Chapter Forty-Three Ella
Chapter Forty-Three
Ella
The cool evening breeze caresses my skin, and I tilt my face toward the sky, grinning at the scatter of stars overhead. Without the usual light pollution, I can see hundreds, maybe thousands.
Tiero’s hands slide around my waist, pulling me back against him. Barefoot, I fit perfectly beneath his chin. We stand like that for a while, saying nothing, the silence warm instead of awkward.
A noise behind us makes me jump. We both turn as Rocco steps onto the deck, balancing a heavy tray. He sets it down quietly, gives us a discreet nod, and disappears again.
Tiero releases me and walks toward the table. I hadn’t noticed the champagne chilling in the ice bucket, but suddenly my throat feels dry. As if sensing it, he opens the bottle and pours two glasses without asking.
He looks devastating in the moonlight. My knees go weak just looking at him.
He passes me a glass, and we clink. “To an unforgettable time together.”
He takes a sip, his eyes never leaving mine.
Before Tiero, I never realized how intimate eye contact could be. How it could feel almost like touch. It lingers and holds.
I’d normally have looked away by now. But something about the way he watches me makes it impossible to break our connection.
“Are you hungry, princess?” he asks, his smile soft and just meant for me.
“Starving,” I admit, and right on cue, my stomach growls loudly enough to betray me.
He laughs quietly and takes my elbow, guiding me toward the table, his touch gentle but deliberate. He pulls out my chair before I can reach it myself and waits until I sit before taking his own seat across from me.
When he lifts the lids from the dishes, the scent of basil, tomato, and warm dough drifts into the night air. My mouth waters instantly. There is everything. Slices of pizza glistening with mozzarella. Fresh pasta coated in rich sauce. A seafood salad that smells faintly of lemon and the sea.
I take a little of everything, pretending I’ll show restraint this time.
The spread is too perfect not to capture. I pull out my phone and angle it carefully, snapping a few photos of the food with the railing and the dark ocean beyond. The candlelight deepens the shadows and makes the colors glow.
Rhia is going to lose her mind.
I am just about to send the pictures when Tiero reaches across the table and snatches the phone from my hands.
“Hey,” I say, blinking. “Give it back.”
My flicker of surprise turns into confusion as I watch him turn it over in his palm.
What is he doing?
“Sorry, princess.” His tone remains calm and reasonable. “Your phone is traceable. Very few people know where my island is. I intend to keep it that way.”
“Oh.” I hesitate. “Okay.”
I suppose it makes sense. Powerful men rarely take unnecessary risks.
Still, it feels sudden.
“You can turn it off completely until we leave on Saturday,” he continues, as if this is the most natural solution in the world, “or give it to Santino. He will make it untraceable.”
Turn it off. For days.
I can’t be without my phone for that long. It’s my connection to Rhia and the outside world.
But I do not want to seem dramatic.
“I will give it to Santino,” I say, keeping my voice light.
Tiero nods once.
As if summoned by thought alone, Santino appears within minutes. He takes my phone without question, and I watch it disappear into his hand.
“At the end of our trip,” I ask, unable to stop myself, “he can put everything back the way it was, right?”
I do not mean to frown, but I can feel it pulling at my brow. I’m not sure I like any of this.
“Of course,” he assures me.
I’m overthinking it again, aren’t I?
Pacified for the moment, I dig into the food. It is delicious. Rich, fresh, impossible to resist.
With all the pasta and pizza I have consumed on this vacation, I am certain I will be ten pounds heavier by the time I get home.
“How do Italian women stay so slim with all the carbs they eat?” I ask, gesturing toward the table.
“They have a lot of sex,” he replies without missing a beat.
I blink.
“You see,” he continues, “that is why older women are rounder. Less sex, more pounds.”
He says it so seriously that I almost believe him.
“Is that an official medical opinion, Signor De Marco?” I ask.
He lifts one shoulder. “Years of careful observation.”
I laugh despite myself.
“Well, given how much I am eating, I suppose I will need a very active night.”
His eyes darken. And the smile he gives me? It sends my pulse skidding.
“I can help you with that.”
“I’m sure you can,” I reply, smirking and holding his gaze a second longer than necessary.
The silence that follows is no longer entirely innocent.
I swirl the champagne in my glass, watching the bubbles rise and fade, then take another sip, trying to ignore the way he is still watching me.
The pull between us is undeniable.
There is something intoxicating about him. Not just the heat, but the layers beneath it.
My mind slides back to the Irish pub. To the stories he let slip that night.
Our upbringings could not be more different, and the more I learn about him, the more I realize how little I truly understand the world he comes from.
“Tell me about your childhood,” I say, setting down my glass and picking up my fork to spear a piece of pasta. “What was it like growing up in your family?”
Tiero chews slowly, considering.
“Where to begin?” he says.
“When’s your birthday?” I ask suddenly.
He lifts a brow. “My birthday?”
“Yes. Start simple.”
“It’s August ninth.”
“Is that why your middle name is Leandro? Because you’re a Leo?”
He chuckles. “No. That is a coincidence. My middle name was always going to be Leandro. It belonged to my great-great-grandfather. He founded the De Marco businesses. Every first-born son carries it in his honor.”
“That’s a lovely tradition,” I say. “Good thing his name didn’t mean little duck or pretty dove.”
He laughs, the sound unrestrained. “Yes. A very good thing.”
“And what was he like? Did your Nona tell you stories?”
“Of course.” He leans back slightly, settling into memory. “It is said he was ruthless and unforgiving in business. But with his family, he was tender and caring. He and my great-great-grandmother had eight children. Six girls and two boys, the oldest and the youngest.”
“Six daughters,” I repeat. “That sounds terrifying.”
“He was extremely protective. The girls could only marry if their suitor proved himself worthy.”
“Worthy how?”
“I was not there to interview the applicants,” he jokes. “But if I were in his position, I would examine the man carefully. His finances. His faith. His character. I would need to know he could provide for my daughter and her children. That he would protect what is mine.”
Mine.
The word does not slip past me.
“Actually,” he adds thoughtfully, “now that I think about it, not much has changed.”
“Then let’s hope you never have daughters,” I tease. “I would feel sorry for their boyfriends. You would put them through hell.”
His gaze takes on a level of certainty.
“I most certainly would,” he says. “And I would enjoy every minute of it. Only the best for my children.”
There is no humor in his voice now. Only conviction.
“What would happen if you didn’t have a son?” I ask. “Would the business go to Mateo’s son, if he had one?”
“That won’t happen,” he says calmly. “Every first-born child in our family has been a boy. I see no reason for that to change.”
He says it as if it is already decided. As if the future is something that bends to expectation rather than chance.
“No pressure then,” I tease.
He gives me a small smile, but there is something unwavering beneath it. He believes what he just said.
The way he believes in fate. In legacy. In the woman meant only for him.
And for the first time, I wonder what happens when he decides who that woman is.