CHAPTER 11
Roxanne
The house had been quiet all afternoon. Not peaceful. Just eerily tense.
The kind of quiet where you can hear someone breathing in another room and pretend you don’t. The sound carried differently in the house after Marcello left.
Like it was reminding me constantly of Marcello’s absence and the not-so-welcome presence of the asshole himself.
The kettle boiled louder. The wind pressed harder against the windows. Even the wooden floors seemed to creak with accusation under my steps.
I could do this.
I’ve dealt with annoying pricks before. I deal with them all the time—men who feel they know better. And I’ve dealt with Santino before.
We always tended to get on each other’s nerves, playful banter resonating through the walls of the villa in Sicily. Ronnie once joked we looked like an old married couple, which led to him being banned for nearly three months.
Some days Marcello hated the camaraderie we shared, and some days he just enjoyed our bickering.
I won’t lie. Marcello changed over the three years we’d been together—guess I owe it to him becoming a father. But some things about him never softened. Especially when it came to me. He always made it a point to remind me that I was his.Not with theatrics or pomp. Marcello never needed theatrics.
One touch from him carried the kind of authority other men killed for. One hand at the back of my neck. One look sharp enough to silence an entire room.
And then he’d kiss me like the rest of the world stopped existing the second his mouth touched mine. Like a silent reminder to the world: she’s mine.
But dealing with Santino now was different.
Two years had changed something, and I didn’t know what to make of it.
Why had he returned?
Was it just the supposed threat of people asking about me?
Or was it something more sinister?
He had been careful the last few days. Not hovering around me or crowding my space. Just… existing.
Fixing things that didn’t need fixing. Checking the perimeter twice. Standing too still when I entered a room, but his eyes always followed me.
He looked at me differently now—with intent, his grey eyes catching on mine whenever they could. I felt like prey manoeuvring around a predator’s gaze.
Space was given. Space was invaded.
Ignoring him, however, wasn’t as easy. He was everywhere yet nowhere. Every time I stepped outside, even when I couldn’t see him, I felt him somewhere nearby, lurking in the shadows. We were orbiting each other without collision.
Which meant we were thinking. And thinking was dangerous.
I told myself I was angry. That was easy.
Anger is clean. Sharp. Justified.
Anger was outward rather than keeping everything bottled up inside like I had done for the past two years.
He had left, promising to be in touch. And one day, he just disappeared. Messages just went read, with no reply. Calls went straight to voicemail. And then they didn’t go through at all.
He had told me Ronnie needed him, but he was barely there a month and then poof… gone as though I had imagined him.
I had my own fucked up order of grief.
At first I was finding excuses for him.
Maybe he was busy. Maybe he’d got caught up in some shit.
Then I was worried—what if he was injured, or caught by people who wanted him hurt or worse… dead.
Then came denial. I avoided his name.
Kyra brought him up frequently at first. Then even she stopped.
I’d learned to accept that, until he showed up at my door a week ago.
I was hurt—hurt that he vanished without caring how I unravelled in his absence. Hurt that every time my daughter brought him up, or his name slipped into the room, my body went rigid.
And then I was mad.
Watching that smirk on his lips. I wanted to slice it off.
Anger was easier than grief. Anger gave me something sharp to hold. I wasn’t a violent person. I couldn’t be bothered if it were someone else, but with him…
I don’t know why he affected me more than I could put a name on it. And he dared to show up like the two years he wasn’t around didn’t matter.
He didn’t even try to apologise.
Not then. Not now. Even when it was just us. Pretending to just exist in my space, like he never left.
I stayed in that day. Painting work had started on site, and my allergies were starting to kick in.
It was ironic, really. I’d chosen a profession built around construction sites despite having dust allergies and a nose sensitive enough to detect paint from three rooms away.
Callum, as promised, had kept me updated on the ongoing works on site, video calling me several times.
By evening, exhaustion hit me like a brick. The only thing that would keep my mind off the presence lurking in the shadows was cooking.
I decided to give Concetta’s famous dip another go.
Marcello’s mother had shown me the dip once in Sicily.
I’d burnt the garlic terribly while arguing proportion sizes with her, and she scolded me for cutting corners.
I remember how Kyra and Santino had just laughed when we had to start all over again.
But this time, I’d nailed it.
The texture was right. The garlic toasted just enough. The olive oil glossy, without drowning it.
I dipped my finger into the bowl and tasted it.
Perfect.
A small sound of satisfaction escaped me, smile tugging at my lips. Not even the brooding asshole could ruin this mood.
