CHAPTER 6
MARCELLO
My phone buzzed.
I ignored the first vibration.
And the second. Only when the screen lit my hand did I look.
7:00 a.m.
7:42 a.m.
Punctual. Predictable. Except for the ways she wasn’t—and those were the ones pulling me apart.
I was already on the jet, whiskey in hand, eyes on the screen.
I hadn’t slept. Not because of Lorenzo—though he’d tried. His men raided one of my warehouses outside Palermo. Arms shipment. Santino stopped it before it got messy. I spent the night making calls, pulling strings, ensuring every one of Lorenzo’s rats fled Sicily. At least for now.
But it wasn’t Lorenzo who kept me awake. It was her. Her scent clung tighter than fear. Her laugh lingered longer than gunpowder. I’d survived enemies. I wasn’t sure I’d survive her. And yet I was stupid enough to invite her.
I heard her before I saw her. Her presence—warm, heady, familiar. And when she stepped in, the air in the cabin shifted. As if it belonged to her.
She wore beige high-waisted flared trousers, paired with a dark navy blouse, sheer at the sleeves, deeper at the neckline than it should’ve been.
Two perfectly round curves peeked out, and my fingers twitched to feel them against the roughness of my palm.
They were soft, full, unapologetic, like her.
My jaw tensed. I looked away before I dragged my eyes lower. I wasn’t a boy, but she made restraint feel like punishment.
She wore minimal jewellery, just enough to enhance her beauty. She had a subtle charm bracelet on her wrist. Most women wore their wealth like armour. She wore hers like an afterthought.
I shifted in my seat. My grip on my phone tightened.
She was chaos. And I was losing order. She sat down across from me, eyes scanning the cabin.
“You didn’t have to get a jet to impress me,” she said. “We could’ve travelled by train.”
She said it like this was a performance. Like I’d staged the jet instead of simply owning it. The corner of my mouth twitched. I let her believe it.
“Too many people,” I replied. “This way, we’ll touch down in no time. You’ll have more time to explore the city.”
“You?” She asked. “I thought you were touring me around.”
She pouted innocently with a mischievous glint in her eyes.
“I have some business to finish,” I said. “Then I’ll join you.”
The stewardess approached.
“Hazelnut cappuccino,” she said, without hesitation.
I raised an eyebrow. She glanced at my whiskey glass and scoffed.
“Long night,” I said, voice low.
A small curve tugged at my lips. Almost imperceptible.
I noticed her stare at my lips and then bite her own bottom lip.
Her eyes flicked away, but I saw it—how her body responded.
The way her chest rose. The way her nipples hardened against her blouse.
She leaned back, taking in a breath that made me shift again.
“I’m impressed you didn’t ask,” I said, setting my phone aside. “Just followed instructions.”
“I’m done leading,” she said. “This trip is all about losing control. If someone’s bold enough to lead, I’ll follow.” She added with a glint in her eye.
The words hit harder than they should have. A challenge.
Did the stewardess slip her an Irish?
I gulped the whiskey. My body reacted before my mind could catch up. She wasn’t like the curated women I’m usually with. She was soft, curvy. Loud in silence. Mischief wrapped in restraint. Something told me she wanted to let loose. But she was holding it in.
Then the phone rang. I answered, voice low, eyes furrowed. I spoke in Sicilian, not wanting her to overhear. I couldn’t lash out. Not in front of her. I didn’t want to scare her.
I never softened my voice for anyone. Not clients. Not enemies. Yet here I was, tempering my tone because there was something about her I didn’t want to stain.
She opened her phone, scrolling through.
I couldn’t see what she was looking at, but she was smiling.
A genuine heartfelt smile. Then she looked out the window, blinking fast—like she’d caught a tear before it fell.
It struck deeper than any bullet ever had.
And I hated that it did. I wanted to ask.
To reach out. But I didn’t know how to hold softness without breaking it.
I’d mastered the art of detachment. But she made me want to ask questions I’d buried. Not just what she wanted. But what she feared. What she missed. What she’d never said aloud.
I hung up, about to speak—
“Please fasten your seatbelt,” the stewardess interrupted.
“We’ll be landing shortly.”
The moment slipped through my fingers like everything I didn’t know how to hold on to. She tucked her phone into her purse. I watched her. Still trying to read her. Still failing.
Soon enough, we reached the villa on a hill just outside Florence—a historic, vintage structure defined by old stone walls, iron gates, and a classic terracotta roof.
She stepped out, eyes absorbing everything.
“I need to cancel my hotel reservation,” she said.
“It’s done,” I replied.
She looked at me, surprised, and that did something to me—tugged at the part of me that wanted to provide, protect and possess her.
I hadn’t asked. I didn’t know what I wanted from her, just that I wanted her near for as many days as I could steal before she left. And that was dangerous.
I wrapped my hand around her waist, guiding her in. She straightened. But didn’t pull away.
“This place has so much history,” she said, looking around.
“Magnificent.”
“It was my late wife’s,” I said.
The word tasted foreign, as though it belonged to another lifetime, to another man. I hadn’t meant to say it. But the walls were hers. And the silence between us demanded truth.
She froze and stepped away from me. Stunned. She didn’t speak, but I saw it—the way her shoulders stiffened, the way her gaze dropped. For a second, I wanted to reach for her, pull her back, feel her warmth by my side again, feel her curves, her softness. But I stayed still.
I didn’t know anything about her, neither did she about me. We were strangers, tugging at each other’s strings. Maybe just scratching an itch. Maybe something more.
She didn’t ask questions. And I didn’t offer answers. And this silence between us—it was starting to feel like a language.
We were both holding things back. Both pretending not to ache. And yet, here we were. In my wife’s villa. Joined at the hip. Two people who didn’t belong. Not here. Not together. And maybe that’s why it felt like we did.
I showed her to her room—adjacent to mine, separated only by a door. I’d told myself she was a diversion. A detour. But as she walked through these halls, built on memories I’d buried—I felt something shift. Something dangerous. Something I wasn’t ready to name.
I let her settle in and told her Martin would be at her disposal, to drive her around and show her the tourist spots, and would join her later.