Chapter Eighteen – Lunetta
My knees press into cold marble. The stone feels wet beneath my skin, though I know it’s only my fevered sweat. My hands tremble where they’re clasped together, knuckles white, rosary caught between my fingers.
"Mi perdonerai ancora, vero? Mi darai ancora una seconda possibilità? Ho peccato... non sono degna di essere chiamata tua figlia."
You’ll still forgive me, right? You’ll still give me a second chance?
A shiver runs through me.
"Santa Madre... abbi pietà di me. Ti prego, salvami. Dammi solo un'altra possibilità."
Dear Mother… have mercy on me. Please save me. Just one more chance.
A single tear falls. It lands on my wrist, warm against my chilled skin.
When I blink again, light is pressing against my eyelids, too bright to be real. My chest aches, my throat is dry. I let out a low breath and force my eyes open.
Everything is blurry at first. The ceiling above me is high and carved in elegant molding. My fingers move under soft linen. I push myself up, slowly, my muscles protesting with every twitch. I’m wrapped in a blanket. My skin no longer stings and when I look down, I realize my dress is gone. I’m wearing an oversized white shirt that drapes over my thighs. My wounds are cleaned.
I know this room. My eyes fall to the inner chamber.
A strange heaviness settles in my stomach. The door creaks open and I stiffen immediately, eyes wide and breath caught in my chest. But it’s not him.
It’s Enzo.
He walks in slowly, shirtless, a wine-red mark still blooming on the side of his face. His eyes meet mine and soften. “Hey,” he says gently. “You’re awake.”
I nod, my voice caught somewhere in my throat.
He comes to the bed, crouching down beside me. “How’re you feeling?”
“I… I’m okay.” My voice sounds distant. Hollow.
“You gave everyone quite the scare. You’ve been out for two days.”
I shift under the blanket, glancing toward the door. “I didn’t mean to be a bother.”
He shakes his head. “Don’t say that.”
“My brothers are outside. Alfio and Omero.” He pauses, then asks, “Can they come in?”
Everything inside me screams no. My pulse quickens. My throat clenches. But I nod anyway.
He rises and steps out. A moment later, the door swings back open and the two men step in, awkward and stiff in their movements.
Alfio scratches the back of his neck. “Hey.”
Omero stands with arms crossed, but his tone is neutral when he says, “We wanted to thank you.”
“For saving our lives,” Alfio mutters. “If you hadn’t said anything about the car…”
My fingers tangle in the sheets.
“How did you know?” Omero asks.
“I heard some men talking. I wasn’t sure but I needed to warn you guys.”
“You did good,” Enzo says from beside me.
“Did you hear anything else?” Omero adds.
I shake my head, looking down at my hands. “No. Nothing else.”
It’s another lie. I remember the name the men called. Bellandi, their uncle.
I mouth a quiet Mi dispiace in my head. I’ll confess it later. One sin at a time.
Alfio shifts closer. “You shouldn’t have run off like that.”
“I’m sorry,” I whisper.
He nods. “Just don’t do it again.”
Then Omero tilts his head, curious now. “Tell us honestly… what is your relationship with our brother?”
The room feels smaller. Hotter. I clutch the blanket tighter against my chest and stare at the bedspread.
I could lie again. Spin the same story about the café.
But I decide not to. I shake my head. “I really can’t tell you. I’m sorry.”
I already broke the deal by running off but I'm back here.
Omero sighs. “Alright.”
“She did save our asses,” Alfio mutters. “We owe her.”
Enzo smirks. “Each of us. One wish.”
Omero rolls his eyes. “Be wise… but not too smart.”
I laugh. It’s small but my chest hurts after.
“Ice cream,” I say softly. “We could all go get ice cream.”
Alfio blinks. “Seriously?”
“I haven’t had any in a while.”
Omero shrugs. “Deal. Although we do have a mark on our backs, what else is new.”
Just then, a knock at the door.
A maid walks in carrying a tray. Enzo moves quickly, taking it from her before she can speak. “I’ve got it.”
She leaves and he brings the tray to me, sitting again. He uncovers a bowl of soup and warm bread, steam curling into the air between us. My stomach growls, embarrassing me.
Enzo chuckles. “Here. Try a bite.”
He lifts the spoon, and I lean forward.
Behind us, Alfio’s voice breaks the moment. “I guess we’ll leave you lovebirds alone.”
“Vieri is going to snap your neck, don’t get too comfy,” Omero calls as they leave.
“Easy,” he murmurs, reaching to adjust the pillows behind my back.
The spoon hovers near my mouth. I open it without protest. The broth is warm and gentle going down, better than I expect.
