Chapter 8
POV: Amanda
Breakfast at the De Lucca table felt less intimidating this morning.
Maybe it was the sunlight spilling through the tall windows, or maybe it was simply that I was still alive to see it.
Bella filled the silence with chatter, Riccardo actually smiled once or twice, and Adrian… Adrian mostly just watched me.
Watched me eat. Watched how I shifted in my seat. Watched like every breath I took mattered.
I tried not to think about how close his face had been to mine last night. Or how badly I’d wanted to close that gap.
After breakfast, Bella disappeared with her phone, Adrian got lost in calls and papers, and Riccardo invited me outside.
The garden was a little wild—like nature had been allowed to grow free but still obeyed invisible rules. Riccardo stood near an easel, paint staining his hands, his dark hair messier than usual.
“Sit,” he said, motioning to the bench. “I want to try something.”
I raised a brow. “Something?”
He tilted his head, squinting at me like I was already part of the painting.
“Let me capture you. You smile… differently than people think. It’s softer. Real.”
For a moment, I forgot to breathe. No one had ever described me like that.
I tried to give him what he wanted, a small smile, something natural. He sketched quickly, his strokes rough but full of life. After a few minutes, he leaned back, frustrated.
“This will take days,” he muttered. “But I’ll do my best.”
I laughed, shaking my head. “I’m not worth all that trouble.”
Before he could argue, a voice came from behind us.
“She is,” Adrian said, his tone a dangerous mix of teasing and… something heavier. He stood in the shadow of the archway, his arms crossed, gaze locked on me. Then he looked at Riccardo. “You picked yourself a very beautiful model, brother.”
Heat shot up my neck. I glanced at Riccardo, who rolled his eyes, muttering something under his breath in Italian, but Adrian’s words lingered inside me like fire.
Later that afternoon, the doctor came by to check my wound. I’d expected Adrian to stay in his office, to let the professional handle it, but of course he was there. Leaning against the dresser at first, then moving closer.
Every time the doctor touched me, Adrian’s jaw tightened. When the bandage was peeled away, he leaned in, eyes scanning for danger like the sight of healing skin wasn’t enough for him to believe it.
“The wound looks clean,” the doctor said. “You’ll be walking without a limp in a few days.”
Relief should have been the only thing I felt. But it wasn’t. Because Adrian didn’t just nod and step back. He hovered, his hand resting on the blanket near my thigh, his presence wrapping around me like a cage I didn’t want to escape.
When the doctor left, he stayed. Adjusting the fresh bandage himself, fingers brushing just a little too close to bare skin.
I swallowed hard, my voice low. “You don’t have to—”
“I do.” His reply cut through the air, sharp, final. But his touch wasn’t sharp. It was careful. Tender. Almost reverent.
The tension between us was unbearable—like the room had shrunk, the air too thick, his nearness pulling at me until my chest ached.
When he finally finished, he looked up, and for a heartbeat, our eyes locked.
If he leaned in just an inch—if I did—
But he straightened, snapping the space back into place. “Rest,” he said again, voice rougher than before. And then he left me with a heart that refused to slow down.
Sleep wouldn’t come.
I tossed, turned, tried to close my eyes, but my thoughts kept spiraling—about my mission, about the contact I still hadn’t made, about the danger circling this family like vultures. But mostly… about him.
Adrian.
I hated how much space he took in my head. Hated that I wasn’t just worried about myself anymore, but about him. About the attacks, about what they meant. About the way my pulse raced whenever he was too close. I wasn’t supposed to feel this. I wasn’t supposed to want him.
And yet, every time I shut my eyes, I remembered the heat of his hands adjusting my blanket, the way his eyes lingered on my lips before he walked away.
With a frustrated sigh, I swung my legs off the bed and reached for the crutch. Maybe tea would help. Maybe something warm would calm me down.
The house was quiet, shadows stretched long across the walls. When I padded into the kitchen, I froze.
He was there.
Adrian stood by the counter, sleeves rolled up, one hand braced on the marble, the other holding a glass of whiskey. The amber liquid caught the moonlight as he swirled it lazily, but when his eyes lifted and landed on me, the glass stilled.
“Amanda?” His brows drew together, his voice low but sharp with concern. He set the drink down immediately, stepping toward me. “What are you doing up? Is it your leg?”
I shook my head quickly. “No—it’s not that.”
He stopped just a breath away, close enough that I could smell the smoky burn of his drink mixed with his cologne. His gaze searched my face like he was ready to carry me back to bed if I so much as winced.
My throat tightened. I should’ve lied. Said I wanted water, or that the pain kept me awake. But the truth slipped out instead, soft and trembling.
“I’m worried.”
His jaw flexed. “About what? You know I wouldn’t let anything happen to you.”
I lifted my eyes to his. The words scorched my chest on their way out. “I’m not worried about me. It’s you.”
Silence fell—thick, electric, alive. His chest rose sharply, his gaze locked on mine.
And then something changed. Like I’d reached inside and pressed the switch he’d spent years trying to bury.
His eyes flicked between mine, down to my mouth, back again.
I couldn’t stop my own traitorous glance at his lips, the thought screaming through me—I want to kiss him.
Before I could breathe, he moved. The air cracked between us, and then his mouth crashed against mine.
Hot. Demanding. Devouring.
His hand gripped the back of my neck, holding me there as if he’d been starving for this moment and wouldn’t risk me slipping away.
The world spun and stilled all at once. I had never—never—been kissed like this.
His tongue slid against mine, bold and hungry, and I welcomed it, gasping into him, and he seized that sound, deepening the kiss until it swallowed me whole.
The hard line of his body pressed into me, his arousal pressing into my stomach, scorching me through my clothes.
My hands fisted in his shirt, desperate, terrified, unwilling to let go.
He tasted like whiskey and fire and every damn thing I shouldn’t want, and yet—I needed him.
Needed him like breath, like blood in my veins.
Every ounce of tension we’d been choking on for days, every glance, every almost-touch, detonated in that kiss.
When he finally tore his mouth from mine, we were both ragged, gasping. His forehead pressed to mine, his voice rough, shredded.
“This is—”
Reason slammed back into me. Duty. My badge. The mission. His family.
“A mistake,” I whispered, the word slicing through me even as my body screamed liar, liar, liar.
His grip tightened for half a second, like he was fighting himself, and then he released me. Stepped back. Cold air rushed in where his heat had been.
Without another word, he turned and left the kitchen, leaving me trembling, lips swollen, heart racing so hard I thought it might break free.
I stood there for what felt like forever, tasting him on my tongue, replaying the way his body had felt pressed to mine.
And all I could think, over and over, was how fucking good it had been to kiss Adrian De Lucca.