Chapter 30
Morning comes gently in Italy.
Not with alarms or rushed thoughts.but with soft light spilling through sheer curtains and the quiet hum of a city waking up far below.
I blink slowly, still half lost in sleep, until warmth pulls me back to reality.
Lorenzo’s arm is draped around my waist, possessive even in sleep. His face is relaxed, lashes resting against his cheek, hair a little messy in a way I rarely get to see. He looks… peaceful.
I lie there for a moment, just watching him breathe.
I shift slightly, trying not to wake him, but he tightens his hold instantly, pulling me closer until my forehead presses against his chest.
“Running away already?” his sleepy voice murmurs above me.
I smile, unable to stop it. “It’s morning.”
“That’s unfortunate,” he mutters. “I was having a very nice dream.”
I lift my head. “About what?”
He opens one eye, looking at me like I’m the only thing that exists. “You. Still you.”
My heart does that stupid, painful thing again.
I trace a lazy line over his collarbone, feeling the steady beat beneath my fingers. “We’re really in Italy,” I whisper, more to myself than him.
He hums. “And you’re still mine.”
I raise an eyebrow. “Still?”
“Always,” he corrects softly.
There’s no edge in his voice. No dominance. Just certainty.
He leans down, brushing a slow kiss against my forehead, then my nose, then my lips unhurried, tender, like he has all the time in the world.
For once, it feels like he does.
I curl closer to him, tucking myself into the space that fits me perfectly, and let my eyes fall shut again.
Whatever waits for us outside this room families, futures, chaos
Right now, I wake up beside him.
And that feels like everything.
We head downstairs together, his hand never leaving mine.
The villa smells like coffee and something warm and buttery fresh bread, maybe.
Sunlight floods the dining room, bouncing off marble floors and tall windows that look straight out of a postcard.
At the long table, his grandfather sits comfortably, newspaper folded beside his plate, a chessboard already set like he’s been waiting for a rematch.
He looks up the moment he sees us.
“There she is,” he says, eyes twinkling. “The woman who kidnapped my grandson’s common sense.”
“Nonno,” Lorenzo groans. “Please.”
I bite back a smile.
“Sit, sit,” his grandfather waves us over. “Before this idiot starts another argument before breakfast.”
We take our seats. Lorenzo immediately reaches for the coffee pot like it’s a lifeline.
“You shouldn’t drink that on an empty stomach,” his grandfather scolds.
“I’ve been doing it for years.”
“And that,” his grandfather points at him with his fork, “is why you have the patience of a wild dog.”
Lorenzo opens his mouth. I can tell—he’s ready. The tone, the posture, the I’m about to win this look.
I shoot him one look.
Just one.
He stops mid-sentence.
Actually freezes.
Then, very slowly, he closes his mouth and looks down at his plate like a scolded child.
The room goes quiet.
I blink, surprised myself.
His grandfather stares.
Then he bursts out laughing.
“Oh,” he says, delighted. “I like her.”
Lorenzo mutters, “This is betrayal.”
“No, this is balance,” his grandfather says proudly. “Do you know how many people have tried to shut him up? Threats didn’t work. Guns didn’t work. I once took away his car.”
“That was cruel,” Lorenzo mumbles.
“And yet,” his grandfather looks at me with open admiration, “one glare from you and he surrenders.”
I feel my cheeks warm. “I didn’t mean to—”
“Nonsense,” he waves it off. “You’re perfect.”
Lorenzo sighs dramatically. “I’ve been replaced.”
I place a piece of bread on his plate and lean closer. “Eat.”
He does. Immediately.
His grandfather watches this like he’s witnessing a miracle.
“Marry her quickly,” he tells Lorenzo. “Before she realizes she deserves better.”
Lorenzo smiles, slow and dangerous, wrapping an arm around my waist. “Too late. She’s already stuck with me.”
I shake my head, laughing, as his grandfather chuckles across the table.
Breakfast continues with playful bickering, soft laughter, and the strangest, warmest feeling settling in my chest.
For the first time, I don’t feel like I’m entering his world.
It feels like I belong in it.
Lorenzo clears his throat, suddenly serious.
His grandfather notices immediately. “Oh no,” he says, setting his cup down. “That look means an announcement.”
Lorenzo squeezes my hand once, grounding himself, then looks at him.
“We’ve decided something.”
His grandfather leans back in his chair, arms crossed. “I’m listening.”
“We’ll get married in India first,” Lorenzo says firmly. “In a temple. With her rituals. Her culture. Her chosen people "
I turn to him, surprised. He doesn’t look at me—his eyes stay on his grandfather, steady, sure.
“For real,” he continues. “Not symbolic. Not small. The way she deserves.”
There’s a pause.
His grandfather studies him carefully, like he’s checking if this is the same boy he raised or someone new entirely.
Then he nods slowly.
“Good.”
Lorenzo exhales.
“And then,” Lorenzo adds, a hint of smugness creeping in, “we’ll come back here. Italy. My way. My traditions. Big wedding. Loud family. Too much food.”
His grandfather raises an eyebrow. “So… two weddings?”
“Yes.”
Two seconds pass.
Then his grandfather laughs so hard he has to hold the table.
“Smart boy,” he says between laughs. “Very smart. One wedding to honor her roots. Another so my relatives don’t disown you.”
“Exactly.”
I finally find my voice. “You… you don’t have to do that. One wedding is enough.”
Lorenzo turns to me instantly. “No. It’s not.”
His thumb rubs slow circles on my hand.
“You’re not adjusting your life to fit mine. We’re building something that holds both.”
His grandfather nods approvingly. “That’s how marriage survives. Compromise. Respect. And a woman who can silence him with a look.”
I laugh softly, heart painfully full.
“But,” his grandfather adds, suddenly sly, “if you’re marrying in a temple first, does that mean I have to wear—what is it called—kurta?”
“Yes,” Lorenzo says immediately. "Traditional.”
His grandfather groans. “I raised you, fed you, taught you chess—”
“And now you’ll wear a kurta,” Lorenzo finishes sweetly.
I can’t stop smiling.
Across the table, his grandfather looks at me, warmth in his eyes.
“Welcome to the family, Ruhi.”
And for the first time, the word family doesn’t scare me.
It feels like home.
By the time we walk upstairs to our room , he doesn't say a word.
The door closes softly behind us, the click loud in the quiet room, and before I can turn around his hand is on my waist firm, possessive guiding me back until my shoulders meet the wall.
My breath stutters.
Lorenzo leans in slowly, deliberately, like he wants me to feel every second of it. His forehead rests against mine, his breath warm, steady, controlled… barely.
“You do that glare again,” he murmurs, voice low, rough, “and expect me to behave?”
I don’t get a chance to reply.
His lips crash into mine, all restraint gone. It’s not rushed, not careless.but hungry.
Like he’s been holding this back all morning and finally allowed himself to take what’s his.
My fingers clutch his shirt instinctively as he cages me in, one arm braced beside my head, the other at my waist, keeping me exactly where he wants me.
Against him.
Safe. Wanted.
Every kiss feels deeper than the last slow, consuming, unhurried. He pulls back just enough to look at me, dark eyes searching my face.
“Okay?” he asks quietly, thumb brushing my cheek.
I nod, breathless.
That’s all the permission he needs.
His lips return to mine, softer now, lingering, as if he’s memorizing the feel of me. As if this moment is something sacred he intends to keep.
Time melts away.
There’s no rush. No fear. No doubts.
Just the wall at my back, his heartbeat beneath my palm, and the certainty in the way he holds me like he’s not going anywhere.
And neither am I.
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