Chapter Fourteen
Gualtiero
Ella’s eyes are so wide I can practically see the thoughts chasing each other behind them.
“You’ve never had a girlfriend?” she repeats, like she’s waiting for me to laugh and admit it was a joke. “You’re what? Thirty?”
I shrug, letting my expression stay casual. I have never cared what a woman assumed about me. Not once.
With Ella, every assumption matters.
“I just turned thirty-two,” I say lightly, watching her reaction.
She stares at me, still processing, her mouth parted in disbelief. The sea breeze lifts a few strands of her blonde hair and lays them against her cheek, and I have to clench my jaw to stop myself from touching her again.
I could do it so easily. I could push that hair behind her ear, brush my knuckles over her skin, give myself one small taste and pretend it was harmless.
But nothing about wanting her is harmless.
She holds my gaze, stubborn and soft all at once, and asks a question that skirts around what she really wants to know.
“So you date a lot?” Her cheeks turn adorably red.
A laugh threatens, but I swallow it. She’s trying to gauge my history with women.
“I wouldn’t say that either,” I answer. “Dating isn’t really my thing.”
She narrows her eyes, clearly unconvinced. She is trying to file me into a category that makes sense. A man like me must have a label. Must be predictable. Must be like every other man she has met.
If she knew what I am, she would run.
If she knew what I want, she would run even faster.
“Of course,” she says, her tone turning teasing, but there is an edge beneath it. “Because you’re waiting for your One. Who, I presume, you will recognize right away?”
I can hear the doubt tucked into the words. The part of her that wants to believe in it, and the other part that assumes it is a line men use to get what they want.
I don’t use lines. I don’t need to. And if she knew how long I have waited, she would never call it that.
I reach up, slowly, making sure she sees every movement before I touch her. I push the loose strand of hair behind her ear with my knuckle, deliberate and gentle. Her breath catches as if the smallest contact hits her like a spark.
I feel it too. An electric tingle scatters down my arm. The urge to pull her closer burns, to see how far that spark would spread.
“Are you mocking me, beautiful Ella?” I ask softly.
She goes still. Her throat moves when she swallows.
“I wouldn’t dare,” she whispers, but her voice betrays her. It’s rougher than it was a moment ago.
Good.
She feels it too.
I let my hand drop, even though every part of me wants to keep it there. I want to take my time with her. Not because I am patient, not when it comes to her, but because I want her to trust me.
I want her to walk toward me willingly.
“My guess is you don’t date much either,” I say, and her cheeks flush again. “Am I wrong?”
Her eyes flick away, then back. Honesty is written all over her face. She has no idea how easy she is to read.
“You’re right,” she admits. “I don’t. I hate first dates. My relationships just sort of… happened. Naturally.”
Naturally.
The word lands in my chest like a promise.
Just like this will happen naturally too, at least from her side.
From mine, it will take precision and control. Time is against me. And the moment her best friend realizes what I intend, she will be too.
But Ella does not belong in Dublin.
She belongs here. With me.
I keep my face calm, because that thought is not one she is ready for.
“You don’t like first dates, yet you came to dinner with me,” I say, letting the warmth show in my voice. “Even though you were nervous.”
Her eyes flash, defensive. “I wasn’t that nervous.”
I hum, amused. “You were.”
She scoffs softly, but it has no bite. If anything, it sounds relieved, like she is grateful I am not pretending she is someone she is not.
Then she leans forward a fraction, her voice dropping as if she is about to ask something she knows she should not.
“So if you don’t date because you’re waiting for your One,” she says, careful but bold, “does that mean you sleep around a lot?”
There it is. The question she needs answered before she risks opening up to me.
It’s not jealousy-based, not exactly. More like she is trying to protect herself before she gets too close to the edge.
I study her for a moment, weighing the answer. The truth is not helpful. It would put images in her head that I do not want there. It would make her pull back.
So I give her a version that keeps her here.
“Define a lot,” I say lightly.
She bursts into laughter, tipping her head back for a second, and the sound of it hits me in the ribs. I want that laugh again. I want it in my home, in my bed, in the quiet moments when the world is asleep, and she forgets she is supposed to be careful.
“Never mind,” she says, still smiling, and shakes her head like she is trying to shake off her own curiosity. “You were telling me about your father before we got off track.”
I’m glad she’s changing the subject. I don’t want her thinking about me with other women or the histories men like me carry. She needs to be focused on what is happening now, between us.
“Like your parents,” I say, letting my tone turn quieter, “my father was in a car accident. He was critically injured and died a week later.”
The words taste bitter, even seven years later. Not because I miss him in the way she misses her parents, but because his death changed everything. It forced me into a role I had been raised for, but wasn’t really ready to take on.
Ella’s face softens. She doesn’t interrupt. She simply listens, like every word matters.
“It was tough for Mateo and me,” I continue. “On top of grief, I became head of our business empire earlier than expected. Suddenly all the responsibility was on my shoulders. There was no time to fall apart.”
