Chapter 10 #2
‘And I… wanted to scream but I couldn’t,’ I whisper. ‘And then you did.’
He huffs a sound that isn’t quite laughter. ‘Sounds right. My little angel, always in sync with me.’
I glance at him. ‘Are you going to tell me?’
He hesitates. Then, ‘No.’
‘You’re… impossible.’
‘True. I’m also turned on more than is medically wise, I think. Care to do something about that?’ he says with a smirk.
I don’t rise to his lascivious bait.
Silence stretches, tight and charged between us. The wind from the sea finds us and cools my hot face. He watches me from the corner of his eye like he’s trying not to startle a skittish thing.
‘What is it, Giada?’
I shiver at the name. Shiver from how easy it feels on my skin. ‘How long do you intend to keep me in the dark? I can’t even look up a simple thing.’
‘And you think I’m controlling you with the tablet?’ he says, casual as an observation about weather.
I stiffen. ‘It doesn’t connect to anything.’
‘It connects to you.’ He shifts, pulls his phone out, holds it up. ‘You want the internet? Say the word. I’ll open the floodgates.’
I look at the device like it’s a snake and I’m tired of being Eve. ‘And drown so you can offer yourself as a lifeline?’
‘The world won’t be kind,’ he admits. ‘But I won’t let it eat you.’ He turns the screen over in his hand, then pockets it again. ‘We do this on my terms because my terms keep you breathing. But we’ll do it. You’ll get your answers.’
‘Why?’ The question leaks out raw. ‘Why do you care what I remember?’
He looks at me for a long time, expression stripped of everything but the thing he’s been trying not to say. ‘Because my life doesn’t make sense without you,’ he says finally. ‘And I’m tired of pretending it does.’
His words shake the very foundations of my being.
I should pray… should beg for a sign.
Instead I sit, cornered by a man who makes catastrophe look like salvation, and feel the ground under me tilt towards him. ‘This is… so heavy. So impossibly seismic.’
‘I know. And it was always going to be, bedda. No way around it. The Salvatores and the Mancinellis were the kind of families God warns prophets about, born to clash until the sky splits. We’re the sons and daughters of Cain and Abel, carved into Sicily’s spine, destined to love, then destined to destroy. ’
‘Doesn’t that frighten you?’ I whisper.
His dark head shakes, his eyes gleaming. ‘No, baby. Very little does when you have something worth fighting for.’
His confidence is… intoxicating. I feel myself deluged in it and revelling in every decadent drop.
Then he inhales, decides something, and the energy in him shifts – hunter and philosopher to strategist in a blink. ‘All right.’ He pats his thigh once, a sharp little drumbeat. ‘Here’s what we’re going to do.’
‘What?’
‘A truce,’ he says, and the word fits strangely in his mouth. ‘No more stealing kisses in physiotherapy like teenagers. No more pretending you don’t want what you want. Tonight we do something simple and civilised.’
I eye him. ‘Civilised? You?’
He grins, quick and wicked, and it hits low in my belly. ‘Don’t faint. I’m capable.’ He counts on his fingers. ‘Sunset. The terrace. Candles. Music I won’t hate. And dinner.’
‘I’m not hungry,’ I lie.
‘You will be,’ he says, savage satisfaction in his tone. ‘I’m organising something for you.’
‘For me,’ I echo, suspicious. ‘What?’
He leans in, breath grazing my cheek like a promise. ‘All your favourites.’
‘I don’t know what my favourites are,’ I say, and the admission makes my throat ache.
His smile gentles. ‘I do,’ he murmurs. ‘Or I will by the time the plates arrive.’
I look away so he won’t see the way my eyes burn. ‘This is manipulation.’
‘This is courtship,’ he corrects, amused. ‘Old-fashioned, I know. Blame the palazzo. The frescoes. The breeze if you want.’
‘And if I say no?’
He shrugs. ‘Then we eat in silence and I watch you try not to smile. Either way, we don’t go to war for one evening.’
‘And after?’ I ask, because I have to, because I need to know where the cliff is.
His eyes darken. ‘After,’ he says, ‘we stop pretending we’re not on the edge. You stop pretending your pussy doesn’t get wet every time our skin touches.’
My pulse skitters.
He catches my wrist again – firm within the warm circle of fingers that says here, stay – and then releases me like he trusts I will.
‘Go change,’ he says, suddenly light. ‘Pray while you pick a dress that makes you feel like the sun owes you money.’
