73 | He will never love you like he loved her
My lips are tingling, still burning from Luciano's kiss on the balcony. A fire that's spread through me, pooling low and insistent between my legs.
I'm hot, bothered, my skin too tight, my pulse a wild drum as we descend the grand staircase, his hand in mine.
I touch my lips with my free hand, tracing where his mouth claimed me, and I'm dizzy with it, horny, no question, a craving for him that's new, raw, and terrifyingly real.
His taste lingers on my lips and I'm caught between wanting to drag him back upstairs and knowing we have to face the world, or at least his family, waiting below.
Every step is a battle to keep my composure, to not let him see how much he's undone me, but I steal a glance, and his eyes are on me, dark and knowing, like he feels it too.
We reach the living room, the space glowing with lamplight.
Chase is sprawled on the sofa, leaning too close to Luciano's older sister, his grin all charm and trouble.
Nonna's perched in her armchair, sipping tea with a loud slurp, her eyes glinting with amusement.
Luciano's mother sits nearby, her face softer than usual, watching us with something like approval, while the younger sister, lounges on a cushion, her gaze flicking between curiosity and wariness.
The air shifts as we enter, every head turning, and I feel exposed, like they can see the heat in my cheeks, the way my body's still humming from Luciano's touch.
Luciano's grip on my hand tightens, and he stops, his voice cutting through the room, low and edged with irritation. "Chase, should I lock you up somewhere?"
Chase looks up, his grin faltering as he catches Luciano's glare.
"Why?" he asks, all innocence, but there's a spark in his eyes, like he knows he's poking a bear.
Luciano steps forward, pulling me with him, his presence commanding, a storm barely leashed.
"Because I leave you for one second, and you're already trying to get in my sister's skirt," he says, his tone sharp, protective.
Chase laughs, leaning back, his hands raised in mock surrender.
"But you're with my sister," he shoots back, nodding at me. "Fair's fair, right?"
Luciano's jaw clenches, and he steps closer, his voice dropping, lethal. "That's different. She's my wife. She's Mrs. Costa."
The room stills, the weight of his words sinking in, and my heart skips, because he says it like it's sacred, like I'm not just a title but his everything.
Chase's grin fades, and he holds his hands up again, his bravado slipping.
"Shit, sorry," he says, glancing at me, then back at Luciano. "I didn't know you'd fallen in love with my sister. You've been dodging my calls for weeks."
I freeze, his words landing like a spark, and I turn to Luciano, searching his face. He's still glaring at Chase, but there's a flicker in his eyes, a truth he doesn't hide, and it makes my chest ache, makes the heat between my legs pulse harder.
Love. He's said it before, but hearing it from Chase, out loud, in front of everyone, it's real, undeniable, and I'm reeling, caught between joy and fear.
I step forward, my hand still in Luciano's, and meet Chase's gaze.
"Can we throw him out, Luciano?" I say, half-teasing, half-serious. "He's annoying."
Nonna's tea slurps louder, a theatrical sound that breaks the tension, her eyes twinkling like she's enjoying the show. But Luciano looks at me, his expression softening, a promise in his eyes.
"Anything for you," he says, and my heart flips, because I know he means it, would do anything I ask, no matter how wild.
Chase bolts upright, his hands out like he's warding off an attack.
"What the hell have you done to him, Aurelia?" he says, his voice a mix of shock and amusement, staring at me like I've bewitched his best friend. "He's gone soft!"
I grin, stepping closer to Luciano, feeling his warmth, his strength. I tilt my head, my voice playful but sharp. "Bye-bye, Chase. It was nice knowing you."
"Wait, wait," he says, his tone wheedling now. "I'll give you money, anything. Name it."
"I don't need it," I tease him.
Chase groans, running a hand through his hair, but he's grinning, like he knows he's lost.
"Fine," he mutters, backing toward the door. "I'll behave. Don't call your guard dog on me, Eli."
Luciano snorts, but his hand slides to my lower back, a possessive touch that sends a shiver through me, stoking the heat I'm trying to ignore.
I laugh before I tug Luciano's hand, pulling him toward the hallway.
"Come on," I say, my voice soft but eager. "Let's go eat dinner somewhere nice. Just us."
His eyes meet mine, dark and burning, and he nods, a smile tugging at his lips.
────??────
The Sicilian evening hums around us, alive with the pulse of the town, laughter spilling from open-air cafés, couples strolling hand in hand, the clink of glasses and the murmur of voices weaving through the warm air.
The restaurant Luciano chose is tucked into a narrow street, its stone walls draped in ivy, fairy lights twinkling like stars caught in the vines.
We're on a private balcony, a small haven carved out just for us, overlooking the cobblestone square below.