“See? You survive attempted murder and you get five-star room service. The Tavano touch.”
His voice is soft, lighter than everything else in this house. I try to smile. He notices that too.
“There it is,” he says, his grin widening. “That little smile. I knew it was in there.”
He feeds me bread and broth gently, then he sets the empty bowl down carefully and glances toward the bedside table where a wooden box sits half open. I hadn’t noticed it before.
“I, uh… brought this. Thought maybe you’d want something to do. Helps me clear my head.” He opens the box fully and reveals a small, worn chess set. The pieces are carved and nicked, like they’ve been through things too.
“Do you play?” he asks.
I nod.
He seems genuinely pleased. “Thank God. Finally, someone who won’t try to turn the board into a weapon.”
Enzo shifts the little tray table closer and starts setting up the pieces. His movements are careful but not stiff. His fingers handle the carved wood with a surprising gentleness.
I stay quiet. My body is still aching, but something about the steady clink of each piece as it touches the board calms me.
He glances up. “You black or white?”
“Black,” I whisper.
He nods, switches the board, then makes the first move.
“I warn you,” he says, eyes flicking to mine with a teasing light, “I’m competitive. So don’t cry when I beat you.”
I shake my head. “I won’t.”
“Good,” he says, then adds in a mock-stern voice, “Because crying girls make me nervous.”
The corner of my mouth twitches again. He seems to take it as a win.
We play.
At first, I don’t think much—I just move instinctively. It’s been so long since I’ve played, but my fingers remember more than my head does.
He plays casually, not lazy but not sharp either. Like someone who knows enough to enjoy the game, not obsess over it. He hums once, tilting his head at the board.
“I don’t know if you’re good,” he says after a few moves, “or just trying to lull me into a false sense of security.”
I look down at my hands. They’re trembling less than before. “Not good.”
He clicks his tongue. “Could’ve fooled me. That bishop move? Nasty.”
He moves his knight. I counter. He hums again, glancing sideways at me.
The game continues. He groans dramatically when I take his rook.
I press my lips together, hiding the smallest laugh.
We’re only halfway through the game when the knock comes.
Enzo straightens just slightly, his hand pausing mid-move. “It’s alright,” he says quietly.
The door opens and Vieri steps inside.
His eyes sweep over the room once, pausing on me longer than they do on his brother. His mouth is tight.
Enzo closes the board in a fluid motion and stands. “I’ll come check on you later,” he says, keeping his tone warm. He doesn’t look at Vieri when he walks past him.
Vieri doesn’t look at him either.
The door clicks shut.
Vieri doesn’t move and I can feel my shoulders stiffen. My fingers tighten around the blanket. He watches me.
“You’re awake,” he says finally.
“Yes,” I answer softly. My throat feels tight. “Thank you.”
His brows twitch at that. “You don’t need to thank me.” His gaze drifts down to my hands. “How’s your body?” he asks. The words sound clumsy on his tongue, like they’re foreign to him.
I hesitate, fingers curling into the fabric. “I’m… better.”
“You feel… pain?”
I glance up at him, unsure how to answer.
“A little,” I admit.
He walks over, sits beside me and his hand lifts—slow, cautious. I flinch before I can stop myself, but he doesn’t stop. His fingers touch my chin.
And he tilts my face up.
His fingers rest under my chin, as if trying to anchor me to the present. I can feel the faint ridges of his skin—rough and still gentle. His thumb barely brushes the edge of my jaw, and it sends a strange heat through my chest.
My eyes flick up, meeting his. There’s no cruelty in them this time. His hand rests for a second too long before he pulls away. I almost forget to breathe.
He stands abruptly, as if realizing he’s lingered too long too. He walks to his closet and unbuttons his shirt, one button at a time. I watch as the fabric slides from his shoulders and he neatly puts it onto a hanger.
I drop my gaze to the blanket. My fingers twitch slightly in my lap, gripping the edge tighter.
He turns toward me. “This is my room too you know,” he says, voice low. “I want to take a nap.”
I blink up at him. “It’s okay… I can leave.” My voice is barely a whisper as I move to sit up, my side aching with the effort.
“You have stitches,” he says, already lowering himself onto the bed beside me. “I don’t think you should be walking around.” He exhales against the pillow, then mutters, “You didn’t mind being with Enzo. It’s not like I’ll eat you alive.”
I stay still for a moment. Then, slowly, I settle back into the pillows, shifting to face away from him. My fingers fumble quietly with the edge of the blanket, picking at a loose thread. I feel like a feather barely holding to the wind.
When I glance toward him again, he’s no longer lying down. He’s sitting up now on bed and facing me.
