CHAPTER 4
ROXANNE
Fifteen minutes later, we reached a trattoria tucked into a quiet Milanese alley—no signage, no tourists.
Just the scent of garlic and fresh bread, slow jazz curling from the speakers, and bursts of laughter from the nonnas behind the counter.
The quiet felt like a secret, and for a moment, I wondered if nights like this were allowed for someone like me.
Marcello walked in like he owned the place—kisses on cheeks, murmurs in Italian, the kind of ease that made me feel like I was stepping into his world. And I wanted to be part of it. Even if just for a night. Even if I knew I shouldn’t.
I followed him in, my steps quiet. I didn’t wear heels anymore. My sneakers were clean, minimalist—white leather with soft gold trim. Practical enough to walk the fair all day, polished enough to hold my own in any room. I’d stopped dressing for approval; I dressed for me.
And I especially didn’t follow strangers. Not anymore. That was something my younger Roxanne might’ve done—reckless, impulsive, romantic. But something about him made me want to be reckless again.
Then the guilt slipped in sharp and quick.
You’re a mother. You know better.
And still, here I was, stepping into a shadowed alley with a man whose name I barely knew.
Bold? Foolish? Maybe even dangerous?
But the thrill beckoned. My pulse quickened despite my best efforts at composure.
We were seated in a corner booth, half-shadowed, half-lit. The table was worn wood—the kind that had soaked up decades of secrets and spilled wine. Marcello ordered without asking. Wine, antipasti, and handmade pasta. Everything arrived with quiet reverence.
His phone buzzed twice. He glanced, typed something quickly, then flipped it face down. He poured my wine, then leaned back, watching me with that unreadable gaze. I felt both seen and exposed, a curious mix that somehow unsettled yet thrilled me.
“So,” he said, “What brings you to Milan?”
I took a sip, letting the wine settle before answering, aware my hands trembled slightly.
“I’ve always wanted to come. But this time, it’s work. Helping my clients select furniture for a duplex project back in Mumbai.”
I told him about my firm, the long nights, the grit, the self-belief.
“I’m an interior designer. I started my firm alone. No investors. Just instinct and grit. Then Sahil came along. We designed spaces that felt like poetry—rooms that breathed.”
“Sahil?”
“My partner. He had reach and I had resonance. Together, we built something that could scale without losing its essence.”
He leaned back, more relaxed now. His sleeves were rolled and the tension in his shoulders had softened.
I took another sip of wine and tilted my head.
“So, what about you? What brings you to the fair?”
He swirled his wine. “I’m a patron. I collect pieces that speak to me. Milan is where the world comes to pretend it still cares about elegance.”
I raised an eyebrow. “And you don’t?”
“Art is just a more palatable form of control,” he said.
I scoffed, studying him.
“You speak like someone who decides how things move.”
He didn’t speak at first, just watched me, unreadable.
Damn, his eyes were dreamy.
“You should explore more of Italy. Milan is just the surface,” he said.
I reached into my handbag and pulled out a small folded paper—my itinerary. I laid it on the table, letting him glimpse it briefly.
“I intend to. I didn’t plan much for this trip,” I said finally. “Just my stay. The rest… I’ll take the days as they come.”
I didn’t say how foreign that felt. How unnatural. Like walking barefoot on unfamiliar ground. But I needed to feel something that wasn’t scheduled. I wanted to be surprised, even if it scared me.
I’d spent years planning everything—holidays, birthdays, even date nights my husband barely showed up for. He didn’t do grand gestures. No gestures at all. And most nights, I paid in silence.
“I wanted this trip to be different. I needed it to be.”
Marcello didn’t interrupt. Just watched me.
“I like control too,” I admitted. “I like knowing what’s next.”
Then I added under my breath,
“But I also like losing it when I choose to.”
The words tasted dangerous as I said them aloud. The wine softened something in me—made me bolder than I usually am.
“Surrender,” I said lightly. “Take strangers to dinner. Let the night choose.”
I gestured to him, smiling. The corners of his lips twitched and something in his eyes shifted. Like he wanted to know more about me. More of me. I could feel it—his curiosity curling around my skin like smoke.
“I like that you eat,” he said, breaking my thoughts.
I don’t think he intended it to slip out.
“Huh?” I paused with the bread halfway to my mouth.
Was he insulting me?
“Don’t get me wrong. Most women I know are terrified of carbs.”
I snorted. “How do people live without bread?”
I waved the piece in the air.
“Well then,” I said lightly, “you probably think I eat like a hog.”
“No,” he said. “I think you eat like someone who enjoys life.”
Then, quieter: “That’s rare.”
Heat flushed the back of my neck. Maybe from the wine. Maybe from the way he said rare. I leaned in—just slightly—my blouse shifting.