“I’m sorry,” she says, and it’s not the polite kind of sorry. It’s sincere. “That must have been hard.”
“It kept me busy,” I admit. “Too busy to think.”
Her hand moves, hesitates, then settles on top of mine.
It is the first time she initiates our touch.
The warmth of her palm seeps through my skin, and my body reacts before my mind can stop it. My breathing slows, my shoulders relax, and something inside me steadies, as if I have been braced for impact my whole life and, for the first time, someone is telling me it’s alright.
I do not move.
I don’t want to scare her away by reacting the way I want to react, which is to turn my hand and lace our fingers together and hold her like she is mine.
“It took time to adjust,” I say, forcing my voice to stay even. “I was only twenty-five. I thought I had more years before taking over.”
She nods slowly, her thumb brushing once, absent-mindedly, over the side of my hand. The gesture is so small she probably doesn’t even realize she did it.
I do.
Every part of me does.
“At least you had Mateo,” she says softly. “You two seem close.”
“We are,” I answer. “He’s the one person I trust completely.”
Silence settles between us after that. It’s not awkward or forced. Just quiet. The waves roll in and out, steady as a heartbeat. The night smells like salt and warmth and something faintly floral in her hair.
Ella leans back and looks up at the sky, her hand still resting on mine, as if she has forgotten she is touching me.
I watch her instead of the stars.
She has come so far with me tonight. She is relaxed and open, feeling safe enough to be quiet beside me.
Meanwhile, I’m painfully aware that I’m running out of time.
Eight days.
The number echoes in my head.
Eight days to make her choose us.
My chest tightens with the need to move this forward, to claim something real between us before the world gets in the way.
Slowly, carefully, I shift closer.
Not abruptly. Not like a man trying to take advantage.
Like a man who has been holding himself back and can no longer bear the distance.
She stills, sensing it, but she doesn’t pull away.
Good.
I slide my arm around her shoulders, gentle enough that she can escape if she wants to. I give her the space to decide.
For a heartbeat, she stays frozen.
Then she lets herself settle, just slightly, into the curve of my arm.
It is not much.
But it is enough to make my blood heat.
I lift my other hand to her cheek, slow, almost reverent, and turn her face toward me.
Her eyes meet mine, wide and uncertain. She searches my face like she’s trying to read what I’ll do next.
I let her see what I want her to see.
Not hunger, even though it’s there.
Not strategy, even though that’s there too.
I let her see the only truth I can afford to show her.
You are safe with me.
I lower my head slowly, watching her the entire time, giving her every chance to stop me.
Her lips part. Her breath brushes mine.
The world narrows to the space between us.
She isn’t leaning in, but she isn’t pulling away either.
She’s thinking.
Overthinking.
I could close the distance. Take the kiss before she talks herself out of it.
My thumb tightens against her cheek, the decision forming. I’m already halfway there, feeling the promise of her mouth beneath mine. Heat flares through me.
Then something flickers through her eyes. The tension in her shoulders snaps back.
She jolts sideways on the bench so suddenly my arm slips off her shoulders.
I blink, thrown.
Then she screams.
I’m on my feet before the sound finishes leaving her mouth.
My hand goes to the weapon hidden beneath my jacket. My eyes sweep the shadows, the boardwalk, the open space behind her, the darkness between the palm trees.
“What happened?” I demand, my voice hard, because in my world a scream means danger, and danger means blood.
Her breathing is ragged as she scrambles upright, shaking her legs frantically.
“Something crawled up my dress,” she chokes out, still jumping on the spot.
My men appear within seconds, forming a protective circle around us, faces alert, hands already moving toward their own weapons.
Ella looks at them, startled, then back at me, panic in her eyes.
“Ahhh,” she screams again. “Whatever it is, it just bit me.”
Fuck.
“Where?” I bark, stepping closer again. “Ella, look at me. Where did it bite you?”
She points shakily to her thigh, eyes wide with horror.
“I felt it crawl up. It had lots of legs. I think it was a spider,” she gasps. “And then it stung. It stung, Tiero, oh my god.”
My stomach drops. There are poisonous spiders around here.
Fear slams into me. For her. For the thought of losing her when I only just found her.
For the first time in forever, I feel completely irrational. This is not a situation I can control, and I hate that.
I hate it with a violence that surprises even me. I won’t allow anything to take her from me. Not when I waited all my life for her.
“Stay still,” I order, my voice tight. “Don’t move.”
Her scared eyes find mine. “Are there poisonous spiders in Sicily?” she asks, her voice trembling.
“Not many,” I say evenly as I crouch down, scanning her legs, the fabric of her dress, the space around her feet, the bench, the ground beneath it.
One of my men already has his phone out, flashlight cutting through the dark.
“Check the area,” I snap. “Now.”
A second man moves to Ella’s side, hands hovering, not touching, ready to catch her if she sways.
Ella grabs my wrist, and her fingers are cold. “Tiero?”
I glance at the men. “Find it,” I order again, harsher this time. “Right now.”
Because if there is a threat anywhere near her, I need to know what it is.
And I need to kill it.