My eyes slip across his chest, catching every cut of muscle, every shadow of power etched into his torso. It's beautiful in a way that feels dangerous to look at for too long.
“I know why you ran,” he says finally. “But why did you come back?”
I repeat the question in my mind. Why did I come back?
My lips part slowly. “I couldn’t go anywhere… like that,” I say, eyes darting toward my arms. “Covered in blood. What if Nonna or Bea saw me?” My voice is barely more than a murmur. “What would they think?”
He looks away, jaw twitching. Then he clears his throat. “You saved us. I don’t know how… but you did. Thank you.”
I don’t say anything at first. My heart taps quietly against my ribs.
“You owe me,” I say after a pause.
He blinks. “What?”
“Your brothers…” I lower my gaze. “They owe me ice cream.”
“Oh.” He shifts again, rising slightly on one elbow, then sitting up straighter, just enough to lean closer.
The mattress dips a little under his weight.
“What do you want?” he asks, voice rough and barely above a whisper.
I open my mouth. But nothing comes out.
His eyes catch mine, and I forget how to speak. He eases in just an inch more. Not touching. But close enough. I inch back instinctively, my spine brushing against the headboard.
He asks again—quieter this time, deeper—his voice a low thread of velvet and heat.
“What do you want?”
The question hangs between us, heavy. He inches forward again, and I back away. A soft gasp escapes me as gravity pulls, but I don’t hit the floor. His hand grabs my waist and his arm wraps around me, pulling me upright—pulling me into him. My chest brushes against his bare skin. His warmth spreads into me, blooming through my bones like something I’ve never felt before. His other hand steadies my elbow. I’m too close. I can feel his heart thudding beneath his ribs. Or is it mine?
I’m aware of every inch of him. The ridges of his abs against my body. The light musk of cologne and something darker—smoke and cedar, a trace of salt on his collarbone. My breath shortens. His eyes, they drop to my mouth, staying there.
His forehead dips closer until I feel the whisper of his breath brushing my cheek. The heat coils low in my stomach. My thighs press together without meaning to. I don’t understand what’s happening.
He inches close and I shut my eyes just like I did the first time our lips met. But this time, his mouth brushes the shell of my ear instead.
“Tell me,” he murmurs. “Tell me what you want me to do to you.”
A quiet sound slips past my lips before I can stop it. It feels like shame and longing all wrapped into one. I shake my head—barely. I don’t have the words.
His lips find my earlobe. His teeth graze the soft skin, gently, then again with a little more pressure. I feel it down my spine.
“Tell me if you want me to stop,” he says, and it’s not a dare. He’s giving me a way out.
But I don’t want it.
My hands tremble as they clutch the sheets. His head dips lower, his mouth tracing the line of my throat. I feel his breath first—then his lips. He starts gently, kissing just below my jaw. Then deeper, hotter, dragging sounds from me I didn’t know I could make. His mouth moves along the column of my neck, down toward my collarbone, and I feel myself tilting, baring more skin for him without even realizing it.
His hand slips up, fingers finding the curve of my chest. I breathe. He breathes.
Then slowly, he presses against me—his palm cups me through the fabric, rough against the softness of his shirt draped over me. My breath catches again as he begins to move, kneading my breasts gently, like he’s memorizing the feel of me.
His breath quickens. Or again, maybe it’s mine. My eyes flutter shut as his other hand rises to my face, cradling my cheek with surprising tenderness. Then he lifts my chin, just a little, and lowers his mouth to mine.
His tongue brushes against mine, insistent and hungry, and I’m drowning. I don’t kiss him back—not at first—but he doesn’t seem to mind. He kisses like a man who’s been starved. Who’s afraid I’ll vanish. One hand buries itself in my hair, the other remains over my chest, and I’m trapped in the middle—trembling and breathless, lost beneath him. And yet... I don’t want to move.
He groans softly against my mouth, pulling me closer still until there’s no space left between us.
And then— he stops. His mouth rests against mine, both of us breathing hard.
His forehead leans into mine, his hand is still in my hair, the other on my chest.
His breath is ragged. I hear the growl in his throat before he speaks, a sound like a man at war with himself.
“Why are you making me like this?” His voice is raw, trembling just beneath the surface. “Why are you doing this to me?”
I open my eyes. His are already on me—dark, wild, searching. And he looks so… lost.
My lips part before I can think. The words come so softly, I almost don’t recognize my own voice.
“Please… do it again.”
His breath stutters as my heart pounds in my chest.
He leans back, just an inch, enough to see me—really see me. There is confusion in his stare as his fingers tremble slightly where they cradle my face.
I nod, slow and small. “Please,” I whisper. “Again.”
His eyes look down at my lips and he leans in again.