without a word, Gianni stood and held out his hand.
“Dance with me.”
“There’s no music,” I said.
“There is,” he replied, already pulling me to my feet. “You just have to listen for it.”
I shook my head, but I didn’t resist. He guided me toward the window, toward the glass and the dark beyond it. His hand settled at my waist—firm, possessive—while his other closed around mine like it had always belonged there.
We moved slowly. Barely a sway. Just enough to feel each other breathe.
The glass reflected us back—two shadows stitched together by candlelight and stars. It felt private in a way that made my pulse jump, like we were doing something we shouldn’t be allowed to do.
His breath brushed my ear, controlled and deliberate. I didn’t think. I leaned in, the urge sharp and reckless, and traced my tongue along the shell of his ear.