Prologue #2
At this point, I remember he's one of Papa's handpicked "potential options," a phrase that, in our world, means rich enough to matter and bland enough to control.
Unfortunately, he looks like he was basted in cologne and slid straight off a dinner roll, and I've never been one for greasy textures, conversational or otherwise.
When I finally look over my shoulder, he's grinning, glass in hand, suit pressed within an inch of its life. "I was enjoying the quiet." My voice is calm, if only just.
He steps closer, his smile turning smug as he lets his gaze travel lower than it should.
"That's a shame. You shouldn't be alone out here, not looking like that. Men get ideas."
He says it like a compliment, like I should thank him for the implied threat.
I straighten, turning fully toward him now, spine tall and fingers curled loosely at my sides. "Then those men should learn not to mistake appearance for invitation."
His smile tightens, his charm thinning.
"You think too highly of your position, Aria. You're not untouchable. Not anymore."
I don't flinch. But I don't reply, either.
He steps forward again, just a fraction too close, and the scent of his cologne hits me like something slick and expensive, trying too hard to impress.
His hand lifts, slow and casual, like he's reaching for a stray curl, and I already feel my body coiling, calculating how hard I'd need to slap him to make it hurt without drawing blood.
A voice, smooth and steel-edged, drifts into the space between us before Cesare's fingers can reach their mark.
"I wouldn't."
We both turn.
Enzo Moretti stands at the edge of the terrace, his posture relaxed, his hands loosely in his pockets, but his eyes are cold enough to freeze the blood in any man's veins.
He walks forward slowly, each step unhurried, as though he's already assessed the danger and found it pitifully beneath him.
Cesare stiffens. "I don't believe we were interrupted."
"No," Enzo says, his tone thoughtful, almost polite. "That would require something worth interrupting."
He stops just beside me, not touching, not even glancing my way, but his presence wraps around me like silk pulled tight across a blade.
"Walk away, Cesare," he says, almost gently, like the suggestion is for Cesare's benefit, not mine. "And if you ever touch her without her permission, I'll break the hand you used. Slowly."
The smile drops from Cesare's face. "You forget who she's promised to," he mutters.
"No," Enzo replies, eyes steady and hard. "I just don't care."
Cesare's gaze flicks to Enzo's face and sticks there, locking onto the kind of stillness that does not bluff.
He is no fool, and if he dares stir that pot, the Salvatores will pull their favor, and with the way the tides are shifting in Nuova Speranza, even Cesare Bellanti knows better than to gamble his family's position for a grudge.
Instead, he mutters something inaudible and vanishes back through the terrace doors.
"You didn't have to do that," I murmur, moments after I realize I am all alone in the gazebo with the one man I have pined for all evening.
"It didn't seem that way."
Is he implying that I cannot take care of myself ?
Beneath the slow ache of desire, stubbornness rears its head. "You're very sure of yourself," I say.
"I don't need to be sure," he replies without looking at me. "I only need to be right."
"And are you?"
He finally turns his gaze to mine. "Your little suitor is the best your Papa can muster for now. The heir to a crumbling pipeline and three warehouses that haven't been profitable in five years. But he comes with a name that still opens doors in the right circles. That's all that matters."
I lift my chin, willing myself to stop my lips from trembling. "You think you know a great deal about my family."
"I do know a lot about your family," he replies smoothly. "It's part of my job."
He lets the words settle, and when he speaks again, his voice is quieter, but somehow heavier.
"Your Papa is playing a dying game, still chasing old loyalties while the ground shifts under his feet. He trades his daughter and calls it diplomacy. You know that. You've always known that."
I feel the words hit deep in my ribs.
Not like a strike, but like truth, and somehow that is worse.
"You don't know me," I whisper.
"I don't need to," he replies. "You've been made in his image, whether you want to admit it or not. Gilded cage. Perfect manners. Wrapped in beauty like it's armor. But I see the way you bite your tongue until it bleeds. I see the storm you bury just beneath your skin."
He steps closer, and I should step back, but my body forgets how to move.
"You're what," he murmurs, "twenty-two?"
"Twenty-one," I correct, my voice catching in my throat.
He nods once, his mouth curving just slightly, but it isn't soft.
"I could be your father," he says, and the way he says it—quiet, factual, not self-deprecating but daring —makes heat crawl up my neck and down between my thighs.
