CHAPTER 11
ROXANNE
Ten minutes later, we were on the road in a sleek Maserati Levante, its deep navy paint glinting under the Tuscan sun.
The drive from Florence to Rome was quiet. The kind of silence that built walls between us mile by mile. I hadn’t spoken since we left the gallery.
My arms were folded across my chest and my gaze fixed on the hills.
But my mind was still in that gallery. Still hearing Lorenzo’s voice, still feeling his mouth on my skin.
Marcello glanced at me more than once, with his jaw tight.
His knuckles had turned white on the wheel, leather groaning under his hands.
There was something dangerous stirring in him—I could feel it—even if I didn’t yet understand why. Whatever it was, it had been enough to make him cut our trip short and insist on driving us straight to Rome himself.
We arrived at a historic Roman palazzo tucked into a quiet street near Trastevere. The building was centuries old—ochre stone, wrought iron balconies, ivy curling up the walls. Inside, the apartment was modern but reverent—two stories of polished travertine, arched windows and curated art.
Marcello led me upstairs. The bedroom was spacious, with high ceilings and a view of the city’s terracotta rooftops. A velvet couch sat in the hallway just beyond.
I crossed my arms, partly to shield myself, partly to hide the heat still simmering under my skin.
“One room?”
He nodded. “It’s safer this way. I’ll sleep on the couch, if you prefer.”
The image flashed—him on that velvet couch, shirtless. My body tingled with the thought. I hated that I still wanted him.
I didn’t answer, just stared at him, still agitated, still burning. Still feeling Lorenzo’s breath on my hand. I rubbed my wrist without thinking.
“Who is Lorenzo? And what does he want?”
His jaw ticked. “He’s dangerous. That’s all you need to know.”
“No,” I snapped. “He looked at me like I was something he could buy for entertainment.”
Marcello’s voice was tight.
“You’re not. Just steer clear of him.”
“Why?”
“He’s poison,” he said, running a hand through his hair. “The kind that kills you slowly, while smiling. He wears his rot in tailored suits and silk.”
“He grabbed me.” I showed him the faint bruise on my arm.
Marcello muttered, “Strunzu malidittu,” his voice low, fists clenched. The vein in his neck ticked—rage and something darker, flickering through his eyes.
“What does he want?”
“Doesn’t concern you.” His voice dropped to a growl. “Enjoy your little vacation and go back like you plan to. I don’t want him to hurt you to get to me.”
He said it like I wasn’t worth the trouble of staying. It wasn’t what he said, but how easily he placed me outside his world, like I was already gone. I stepped back, stunned.
“I can take care of myself. I’ve been handling things on my own for a very long time. I don’t need a shadow.”
I paused and took a sharp, deep breath.
“If I’m such a burden to you, just let me be.”
I grabbed my sling bag and walked out before the hurt in my chest turned into something louder than my footsteps. I left the palazzo without looking back.
The Roman heat clung to my skin, but it was nothing compared to the burn in my chest. My legs moved fast, but my chest felt hollow—like I was running away from something I still wanted to run towards. I needed a distraction.
Marcello’s words had stung more than I wanted to admit. It was clear he didn’t want me here. That our night together was nothing more than a good fuck—a release.
I was an inconvenience. A guest with an expiration date. And he reminded me I was temporary, that I’d return to Mumbai. Back to my life, my problems. Alone.
But I was a fighter. I didn’t need a babysitter. I didn’t need a man who’d go all guns blazing to protect me. That only happened in movies and romance books. And my life was far from fiction.
I wandered through the streets of Trastevere, the cobblestones warm beneath my sandals, the air thick with the scent of espresso and basil. I didn’t know where I was going. I just needed to move, to breathe, to not feel like I was someone’s liability.
Eventually, I found myself at the Basilica of Santa Maria. One of Rome’s oldest churches, glowing with golden mosaics and candlelight. The sacred hush inside wrapped around me like a balm.
I sat in the back pew, letting the silence settle into my bones. I studied the architectural details—the gilded coffered ceiling, the marble columns, the frescoes that told stories in pigment and shadow.
As a designer, I admired the balance of grandeur and intimacy.
As a woman, I envied it. I wanted a spine like marble.
Not one that bent every time a man’s hands remembered me.
I wanted to be built like this place—anchored, luminous, impossible to ignore.
Unbreakable in all the places where I still cracked.
Everything here had purpose. Every curve, every line, every beam of light. Unlike me. I didn’t know what I was doing anymore.
