Chapter Thirty-Nine
Lucas
Chiara looks heartbreakingly forlorn as we climb the stairs and it takes everything in me not to pick her up and carry her through the villa.
I know that she’ll fight me. She needs to feel in control, I can tell from the set of her shoulders and the way she tries to appear strong.
But I know she is a breath away from shattering.
And even though she looked fragile and broken, I can’t smother the possessiveness drowning out every other thought and turning my blood into molten lava.
It had taken everything in me not to push her onto one of the hoods and do the things I pictured.
I am rock hard, have been ever since I’ve pulled her out of the car and the images started playing in my depraved mind.
I know I’ll make good on my fantasies, it can’t be otherwise.
Maybe I’ll start with my latest acquisition, the Aston.
It’s loud, fast and ruthless. Exactly the way I want to fuck her.
But she needs time, I remind myself. She is in mourning.
I ball my hands into fists and breathe through the haze of madness to push it back down. Gentle… She needs gentleness.
And so, I gently guide her with a steady hand on her back, hoping that I can alleviate her pain and exhaustion for a short while. I want to be her anchor, her rock. I want to be the one she turns to for strength, for solace. Fuck, I want to become the air she breathes.
The living floor opens before us in an expanse of light and space. The main salon stretches on endlessly, tall windows flooding the room with afternoon sun. The dining room sits beyond, formal and mostly unused now. Adjacent sits the kitchen, the modern appliances gleaming in the bright light.
She takes it all in silently, her gaze skimming the surfaces, but she remains silent and her face is unreadable.
I look around with a new eye. Now through her eyes, I notice that despite the evident luxury, the rooms look cold and unused.
I’ve rarely had visitors over, except for D and Teo.
The truth is, that the villa had never really felt like a home, it merely was a convenient place to return to between meetings and duties.
It suited the man I’d become—a hollow husk behind a blinding facade.
But now with Chiara inside, something shifted. The light seems warmer, the air doesn’t feel so stagnant anymore. I can’t name this sensation, only that there is suddenly something here that hadn’t been before. Like a presence, a pulse. A soul.
The realization tightens around my chest without warning, punching the air out of my lungs. I’ve lived a long time without needing this, without wanting it. And now that I’ve felt this warmth, this fragile, impossible light, the idea of losing it makes my palms go slick with cold sweat.
I can’t let her go. The day she leaves me is the day I stop breathing.
The thought slams into me, so fast and acute that I stop walking for half a second, forcing myself to breathe through it. This isn’t mere possessiveness. It’s too consuming, too desperate. And I don’t do desperation.
I ruthlessly push the thoughts down and start talking instead, as I resume showing Chiara her realm.
I drone on about the meaningless history of the house, about the changes I’ve made, about the changes I’m planning.
But what I don’t say out loud is if she asked me to burn it all down, I’d gladly strike the match myself to watch the flames dance in her beautiful eyes.
Upstairs on the sleeping floor, I show her the guest rooms, each with their own en suite bathroom. And since she already knows the master suite, I guide her back toward the stairs.
Her breath hitches as we move down the corridor, and she stops abruptly.
The portrait.
Fuck. I’d forgotten it was still here. Years of passing it without looking had made it invisible to me. I should’ve taken it down and burned it.
“Are they…your parents?” Chiara asks.
I nod, already feeling my walls snapping in place. “Yeah.”
“They died, right?” She looks up at me for the first time since we returned. Her gaze is soft and sorrowful as it roams my face, as if searching for a shared grief.
Bile is raising up my throat. “I was twelve when their plane crashed, it was a long time ago.” I shrug dismissively and start to turn around, ready to move on, to shut this door before it opens any wider. But then she stops me with her small hand on my arm and I go rigid.
“I’m sorry for your loss.” She looks up at me with sympathy. “It must have been lonely.”
Lonely. The word lands like a blow, punching the air out of my lungs.
“Mom, Dad, don’t go… please.’’
“Lucas Vittorio Romano.” My father’s cold voice echoes through the decades. “Romano men don’t beg, especially not for people to stay. We don’t need anyone.”
On instinct, my spine locks and I rip my arm out of her grasp. “There’s nothing to be sorry about,” I say, my voice sounding too cool even in my own ears.
The warmth drains from her face. She nods slowly, a confused frown creasing her forehead. Then she drops her gaze, and the sight of it coils something ugly in my chest. Guilt, regret, the urge to take it back…and the certainty that I can’t. I am suddenly suffocating.
“Sorry,” she murmurs. “I didn’t mean—”
“I have to go back to work,” I say abruptly, already turning away. “Get some rest, dinner will be served at seven. Don’t wait up, I won’t be back until later.”
This time, she doesn’t stop me.
And I don’t turn back, because if I do, I’ll never leave.