Chapter 5
CHAPTER FIVE
Four years before…
She's wearing a white sundress.
That's the first thing I notice when she walks onto the porch. Thin cotton, nearly transparent in the porch light, showing the shadow of her legs through the fabric, the curve of her waist, the outline of whatever she's wearing underneath.
Or not wearing.
Christ.
I shouldn't be looking, shouldn't be cataloguing every detail like I've been doing for the past year. The way her hair falls over one shoulder when she tilts her head. The way she bites her bottom lip when she's nervous. The way her hips have filled out. The way she moves, walks, breathes.
I'm a sick bastard.
She's Matteo's little sister. Eighteen years old. Off limits in every way that matters.
And I've been watching her like a starving man watches food he can't have.
I deserve death.
"Enzo."
Her voice. I've memorized that too. The way she says my name, soft and almost breathless.
I force myself to stay still, staring out at the trees instead of turning around, instead of looking at her in that dress.
"I uh… I wanted to talk to you."
About what? What could she possibly want to talk about that couldn't wait until morning, when Matteo's around, when there are other people, when I'm not alone with her on this porch fighting the urge to do something unforgivable?
"Make it quick, Princess."
"I—" She stops and I hear her take a breath. "This is hard to say."
Then don't say it. Walk away. Go inside. Save us both.
"I don't have all night, Isabella."
"I have feelings for you." She blurts and I freeze.
Fuck.
The words land like a punch straight to the gut, right where I've been lying to myself for months, telling myself she hasn’t noticed, she doesn't see the way I watch her, that this sick obsession is one-sided.
"No, you don't." I force myself to say flatly, dismissively.
"What? Yes, I do." Her footsteps move closer and I can hear the wood creaking under her bare feet. "I-I've felt this way for a while now. And I think you feel the same way."
She thinks.
She has no idea. No idea that I've spent the last year cataloging every smile, every laugh, every time she walks past me smelling like that. Every time she stretches and I see a strip of skin above her waistband.
No idea that I've imagined what she'd taste like, feel like, sound like underneath me.
No idea that I'm the worst kind of man. The kind who wants to put his hands on his best friend's eighteen-year-old sister and keep her.
"You're wrong."
"I'm not!” She's right behind me now, close enough that I can smell her. Floral and sweet and young. So young. "You've been avoiding me all summer."
"I’m an adult. Isabella. I’ve been busy with work."
"No. You leave every time I enter a room. You won't look at me. You barely speak to me." Her voice gets quieter. "You weren’t like this before."
That's because a year ago you were still a kid. Now you're not. Now you're this beautiful creature who haunts every thought I have and I can't look at you without wanting things I have no right to want.
I turn around. Finally. Look at her.
Mistake.
The dress is worse than I thought. The neckline dips low, showing the curve of her breasts. The hem hits mid-thigh. Her legs are bare, tanned, perfect.
And she's looking at me with those hazel eyes full of hope and something that looks like want.
My hands curl into fists at my sides.
"You need to go inside."
"Not until you tell me the truth."
"What truth?"
"That you feel something too."
I could tell her. Could confess that I think about her constantly. That I know she switched her perfume three months ago. That I notice when she gets her hair cut. That I've memorized the sound of her laugh and the way she moves and the exact shade of her eyes in different light.
That I'm obsessed. Sick. Wrong.
Instead, I laugh.
Short. Sharp. Cruel.
"Feel something?" I let my eyes drag over her, slow and deliberate like she's nothing. "You think I have feelings for you, little girl?"
She flinches. Just slightly. But I see it.
Good. This is good. Push her away. Make her hate you.
"I... yes. I thought..."
"You thought what? That I've been pining after you?" Another laugh. "That's cute."
"Don't." Her voice cracks. "Don't do that."
"Do what?"
"Talk to me like I'm stupid."
"Then don't act fucking stupid, Isabella." I cross my arms, lean back against the railing. "You're Matteo's little sister. A kid. You really think I look at you and see anything other than that?"
The lie tastes like poison.
"I'm not a kid!”
"You're eighteen."
"So?"
"So, you're a child with a crush. That's all this is. It will pass."
"That's not—"
"It is." I cut her off, keeping my voice flat and bored. "You've built something up in your head that doesn't exist. Some fantasy where I've been secretly wanting you, where this..." I gesture between us. "... means something."
Her eyes are wet now but she's holding it together, chin up, stubborn as always.
I want to cross this porch and kiss her until she can't breathe. Want to fist my hands in that dress and tear it off her. Want to show her exactly what I feel.
Instead, I destroy her.
"Let me make this clear." My voice comes out cold and empty. "I don't have feelings for you. I don't think about you or want you. That’d be sick. Wrong. You're Matteo's little sister and I see you as a little sister myself, Princess."
She's crying now. Silent tears running down her cheeks.
I'm a monster. The worst kind of man. But I can't stop.
"But you are right, I have been avoiding you." I push off the railing, moving closer. "Because you've been following me around all summer like a lost puppy. Staring at me. Finding excuses to talk to me. It makes me… It makes me feel uncomfortable.”
"I wasn't—"
"You were. And I've been trying to spare you this conversation, trying to let you down easy by just keeping my distance. But apparently you need me to spell it out."
I'm close enough now to see her mascara starting to run, to see the way her hands are shaking.
"There can’t be anything between us, Princess. You're a kid with a crush and I'm..." I stop, force the words out. "I'm not interested. Do you understand?"
She nods. Once. Quick. Her throat working like she's trying not to sob.
"Good." I step back, putting distance between us before I do something unforgivable. "I’m sorry for hurting your feelings, but… Now go inside. Forget this conversation ever happened."
That last part lands. I see it in her eyes, the way something in her breaks completely.
She turns fast, nearly running to the door.
I watch her go, watch her disappear inside, hear the door slam.
Then I'm alone.
I stand there with my hands shaking, my heart racing, every word I just said echoing in my head.
Pathetic. Embarrassing. Not interested.
All lies.
Every single word.
The truth is I want her so badly I can barely function. Want her in ways that would make Matteo put a bullet in my head. Want her underneath me and on top of me and in every position I can imagine.
The truth is I've been half in love with her since she was eighteen and looked at me like she was really seeing me for the first time.
The truth is the age gap doesn't matter as much as it should. That Matteo's trust doesn't matter as much as it should. That nothing matters as much as it should when I look at her.
And that's exactly why I had to break her heart.
Because I'm thirty-one years old. Because I'm a killer with blood on my hands and bodies in my wake. Because I'm Matteo's best friend and she's his baby sister and there's no world where this doesn't end in disaster.
Because she deserves someone good. Someone clean. Someone who doesn't spend his nights cataloguing the way she moves and memorizing the sound of her voice and imagining things that would make him a monster.
Someone who isn't me.
I did the right thing.
I saved her from myself.
I just wish it didn't feel like I ripped my own heart out.