“What are you grinning at?”
His voice came from behind me, deep, low. For a brief second, my pulse kicked; his voice felt like ice down my spine. I hated how he could pull that reaction out of me despite everything. But I refused to give him a reaction.
“Nothing.”
His scent hit me before the heat of him did—smoke, worn leather, clean cologne buried beneath sweat and engine grease. Rugged. Masculine. Raw in a way that should’ve repulsed me after hours spent under a bike.
It didn’t.
My lungs filled with it anyway. Then I felt the heat from him as he stepped closer.
“That’s not nothing. You only smile like that when you’ve won something.”
I rolled my eyes but couldn’t stop the smile.
“It’s Concetta’s famous recipe.”
“The dip?”
“Yup,” I said, enunciating the p, making it pop.
He leaned to look into the bowl and took a whiff.
“Smells good.”
He lifted his hand to dip a finger in. I smacked it away instantly.
“Ew. Don’t. Your hands are filthy.”
He looked down at his knuckles. Grease stained the edges of his fingers.
“This?” He lifted his hands, looking at them. Tattoos shifted under skin as he flexed his fingers unconsciously.
“You were tearing apart your bike covered in gunk ten minutes ago.”
He shrugged, entirely unbothered. “What’s a little grease? Builds character. Toughens the immune system.”
Before I could think about it, I dipped my own finger into the bowl again and held it out.
“Here. Taste it.”
The gesture was casual. Automatic. The way it used to be.
I don’t know why I did it.
Maybe because for a split second, it felt normal. Maybe because I was happy I’d nailed it. Maybe because I wanted to prove I wasn’t rattled.
Big mistake.
He didn’t move right away. His eyes shifted to my finger. Then up to my face. His expression shifted then, subtly, jaw flexing, breathing slowed. His pupils widened just enough to darken the grey of his eyes into storm steel.
He leaned forward slowly. I could have pulled back. I should’ve pulled back. But I didn’t.
His mouth closed around my finger. Warm. Firm. Like he had all the time in the world. His tongue dragged once, slow and deliberate, collecting the dip from my finger—and my stomach dropped hard enough to make me take a deep breath. My throat constricted like the walls were stuck.
Every sound in the room disappeared—the kettle, the wind, the creaking floorboards. All of it drowned out until every fibre of my body focused only on the place where his tongue touched my skin.
Electricity shot through me so violently, streaking down my spine straight to my core in one merciless pull, heat flooding my face until I knew I’d gone crimson. My nipples tightened painfully beneath my shirt. The air stuttered out of me, uneven and fragile.
But his eyes never left mine. He released my finger slowly.
“Good,” he said, voice gruff. “You didn’t burn the garlic this time.”
My pulse thrummed in my ears. I pulled my hand back too quickly.
But he caught my wrist and pulled me closer.
I staggered a step toward him, chest brushing his for half a second.His body went still.
Not relaxed still, controlled still. Like restraint had locked every muscle beneath his skin at once.
“Wait.”
I swallowed. “W-what?”
“There’s some left.”
Before I could react, he lifted my hand to his mouth again, the corner of his mouth lifting. This time he took his time. His tongue slid from the base of my finger to the tip with slow precision, like he was tasting something far more dangerous than garlic and olive oil.
His eyes never left mine. Neither did mine. And that felt like its own kind of mistake. He held my finger there a second longer than necessary. Then released it with an unmistakable pop.
“All clean,” he murmured.
The words were casual, but the look in his eyes wasn’t.
My entire body turned traitor before thought could intervene. Before loyalty. Before sense.
The hair at the back of my neck stood. My thighs pressed together instinctively, stomach tightening. Heat pooled low and sharp between my legs. My pulse staggered so hard I felt dizzy. My breathing felt uneven, and I hated that he could probably see it.
Why is my body reacting this way to him?
This was Santino, for God’s sake.
I yanked my hand free and wiped my finger down the front of my apron.
“Dinner’s in ten,” I said, turning away too fast.
My throat was dry, but my voice sounded steady. Almost.Behind me, I didn’t have to look to know he was smirking.Satisfied.
Asshole.
And worse of all, he hadn’t forced anything. I’d been stupid enough to offer. And my body had answered before my pride could pull away.
He walked away without another word. Silence settled behind him, heavier than any argument we’d ever had.
Fighting had rules. Fighting was familiar. But this careful quiet between us felt far more dangerous. Because arguments kept things on the surface. Silence let everything underneath breathe.
And for the first time since he came back, I realised we weren’t circling each other anymore.
We were closing in.