The table is intimate, set with candles that flicker gold against the night, and we're not sitting across from each other like strangers or enemies, no, we're side by side, our chairs close enough that his knee brushes mine, a spark that makes my skin hum.
The plates before us are a feast, fresh pasta glistening with olive oil, grilled seafood scented with lemon and herbs, a bottle of red wine between us, but I'm barely tasting it, too aware of Luciano's presence, the way he fills the space, the way he's watching me when he thinks I'm not looking.
His dark suit jacket is off, his white shirt unbuttoned at the collar, revealing a glimpse of the tattoos curling beneath, and it's distracting, the way he looks both dangerous and soft, a man who could burn the world down but chooses to sit here with me.
His arm rests on the back of my chair, his fingers grazing my shoulder through the thin fabric of my dress, and every touch is deliberate, a reminder of the kiss, of the want that's been building since the kitchen, since the beach, since forever.
I take a sip of wine, and glance at him, catching his eyes, like they're seeing every piece of me, even the ones I've tried to hide.
"This place," I say, my voice soft, almost lost in the town's hum, "it's beautiful. How'd you find it?"
"Used to come here when I needed to get away," he says, his fingers brushing my arm, a touch that feels like a claim. "It's quiet, out of the way. Thought you'd like it."
"I do," I admit, and it's more than the restaurant, it's this, us, sitting like we're not running from shadows, like we're allowed to want each other.
My dress feels too thin under his gaze, like he can see the heat pooling in me, the way my body's reacting to his touch.
I shift, my thigh pressing against his, and his hand tightens on my shoulder, a reflex that sends a shiver down my spine.
I'm not used to wanting him without the fear or the self hatred, but tonight, it's different.
Tonight, I'm letting myself fall.
The square below buzzes with people laughing, a street musician strumming a guitar, but up here, it's just us, the candles casting shadows that dance across his face, highlighting the scar above his brow.
I reach for a piece of bread, tearing it slowly, and his eyes follow my hands, like every move I make matters to him.
"You're staring," I say, teasing, but my voice is breathy, betraying the heat curling low in my belly.
"Can't help it," he murmurs, his voice a low growl that makes my pulse race. "You're fucking gorgeous, Aurelia."
My cheeks flush, and I look down, hiding a smile, but his fingers tip my chin up, forcing me to meet his gaze.
"What did I tell you about hiding from me," he says, "I want to see you."
I blush, leaning closer, my shoulder brushing his chest, and the contact is electric, a spark that makes me want to close the distance, to kiss him again, to lose myself in him right here.
"You're not so bad yourself," I say, my voice playful.
His hand slides from my shoulder to my neck, his thumb brushing my pulse, counting it like he always does, and I wonder if he feels how fast it's racing, how much I'm fighting to stay composed when all I want is to climb into his lap, to feel his hands everywhere.
I set my fork down, my appetite gone, replaced by a different hunger, one that's dangerous, reckless, but so alive it hurts.
"Luciano," I say, my voice barely a whisper, while his face is inches from mine, his breath warm against my cheek.
I rest my hand on his thigh, my fingers curling into the fabric of his pants, and his eyes darken, a low sound catching in his throat.
"You're playing with fire," he warns, but he doesn't pull away.
"Maybe I want to burn," I say, bold and honest.
I'm lost in him until my phone buzzes on the table, a sharp intrusion that makes my stomach twist.
I glance at the screen, expecting nothing, maybe a notification, a reminder, but it's a message from an unknown number.
My heart stumbles, because it can't be my ex-best friend; I blocked her, cutting that part out of my life.
Curiosity wins, and I unlock the phone, my fingers hesitant.
The image loads and my breath catches, the warmth of the night draining away.
It's a photo from Ciara's funeral. Luciano is standing by her casket, his face etched with grief, a few tears glistening on his cheeks.
Below the photo is a text: He will never love you like he loved her.
The words are a blade, slicing through the fragile hope I've been clinging to.
My hands tremble, the phone slipping slightly, and Luciano notices, his gaze sharpening.
"Aurelia?" he says, his voice filled with concerned, but I can't look at him, can't face the man who's unraveling me even now.
He reaches over, his fingers brushing mine as he takes the phone, and I let him, too stunned to stop it.
His jaw tightens as he sees the photo, the text, and I feel the shift in him. The anger, the protectiveness, a storm brewing beneath his calm mask.
I'm already moving, my chair scraping as I start to stand, my instinct to run kicking in, to hide from this pain, from him, from the truth I'm afraid to face.
But his hand closes around my wrist, anchoring me to the moment.
"Don't run away," he says, his voice steady, a command wrapped in care. "Let's sit down and talk."
"There's nothing to talk about," I say, my voice sharp, cracking under the weight of what I'm feeling, the sting of that photo tearing open old wounds.
He doesn't let go, his grip gentle but unyielding, and his eyes lock on mine, pleading.