‘I’m not—’
‘—turning up in a habit to my first real dinner with you?’ he finishes. ‘Absolutely not.’
‘I could,’ I threaten, absurdly, just to watch him bristle. ‘Just to spite you.’
He groans, tips his head back, stares at the ceiling like he’s appealing to a very patient god. ‘You’re killing me, angel.’
‘Good,’ I say, trying not to smile and failing.
‘Seven, sharp, tonight,’ he says, already reaching for his phone, face shifting into the mask he wears when he commands the world. ‘On the terrace.’
‘And if I don’t show?’
He shoots me a look that could melt steel. ‘You’ll show. And I think you should know, I find the wimple a huge turn on. So wear it, or don’t. I’m fired up either way.’
Arrogant. Terrible. Right.
I stand, smoothing my skirt with hands that won’t stop shaking, and retreat to the doorway. I mean to make a clean exit. I stop and look back because I can’t help myself.
He’s watching me already, eyes burning, mouth soft.
‘Renzo,’ I say, voice embarrassingly small.
Eyes glinting hard catch mine again. ‘Hmm?’
‘If I… if I pray before dinner—’
‘Pray during,’ he says, smiling like a sin. ‘I’ll listen, maybe toss in a few of my own. Who knows, He might be in a listening mood.’
I leave before the relief in my chest gives me away.
Behind me, I hear him on the phone – orders murmured, names I don’t recognise, a rhythm that says he’s building a night out of food and light and a ceasefire.
I touch the edge of my wimple, feel the fabric tremble between my fingers, and know without knowing why that I will take it off soon, and that when I do, the world will tilt, and I will not fall.
Not alone.
* * *
It takes me nearly an hour to pick a dress, and when I finally do, even I can tell it’s an act of petty rebellion disguised as piety.
The wardrobe is full of silks and colours that look like summer had too much to drink, but I choose the one that could almost pass for a habit.
It’s long, high-necked, black as a secret with sleeves that taper modestly at my wrists, the skirt skimming my ankles. I even keep my wimple, smoothing it until it gleams like surrender.
When I catch my reflection, I snort softly. I look like the world’s most defiant nun about to attend her own exorcism.
He deserves it.
When I step onto the terrace, the first thing I notice is the glistening sea.
The second is the table: linen, candles, silverware, two glasses catching the sunset like flames.
The third is Renzo, standing by the balustrade, white shirt unbuttoned at the throat, sleeves rolled, hair rumpled from his hands.
His cast is half-covered by his sleeve and sling. But even wounded he moves like the world still answers to him.
He turns. His eyes sweep me once. Stop. Sweep again. His mouth opens. Then he barks out a laugh so sharp it startles the gulls.
‘Dio santo,’ he says, pressing a hand to his chest. ‘You’ve got a death wish.’
I blink, taken aback. ‘I beg your pardon?’
He gestures at my outfit, grinning. ‘The whole get up. You’re mocking me. And fuelling all sorts of fantasies.’
‘I am not!’
‘Oh, you are.’ His grin widens into something wicked and fond. ‘Well played, angel. If you didn’t look so damn beautiful, I’d put you over my knee and spank you for this insolence.’
The words hit like a filthy curse in a cathedral. I gasp, scandal and heat warring in my blood. ‘You wouldn’t dare!’
‘Oh, I would.’ He limps closer, lowering his voice. ‘You’ve no idea how much I would. But that’s not how I want our first real evening to go.’
He moves past me to pull out a chair, and I stand there, heart hammering, trying to recall how to breathe. I sit because refusing feels like losing.
‘You’re outrageous,’ I mutter.
He pours wine, crimson and velvet. ‘You bring it out in me. And one of these days I’m going to tell you what your favourite swear word is.’
I shake my head and fold my hands in my lap, pretending to study the food – grilled swordfish, roasted peppers, caponata. Everything gleams. ‘Did you cook this?’
‘Do I look like a man who cooks?’
‘Yes.’
He pauses, tilts his head, amused. ‘Interesting. You think I’m domestic?’
‘I think you like control,’ I say, surprising myself with the honesty. ‘Cooking is just another way of… directing outcomes.’
His eyes spark. ‘You’re learning. But not in this case. I leave the cooking to Rafaelle, my brother. He was taught by…’ He stops himself, purses his lips and shakes his head.
The butler arrives whisper quiet and we’re served.
