CHAPTER 10
ROXANNE
I stirred slowly, stretching across the bed, only to feel the coolness of the sheets beside me. My hand reached out instinctively, finding only a folded note on the pillow.
I smiled faintly, brushing my fingers over the ink. My body still ached from the night before—thighs, lips, the places he’d claimed, but my mind was tangled.
I reached for my phone. No missed calls, just a photo from my mother, sent late last night—Kyra asleep, clutching her stuffed rabbit. I smiled, but it was sad. The guilt pressed against my ribs like a bruise. I missed her.
I showered slowly, letting the hot water rinse away the ache, the questions, the scent of him still clinging to my skin.
I chose a soft, fitted dress in a shade that made my skin glow.
The neckline dipped just enough to accentuate my breasts, and the delicate gold chain around my neck held a single charm: the letter K—for my daughter, Kyra.
I rubbed the finger where my wedding ring used to be. I hadn’t worn it in months—my quiet rebellion against a marriage that had stopped feeling like home long before I admitted it.
At breakfast, we sat across from each other in the sunlit courtyard. The air was fragrant with rosemary and citrus. We ate mostly in silence, stealing glances at each other.
At some point, Marcello’s eyes lingered on my necklace, then drifted lower. I caught him staring twice. He didn’t hide it and I didn’t call him out. Truth be told, I enjoyed the attention—the slow, consuming awareness in his gaze.
When the plates were cleared, he leaned back and said simply,
“I’ll be your guide today.”
My heart lifted. “Where to?”
The day unfolded like a dream. He drove with one hand on the wheel, the other gesturing as he spoke about art, architecture, and the stories behind the ruins.
I listened, asked questions, laughed softly. I liked the sound of my own laughter around him. It felt like mine again.
At one point, we held hands—like lovers as we walked through a narrow alley towards a hidden courtyard. I didn’t even realise I was holding his hand until he squeezed gently. When I looked up, he was smiling. My heart stuttered and my grip tightened instinctively.
“You lost Martin,” I teased.
“He’s never far behind,” Marcello replied. “He’s here for our safety.”
I didn’t ask what kind of danger required that kind of safety. And honestly, I didn’t want to know.
He led me to a quiet gallery tucked behind a vine-covered archway.
It was a private space he helped fund. A few students and art scholars wandered, but the air was serene—light and shadow dancing across sculptures and old paintings that felt both abstract and deeply human, whispering of old money and older secrets.
“This was hers,” he said softly. “My wife’s.”
I turned to him, surprised.
“She sculpted some of these. Some are for sale. Others… I keep for memory.”
The pieces were unlike anything I’d seen—fluid, regal, haunting. One sculpture, of a child reaching upward, caught my attention. I stood before it, mesmerised, and without thinking, placed a hand on my belly.
Marcello came up behind me, standing too close. His breath brushed my ear.
“She was gone before I could have a family of my own,” he whispered.
I shivered. I wrapped my arms around myself, pressing my chest inward, trying to contain the ache.
“She died in a head-on collision,” he said quietly. “The same truck she used to transport her work. She was on her way here.”
I turned to him, eyes wide. He looked distant, but not cold. I didn’t understand why he was telling me this. Why me? Why now?
His phone buzzed and he stepped away to answer it. I wandered to the far end of the gallery, where the light was dimmer.
That’s when I heard it.
“Talè cu purtau u jattu… ‘na aciddùzza grassa.”
(Look who the cat dragged in… a little fat bird.)
I turned sharply. “Excuse me?”
The words were foreign, but the tone was unmistakable. A man stepped forward, coarse-voiced and smug.
“Lorenzo Marcellini,” he said, extending a hand.
I hesitated, then offered mine. “Roxanne.”
He kissed it—too slowly. His lips grazed my skin as he muttered something in Sicilian.
“Ti chinassi propriu ccà... e cazzo ddu culo.”
(I’d bend you over right here… and fuck that ass.)
I flinched, but his grip tightened.
“So, are you Marcello’s new muse?” He asked mockingly.
“Very unusual. Not like the women he usually dates.” He taunted. “You’re… round. Don’t get me wrong, my late wife was too. Loved grabbing her ass.”
I yanked my hand free, rubbing my wrist. My face burned with anger and my stomach turned. I felt small as though I’d been reduced to flesh and nothing more. Like all the strength I’d built was suddenly invisible.
Marcello returned, jaw clenched.
“Lorenzo,” he said through gritted teeth.
“Marcello, figghiu miu,” Lorenzo smirked, arms wide.
“You always had good taste. Shame you never knew how to keep it.”
Marcello didn’t respond.
I stepped forward, irritation in my voice.
“I’m not an artefact. Or something to be kept.”
Lorenzo raised an eyebrow. “Feisty. Even better.”
He walked away laughing, leaving behind a trail of tension and something darker. Marcello grabbed my hand and led me to the car. He dialled Martin and began shouting in Sicilian.
Back at the villa, I watched him from the window—pacing, yelling, running his hands through his hair. He looked like a man unravelling. Then he stormed inside.
“Pack your bags. We leave for Rome. Now.”
I opened my mouth to ask why, but he was already gone.