CHAPTER 14
ROXANNE
The jet touched down at Catania–Fontanarossa Airport mid-morning.
Martin didn’t say much—just handed me a printed itinerary and offered a quiet nod. I thanked him, barely meeting his eyes. My cab was already waiting. It felt like Marcello had arranged an escort out of Rome just for the flight.
Maybe he needed space. Maybe he thought I did too. He hadn’t asked Martin to accompany me to the resort or to have anyone tail me. It felt like a goodbye disguised as logistics. Like he’d packed me off with a bow and called it care.
The drive south to Syracuse was quiet. Sicily in May was golden and warm; the kind of weather that made you believe in second chances. The sea shimmered in the distance, framed by cliffs and olive groves.
The resort was tucked into the edge of Ortigia, the historic heart of Syracuse—an island suspended between centuries.
It looked like something out of a dream: stoned structure with arched balconies, terracotta roof tiles, and bougainvillea spilling over wrought iron railings.
The entrance was lined with lemon trees.
The scent of salt and citrus hung in the air.
Inside, the lobby was cool and elegant—textured limestone walls, linen drapes, and ceramic vases in muted blues.
It was the kind of place people came to fall in love.
Or forget.
I checked in. The staff was warm, smiling. I smiled back, but it didn’t reach my eyes.
In my room, I opened the itinerary Marcello had prepared.
Taormina. Ortigia. The Valley of the Temples. Each place marked with a note, a suggestion, a quiet intention.
I crushed it and threw it in the trash can. I would explore alone.
That afternoon, I wandered through Ortigia’s cobbled streets. I visited the Temple of Apollo, lingered at the Fontana di Diana, and stepped into the hushed beauty of Chiesa di Santa Lucia. I passed couples holding hands, kissing in alleyways, laughing over shared gelato.
I stopped at Piazza Duomo to admire the symmetry of the buildings, the way the light hit the stone.
I lingered at a bookstore tucked into a courtyard; ran my fingers over spines I couldn’t read.
I bought lemon sorbet from a street vendor and sat by the Arethusa Spring, watching the papyrus sway in the breeze.
Locals smiled at me. Men didn’t leer. I felt safe, but not whole. I felt like a woman who’d been worshipped in private and erased in public. Like my body had been remembered, but my soul had been forgotten.
By the time I returned to the resort, my feet ached, and my heart felt heavier than it had in days. I didn’t eat. I showered, curled into the sheets, and let sleep take me like a wave.
The next morning, I woke to birds singing and the scent of espresso drifting from the courtyard.
The May air was warm. The sea whispered.
I dressed in a soft white cotton dress covered in sunflowers, its short sleeves and hemline falling just below my knees.
To finish the look, I threw on flats and sunglasses, then tied my hair into a half bun so the rest could fall in soft waves.
I wandered the resort, letting the sun kiss my shoulders. A relaxing day would be the best way to wash away the ache and the thought of Marcello.
I walked along stone paths that wound past fountains, olive trees, and a staircase curving upward towards the spa.
I was about to climb when a hand grabbed my wrist. Before I could react, I was pulled into a shadowed alcove beneath the stairs—arched stone walls, a narrow doorway that opened into what looked like a linen room. Dim at first, but sunlight filtered in through a small window.
My back hit the cool wall. A hand covered my mouth and nearly my nose. Another pinned both my wrists above my head. The grip wasn’t gentle. It was a warning—one my body answered before my mind could.
I struggled, breath shallow, heart racing. Then I smelled it.
Musk. Spice. Marcello.
Heat punched low in my belly, sharp and involuntary—like my body had recognised its owner before I had. My body stilled. He pressed into me, unyielding. I could feel his heat, the tension in his grip. My pulse throbbed in places.
“So, you had a good time, huh? Done with me?” he murmured, mocking. “A vacation fling you could walk away from?”
His breath grazed my ear and neck. I trembled as his hand slid down—tracing the curve of my breasts slowly, the slope of my waist, the edge of my thigh. His touch felt like a man checking what still belonged to him. Like he was relearning me and punishing me for leaving at the same time.