“If only I had a local tour guide,” I teased. “Someone who knows the real Italy.”
My pulse quickened. I wanted to see how far I could push him, what he’d do with the invitation. And part of me worried I was crossing a line I couldn’t retreat from.
His eyes darkened just a shade, like I had provoked something in him.
His gaze dropped to my lips then my parted blouse, then back to my eyes, slowly.
As though he was undressing me with his eyes alone.
My nipples tightened painfully. The air between us changed.
It wasn’t flirtation anymore. It was heavier, hungrier.
I felt my pulse in places I hadn’t in years. My thighs pressed together under the table. He didn’t look away. Not even for a second. The silence between us felt loud. Then he spoke.
“Be careful what you ask for,” he said, with that same husky tone.
His voice entered me like a touch—deep, resonant, settling between my legs and the hollow under my ribs.
It sounded like a challenge, a door I hadn’t realised I was standing in front of. His words were a blend of a warning and an invitation. My pulse spiked, betraying my careful reasoning.
I swallowed hard, suddenly aware of the wetness between my legs and how much I wanted him to know.
Then he scanned my itinerary, impressed. But I didn’t explain the handwritten notes in the margins. Or the circled dates. Or the one city I hadn’t told anyone I was visiting.
“Sicily?” he asked, eyebrow raised.
“You might laugh,” I said.
“Try me.”
“Well… I’ve been intrigued ever since I read The Godfather. You know, that kind of thing. The legacy. The silence. The danger beneath the charm.”
I swirled my wine, watching the way the candlelight caught the gold in his eyes.
“And the landscapes, of course. Breathtaking.”
I paused, took another sip, then added, “I’m just… curious. Plus, I have a thing for bad boys.”
I said it lightly, looking at the tattoos on his arm, but my heartbeat betrayed the truth behind my words.
I imagined his hands gripping my hips, those inked forearms braced against my skin.
He looked like a man who carried danger like perfume.
Who didn’t flinch when the world burnt and he relished in its aftermath.
“I’m from Sicily.”
He said as a matter of fact, like a warning. And suddenly, all my fantasies felt na?ve. Sicily wasn’t just charm and legacy. It was him.
I blinked, surprised. “Oh. I thought you were from around here.”
He didn’t correct me. Just watched me again with that infuriatingly unreadable gaze. I felt the heat rise in my cheeks, but I didn’t look away.
After dinner, we stepped out into the cool Milan night. The city had quieted and the fair was asleep. The streets were slick with recent rain, reflecting amber light.
We walked in silence. Occasionally, our hands brushed, but neither of us pulled away. Each brush of his hand sent a shiver through me. I wondered how long I could pretend composure.
A drunk man, clad entirely in black, approached a little too close. Marcello reacted instinctively, pulling me closer by my waist protectively.
I felt soft against the hardness of his body. I sank into him, letting his warm embrace last longer than necessary. I clutched his shirt, breathing him in. He smelled like something I wanted to taste.
I hadn’t been held like that in years. Not protectively. Not instinctively. Not like I mattered. It made something ache inside me—something I’d buried under routines and resilience.
For a moment, everything else disappeared. I lifted my head to look at him with a quiet sense of belonging. He looked at me gently, then brushed a stray strand of hair from my face, tucking it behind my ear. We stood in silence, searching for something in each other’s eyes that neither to say.
Then he offered to drive me to the hotel. For once, I didn’t question where this was going. I simply allowed myself to be carried along. The thirty-minute car ride passed mostly in silence.
At my hotel, he opened the car door for me. We stepped up to the entrance of my hotel, the night still damp and humming. My heartbeat felt louder than the street.
The night was quiet, but my body wasn’t. I paused, then leaned in and kissed his cheek softly, letting my lips linger longer than they should have, toying with the line between caution and desire. I wanted to see if he’d turn his head. I knew it was stupid. I also didn’t care.
“Thank you for dinner,” I said, letting a small smirk lift one corner of my lips.
“Even if you paid—though I doubt you needed the reminder.”
He didn’t react. Just watched me with that calm, unreadable gaze that unnerved me more than any words ever could.
Why does his silence feel louder than most men’s confessions?
“Be ready,” he said. “Bags packed. We leave for Florence the day after the fair.”
The words landed like an instruction. My mind whispered caution—Roxanne, this is reckless. But my body ignored it. Something uncontainable awakened in me. I didn’t ask why, didn’t ask how. I just nodded.
I didn’t need to know where this was going. Not tonight. The thrill wasn’t in the destination—it was in the surrender. To this beautiful stranger.
To him.
To Marcello Vitale.
He stepped back, eyes lingering for a beat too long, then turned and slid into his car. I watched the taillights vanish into the Milan night. And for the first time in weeks, I felt awake. Lit from the inside, like something had been switched on that I hadn’t even realised was dark.