We eat in companionable silence at first. The wine is sweet and dark; the food tastes like sunlight. I try not to enjoy it, but pleasure sneaks past my guard in tiny betrayals – the sigh when I taste the first bite, the smile that slips before I catch it.
He watches everything. Always watching.
When he finally speaks, it’s casual. ‘You like it.’
‘I’m human,’ I say primly.
‘I know.’ He sips his wine. ‘I’m counting on it.’
I glance up sharply. ‘Why do you talk like that?’
‘Like what?’
‘Like life is a game you’re constantly fighting to win.’
He leans back, smile fading into something quieter. ‘Because when you have two older brothers who conquer the world before you’re out of long socks, you have to claw and fight to carve out your own world.’
The confession knocks me off balance. I study him, trying to see the man beyond the myth. ‘And have you?’
He meets my gaze. ‘Not in every way that counts, but when I fight, I fight to win. Always.’
The air between us shifts, heavier and charged. I want to say something, anything, to break it, but instead I find myself blurting, ‘Everything you say is so… smooth. So…’
‘Sexy?’ His eyes glint.
‘Your word, not mine. Mine was going to be “practised”. Does that work with… women?’ I say, then bite my tongue in hot reproach.
He lifts an eyebrow, wicked and patient. ‘Not practised. Plain-speaking. And unsurprisingly? Yes.’
My cheeks blaze. ‘How many?’ Sweet heaven, what are you doing?
His grin returns, slow and predatory. ‘Enough to know the difference between want and need. Fake and real.’
I can’t look at him, but I can feel him smiling, and that makes it worse. ‘That’s indecent.’
‘It’s honest. And healthy.’ He leans forward, elbows on the table. ‘And you asked.’
I toy with my fork. ‘Do you remember them?’
‘Most,’ he says, then pauses, eyes catching mine. ‘But none of them were you.’
My breath stalls. He says it like a vow. Like a truth he can’t take back.
The world narrows to the space between us. The candles flicker, the sea hushes, the air smells of salt and heat and promise.
There’s something I want to ask – something unthinkable and dangerous – but the words stick in my throat. He knows. Of course he does. He leans closer, his voice low enough to crawl under my skin.
‘Ask me, cara, if you dare.’
I can’t. I won’t. My heart slams so hard I think it’ll leave bruises on my ribs.
He chuckles softly, reading my silence. ‘Didn’t think so.’
‘Stop teasing me,’ I whisper.
‘Not teasing,’ he murmurs. ‘Testing.’
I don’t know what that means, but I don’t ask. The food disappears. The wine disappears. The night deepens into something alive and thick with unspoken things. He tells me stories, little and meaningful but impersonal ones, unguarded.
His first race.
His brother’s racing ambition that birthed his own. The way he and his twin swapped places before a sponsorship interview and fooled everyone.
I laugh, really laugh, and for a few minutes, I forget everything else.
When the plates are cleared, he rises slowly and deliberately and comes to stand behind my chair. His hands rest lightly on the backrest, his breath brushing my wimple. Then my shoulder.
‘Hush, ragazza. I promised civility,’ he says softly. ‘I didn’t promise restraint.’
I turn, startled, and he’s there.
Too close. Close enough that the world contracts to his scent and his shadow.
He bends, just a little, and kisses me.
It’s not like the first time. That had been a storm. This is the moment after: wet earth, thunder still humming in the bones. He coaxes rather than commands, one hand cupping my jaw, thumb grazing my throat.
The kiss starts slow, then deepens, unfurls. His tongue strokes mine once, barely, and I gasp into his mouth. He swallows the sound like it’s his favourite sin.
When he pulls back, I’m trembling. My lips ache and my pulse doesn’t know what to do with itself.
He studies me like he’s cataloguing the damage. ‘You’re shaking,’ he murmurs.
‘You shouldn’t have done that.’
‘Tell me to stop.’
I can’t.
He smiles faintly. ‘Exactly.’
He presses one last chaste, almost reverent, kiss to my forehead and steps back. ‘You should rest, angel.’
I nod, unable to form words.
As he limps away, I touch my lips and realise my fingers are trembling. The taste of him lingers, trailing wine, danger and something electric over my senses.
I turn towards the sea. The horizon blurs and I don’t know if I’m crying or if the wind just feels like it.
‘Why,’ I whisper to the dark, ‘is the devil tempting me so much?’
No answer.
Only the sound of the waves and the ghost of his mouth on mine.