“You wanted our paths to cross,” he murmured. “You hoped.”
I could barely speak. Couldn’t think. His hand left my mouth for a second and his name spilled out of me like a gasp.
“Marcello.”
It sounded more like surrender. Something in him snapped at the sound like he’d been waiting days just to hear her say his name again. His forehead pressed to mine, breath hot, uneven.
“That note,” he said, voice tight, strangled. “It felt like a goodbye.”
I didn’t answer. I didn’t deny it; neither did I bother explaining. I just held his gaze and let the silence stretch between us. His grip tightened on my wrists, on my waist, on something deeper.
“You’re good at walking away, bella…”
His mouth hovered over mine, a threat and a promise.
“…but I’m not the kind of man who lets you.”
Then his mouth crashed onto mine—hungry, furious, starving. I kissed him back because my body remembered. Because my heart hadn’t forgotten. Because silence had never felt this loud.
The heat between my thighs tightened. His body pressed harder into mine—cock thick and unforgiving against my core, breath ragged.
“Say it,” he growled.
His thumb pressed under my jaw, tilting my face up, making refusal impossible.
I blinked. “Say what?”
“That you missed me.”
I didn’t answer. So, he slid his hand between my thighs, found me soaked, and smirked.
“Your body already did.”
Then he pushed aside the fabric of my panties and unzipped his jeans. Lifting a leg, he hovered at my entrance for a single, devastating heartbeat—letting me feel the threat of him—then drove into me like punishment.
My body opened for him, like it had been waiting. Like it had never stopped. I gasped, but he caught the sound with his mouth, swallowing it whole. He didn’t ease in; he claimed.
He caught my cry in his mouth as my back arched fucking me like he needed to feel every inch of me to believe I was real.
Each thrust was an accusation. Each snap of his hips a reminder that he hadn’t forgiven me for walking away. His hands bruised my hips. His teeth grazed my neck.
“Mine,” he growled—raw, fractured—like the word hurt him more than it hurt me.
He said it like it was the only truth he had left to hold onto. His mouth tasted like fury and longing. Like he hated that he missed me. As though he wanted to punish me for making him feel.
He grabbed the back of my neck just enough to remind me who had followed me across an island.
Every kiss was a confession he couldn’t say out loud. I laced my fingers with his, still pinned above my head, breathless. His grip tightened possessively, almost punishing—as if to say don’t ever pull away from me again.
“How did you find me?” I managed to say between kisses.
“You showed me your itinerary,” he said, voice rough. “Did you forget?”
He kissed my neck, my collarbone. “Plus… I own this place.”
He moved faster, deeper, reaching somewhere that made me feel I was floating on clouds and my body, the traitor it was, gave in to him.
I hated him for agreeing to let me leave. Hated myself for wanting this. But my body didn’t care. It opened for him as though it had been waiting.
I came too fast, hating how easy it was and how much I still ached for him as the release left me completely undone and shaking.
He followed—gripping me tighter, burying his face in my shoulder.
For a moment—one brief, unguarded breath—he held me like a man terrified of losing something he never meant to want.
After, he knelt and wiped the sweat and the remnants of our desire from my legs like I was something precious. Like he hadn’t just broken me open. His hands shook—barely, but enough for me to feel it. Like he was ashamed of how hard he’d needed me.
He kissed the inside of my thigh, then pressed his lips to the lace of my ruined panties.
“Mine,” he whispered again, with a haunted breath.
He’d said it once before—when he was inside mine, when the word felt like a claim carved into skin. Now it sounded different. Uncertain. Like he wasn’t sure what he owned or if he wanted to. I didn’t know what he meant. My body. My silence. Or my soul.
Two days ago, he hadn’t cared if I continued the trip alone. And now he was claiming me.
I stood there, breath uneven, my heart pulled in opposite directions. For the first time, I couldn’t tell what hurt more—his absence, or his return. I didn’t know if I wanted him to stay or disappear again.
I only knew one thing—
I couldn’t survive another half-love.
Not again. Not from him. Not when he touched me like I was sacred and left me like I was forgettable. Not when he broke me open just to walk away whole.