"You're not," I manage.
"No," he agrees, his voice a notch lower, rougher now. "I'm not."
His fingers brush my jaw, barely a touch, just enough to feel like a question.
I should slap him and walk away, given who I am and who he is and everything that separates us.
But then his hand curls around the side of my neck and pulls me in.
The kiss is everything I have never been allowed to want pressed into the shape of a man I was never meant to touch.
His mouth slants over mine with the ache of someone who has waited too long to taste, and now that he has, will not stop until he's ruined the memory of every kiss before his.
One hand braces at the small of my back, the other still cradling my neck, and my fingers find his lapel before curling tightly in the fabric.
I kiss him back like I'm trying to reclaim something he never stole.
His breath grows heavier, lips parting only slightly as he drinks me in between kisses that are deeper now, darker, slick with heat and hunger.
His hand slides lower, fingers splayed possessively against the curve of my hip, while the other keeps me anchored by the neck, firm and steady, like he's holding me in place to keep the world from shifting beneath our feet.
My lips are bruised, my body boneless, but I want more.
I tilt my head to taste him again, and he meets me there, slower this time, mouths gliding, tongues tangling, like we are learning each other by touch alone.
When he finally draws back, it is not to break the moment but to drag it out, his lips barely brushing mine, our breaths tangled between us.
His gaze holds me captive, and I feel it everywhere.
My pulse is no longer my own.
My body is no longer mine.
I can still taste him, still feel the weight of him pressed against me, and I know with terrifying clarity that I will let him do this again.
I will let him ruin me, piece by piece, until I forget who I was before his mouth found mine.
His eyes burn into mine as I stand there, breathless and trembling, every nerve strung so tight I feel like I might shatter with the next touch.
He leans in again, slower this time, dragging his mouth over mine in a kiss that sears rather than soothes.
I gasp, and he uses the sound to deepen it, tongue claiming mine, mouth moving like he wants to own every last breath I have.
My moan swallows the growl that escapes him as he pulls back, just enough to speak, his voice dragging rough and low across my lips. "Come with me."
We move through the gardens without a word, the scent of roses thick in the night air, the marble path cool beneath my heels.
My pulse is in my throat, in my wrists, in the heat between my thighs.
The vines twist up the wrought iron columns of the gazebo ahead, half-shrouded in moonlight, the same one where I've watched Papa seal alliances with men who smile like knives.
He pushes the gate open and draws me inside, closing it behind us with a quiet click.
The garden wraps us in shadows and perfume, the air thick with the scent of roses just beginning to bloom, their fragrance sweet and aching.
The vines twist up around the iron ribs of the gazebo like they're holding their breath, waiting for what comes next.
I am, too.
His hands find my hips, his grip firm, almost rough, as he walks me backward until my back meets the cool column behind me.
I tremble; he's so close I can feel the heat of his body press through his clothes, through mine, and the way he looks at me makes me feel undone.
Not just undressed, but exposed, like he's stripping me down to the barest thread of want.
"You're shaking," he murmurs, his voice a low rumble that settles in my belly.
"I've never—" I stop, breath catching. "I mean, not like this."
His gaze stills, and a shadow falls over his eyes. "I know," he replies darkly, as if he's known it from the first look.
My breath catches again as he slips his hand beneath my skirt, fingers grazing the bare skin of my thigh, then higher, dragging the ruined lace aside.
His knuckles brush against my slick heat, and I hear the sound that escapes me before I even realize I've made it.
"You're already wet for me," he says, voice gone hoarse. "You've been wet since I looked at you."
His words make me clench around nothing, make my thighs tremble.
I want to move.
I want to run.
I want him to never stop touching me.
He shifts, one hand braced beside my head, the other curling beneath my thigh to lift it around his waist.
The pressure between us builds, his body pressing into mine, hard and solid, and when I feel him against me, thick, hot, and rigid.
I gasp.
"Enzo," I whisper, and I don't know if it's a warning or a prayer.
"Shh," he says, mouth brushing the edge of my jaw. "Let me."
He fumbles with his belt, unfastening it with one hand, then frees himself, the hard length of him brushing my thigh, sliding between my folds.
A ripping sound ensues, and he slips a condom on.
I gawk for a moment, shocked by the sheer thickness of his cock, let alone the size.