Later, I wandered through Piazza Trilussa, settling on the steps and watching the river breathe. A few people gathered nearby, playing music. A violin. A guitar. A voice that cracked on the high notes. I just sat there, absorbing, breathing, trying not to feel like I was coming undone.
It was almost nine when the fatigue finally caught up with me. I stood, stretched, and made my way back to the palazzo.
The streets were quieter now. Shadows stretched longer as the city had softened. When I reached the door, I hesitated. I didn’t know what version of Marcello I’d find inside. The man who made me come undone with a single look—or the one who pushed me away with a single sentence.
I stepped inside anyway. A part of me hoped he wasn’t there. A darker part prayed he was. Because I wasn’t afraid of him. I was afraid of what I felt when he looked at me, like I was some damsel in distress.
The air felt thick and electric, charged with the heavy tension that comes right before lightning splits the sky open. I heard muffled voices, grumbling. I avoided them and slipped quietly into the room.
A few seconds later, Marcello barged in, pacing with clenched fists, eyes burning with fury. He hissed under his breath, unable to speak. I could feel the heat of his anger from across the room—like a storm waiting to break. His silence scraped against the walls, before he spoke.
“Where were you?”
His voice didn’t rise; instead, it dropped low enough that the floor seemed to vibrate beneath it. He wasn’t just angry; he looked afraid. And that scared me more than his words ever could.
I blinked, stunned. “Out. I needed—”
“You needed what?” he snapped, mocking.
“You needed to walk into a city full of men who’d swallow you whole? Alone?”
I hated how he made me feel small. Like I’d done something reckless. But wasn’t that the point of being here? To feel something again? To be reckless for once, and not apologise for it?
I stepped back, heart racing. His rage was sharp, but beneath it, I felt something else.
“Why do you care?” I shot back. “I’m just a guest, Marcello. A temporary inconvenience you can fuck and forget. I won’t be your burden anymore.”
There, I said it. I wanted him to flinch. To feel the sting of being pushed away. Tears of fury streamed down my face. He let out a deep grunt, muttering under his breath:
“Comu ti spiecu…”
(How do I explain…)
His voice cracked on the words, like they scraped his throat on the way out.
He crossed the room in two strides and grabbed the side of my neck.
His thumb pressed just under my jaw, forcing my eyes to meet his.
His fingers were warm, trembling with the effort of holding something back.
Heat shot straight between my legs, humiliating in its honesty.
“You’re not a burden,” he said in his deep, low voice.
His fingers on my cheek felt like a confession. I wanted to believe him. But I’d been lied to before—by men who said I mattered, then disappeared when it got hard.
“You’re…”
“I’m no one.”
I pulled away.
“No one to you. Just a moment. A blur you’ll forget,” I said, voice breaking.
He looked into my eyes, searching. I saw it then. The need. The ache. Emotion and desire coursed through him and I felt every crack in his restraint.
“You’re not just a moment,” he said, voice rough. “I don’t know what you are… but it’s more than that.”
Then he grabbed me and kissed me desperately, full of everything he couldn’t say.
I didn’t resist. I couldn’t. I didn’t know what I was to him, but in that moment, I didn’t care. I wanted to be wanted. And I wanted to be ruined by him.
My hands flew to his shirt, tearing it open. The sound of fabric ripping and buttons ricocheting, scattering like fallen coins. It was anger and desire together that made me bold—rage blooming into hunger, defiance melting into need. This was its own kind of foreplay.
Marcello froze for a moment, stunned. His chest rose sharply, and then he lifted me effortlessly, his fingers digging into the back of my thighs.
He carried me to the edge of the bed like I weighed nothing.
His grip bruised. And God, something in me wanted the shape of his fingers on my skin come morning.
I let out a surprised squeal—breathless, laced with laughter and heat. I lay back instantly, breath shallow, eyes locked on his.
But instead of kissing me on the lips, he knelt. He slowly pulled my panties down, peppering kisses along the way. His eyes locked on mine, like he needed to taste what he’d already claimed.
The warmth of his breath hitting my skin made me roll my hips towards him without meaning to.
He trailed soft kisses along my leg on his way back up—inch by inch, until he reached the tender heat between my thighs.
I gasped, trying to push him away, suddenly feeling shy, exposed. But he held me there firm.
I wasn’t used to being worshipped. Not like this. Not by someone who looked at me like I was the answer to a question he’d been asking for years.