"We need to talk to each other, remember?" he says, and it's a mirror of my own words from earlier tonight, a reminder of the promise we made to be honest, to try.
"Please, Aurelia. Stay. Tell me what's on your mind."
I hesitate, my legs trembling, because he's right. I told him we have to communicate, and running now would be breaking that, breaking us.
I sink back into the chair, my heart pounding, and force myself to look at him, to let the words out
"It hurt..." I begin, my voice low, shaking.
"Seeing you at Ciara's funeral, shedding tears for her.
.. it broke me, Luciano. You made me feel like nothing, like I was invisible.
Everyone was there, watching you grieve, seeing how much you cared for her, and I was alone, sitting in the back, wondering why I even existed. "
His face softens, pain flickering in his eyes, and he sets the phone down, his hand still on my wrist, grounding me as I spill the hurt I've carried for so long.
"I hated you for it," I continue, my voice cracking, tears burning behind my eyes. "Because you looked like you loved her, like she was everything to you, and I was just... there, the sister, the obligation. I felt so small, so worthless, and I couldn't shake those feelings."
He listens, his gaze never wavering, taking in every word, every tremor in my voice, and when I'm done, the silence is heavy, charged with the truth I've laid bare for him.
He exhales slowly, and shifts closer, his hand sliding from my wrist to my hand, lacing our fingers together.
"I'm glad you told me about it," he says like it's a gift I've given him.
I stare at him, searching his face but there's no defense, just him wanting to understand me.
"The reason I cried at her funeral," he says, his voice steady but thick with emotion, "wasn't because of her death. It wasn't about losing her..."
"It was about my father, about losing the only connection I had left to him.
He painted Ciara as an angel, he even sponsored her modeling career, built her up like she was perfection.
One of his last wishes was for me to marry her, to carry out his vision.
But I had shut him down over and over again. "
"When she died, I stood there, looking at her casket, and all I could see was his face, disappointed, angry, like I'd failed him as a son."
I blink, his words sinking in, shifting the memory of that day, and he squeezes my hand, his thumb brushing my knuckles.
"I thought I'd let him down," he continues, his voice softer now, raw.
"He made me believe I was never enough, that Ciara was the only woman for me, the only way to prove myself.
He had a thing for blondes, always did, and I bought into it, thought it was my duty.
But standing there that day, crying, it wasn't for her.
It was for him, for the weight of his expectations, for the son I thought I'd failed to be. "
He pauses, his eyes searching mine, and there's a vulnerability there, a crack in the armor that makes my heart ache.
"But now," he says, his voice firm, "I realize I never failed him, I was enough. And Ciara? She was never the one for me. You are, Aurelia. You've always been."
"And I'm sorry," he murmurs, his voice rough. "For making you feel alone back then, for letting you think you were anything less than everything."
He leans closer, his forehead resting against mine, our breaths mingling in the candlelight.
"I'll check who sent you that message," he says, his voice edged with something dangerous, something protective that makes my pulse race. "I think there's someone trying to tear us apart."
The photo, the text, it's not just a jab, it's a weapon, crafted to wound, to unravel what we're building.
"Do you know who it could be?" I ask, pulling away from him and looking into his eyes. "Could it be the same person who... who almost killed us?"
"Maybe," he says, his voice measured, but there's a current beneath it, a fury he's holding back. "But whoever it is, we definitely have someone after us. Someone who knows how to hit where it hurts."
The words hang between us because our relationship is complicated with my older sister looming in the background.
"Why us? Why me?" I whisper, almost to myself.
"Because you're mine," he says, his voice is a vow that sends a shiver through me, equal parts fear and want. "And they know it, know hurting you hurts me."
"This," he nods at the phone, "wasn't random. It's a move, a calculated one."
"What do we do?" I question, my voice steadier now.
"We stay together," he says, his voice a low grunt, fierce and unyielding. "No secrets, no running. I'll find them, whoever sent this, whoever's pulling the strings, and I'll end them. No one touches you, Aurelia. No one gets to hurt you, not like this."
My heart pounds, because it's not just a promise, it's a declaration, a line drawn in blood, and I see it in his eyes, the man who'd burn the world for me, who'd kill to keep me safe.
It's terrifying, intoxicating, this devotion that's as dark as it is beautiful, and I lean into it.
I glance at the phone, then back at him, and make a choice.
"Find them," I say, my voice firm, a spark of my own anger rising. "Whoever it is, I want them gone. I want us to be safe."
His smile is a slow wicked flash of the predator he is, and it sends a thrill through me, a heat that's more than fear, more than anger.
"That's my girl," he murmurs, and he leans in, his lips brushing my temple, a kiss that's soft but searing, a promise of what's to come, protection, vengeance, love, all tangled together.