CHAPTER 15
ROXANNE
Marcello led me to the private wing of the resort.
I saw the staff carrying my bags, shifting them into the villa.
As my phone buzzed, I excused myself to a secluded spot where no one could hear. I answered.
“Mummy?” Kyra sobbed, her voice small and broken.
I could hear it in her voice—in every trembling breath.
“What’s wrong, love?”
“I miss you. When are you coming back?”
I looked towards the terrace, where Marcello was instructing the staff. He looked so composed, so in control—while I broke quietly from the inside. I swallowed the lump in my throat, holding back a fracture I couldn’t show.
“Soon,” I said softly. “I’ll be home soon.”
Then my husband took the phone from her hand.
“Come soon. We miss you. We have a lot to discuss and work through,” he said, smiling.
My stomach tightened. His voice used to be comfort, but now it felt like a net closing around me. The words caught me off guard.
Why now?
Why did he have to use our daughter to try and patch things up? To work things out?
My heart twisted—torn between the man who had once been my home and the one who now haunted my skin.
I wiped my tears and hung up. I stared at the screen, heart thudding. His voice had been calm as though he’d rehearsed it. Like he knew exactly which words would twist the knife. My chest caved. I’d never felt more split between two worlds—one that needed me, and one that made me feel alive.
When I stepped out, Marcello took my arm and led me to his favourite spot. His fingers grazed my waist, and he paused, just long enough to sense something amiss
The evening sun had started to set. The terrace stretched the length of the private wing.
The parapet was stone, overlooking the vast horizon.
To one side: a bamboo-covered seating area with linen cushions and low tables.
To the other: a pool that shimmered in the fading light.
It felt like his own villa inside the resort.
The waves lashed against the walls below. I breathed in the air, closing my eyes. I had to tell him the truth. Especially after today. After hearing him say that word—Mine.
I didn’t want to lie. I didn’t want to hide anymore. If this meant anything—if we meant anything—he had to know. The thought hollowed me out, thick and choking.
Part of me already knew it could end everything. Because I felt like a cheater. Cheating on Marcello. On my husband. On my child. I needed to tell him. About my life. About Kyra. About the marriage that had long since died but hadn’t been buried.
I didn’t want to be a beautiful lie in his life. If he was going to touch me again, he needed to know what he was touching. And I hated that part of me prayed he wouldn’t walk away.
I didn’t owe Marcello an explanation—but I felt I did. His kiss on my shoulder pulled me out of the spiral.
“Beautiful, isn’t it?”
“Yes,” I croaked, holding back tears.
“Are you alright?”
“Yes,” I replied with a half-smile.
A lie. But I needed it to be true.
I needed a distraction, something reckless enough to drown out the ache in my chest. The storm inside me was restless, raw, clawing at the edges of my heart. I leaned into his chest, seeking stillness.
Then tilted my head as a distant growl echoed through the valley—low, guttural, unmistakable.
I turned to Marcello, eyes glittering with sudden excitement. The anxiety retreated. Something wild surged inside me—hungry for anything that wasn’t guilt.
“Is that a Ducati Panigale?”
Marcello blinked, surprised. “Yes. Santino’s. One of my trusted men, my second in command.”
I smiled to myself. A joyride on a roaring machine? Exactly the kind of thrill that could burn away the guilt—if only for a moment.
“Didn’t peg you for a biker girl,” he said, amused.
I brushed past him, grabbing my jacket from the chair. My shoulder grazed his chest, and I felt the steady, magnetic heat of him. I wanted to lean in, just for a second longer.
“You don’t know half of me, baby,” I said with a wink. “My first boyfriend in college was a sucker for beastly bikes.”
I tossed the jacket over my shoulders like armour. Marcello stood still, taking in that simple detail. And then he followed me outside.
Santino pulled in, the Ducati purring like a beast—sleek and dangerous. Something wild unfurled inside me—reckless, hungry, begging to breathe. I walked straight up to him, fearless.
“Hi. I’m Roxanne.”
He swung off the bike like sin on wheels with practised ease. Leather and smoke clung to him, a heat that felt almost sentient.
Santino was lean, rugged, bad-boy beautiful. Different from Marcello, but the kind of man who could make a woman clench their thighs just by looking.
A fitted black tee clung to his torso, dark jeans hugging his hips, boots scuffed from roads he’d explored. His jaw was sharp, dusted with a stubble, lips full and curled in a smirk that promised trouble.
Tattoos inked down his neck and arms—one mirrored Marcello’s, the other a twisted Trinacria, its Medusa face haunting, feminine, almost real. Something fluttered sharply inside me—wrong, electric—as if the ink itself was watching me.
“That’s my ex-wife,” he said casually, nodding to the Trinacria.
Her face stared from the ink, haunting, almost alive. Then he took my hand and kissed it, eyes flicking up with practised charm. His lips lingered a second longer than necessary. And my skin betrayed me, tingling where his mouth had been.
He was charming, dangerous in a different way than Marcello. The kind of man who didn’t need to speak to be heard. Who knew exactly how much to give and when to hold back.
“Oh, so you’re the Roxanne,” he said, smirking, eyes glinting with mischief—like I was supposed to know what that meant.
“How can I help you?”
There was something in the way he said it, like he already knew too much. Like my name had passed through his mouth before. I didn’t know if that thrilled me or made me want to run.
“A ride,” I purred, tilting my head, lips curved in playful challenge.
He looked me over with a kind of amused reverence. Like he’d already decided I was trouble—and liked it.
Santino grinned, sitting back on his bike. “Hop on.”
“You can’t ride that in a dress like that,” Marcello growled, stepping forward, eyes locked on Santino.
Santino didn’t flinch. He could’ve defied Marcello. I saw it in the way his jaw tightened, the way his fingers flexed near the ignition. But he didn’t. Out of respect. Or maybe curiosity. Maybe he wanted to see how this played out.
I turned, met his gaze—unflinching. “Watch me.”
In one fluid motion, I swung my leg over the bike. The leather seat was warm beneath me. My dress rode up—half my thigh exposed to the evening light, and I didn’t care. I wanted to be seen like this—wild, reckless, exposed, a woman who didn’t just survive desire but commanded it.
I gripped Santino’s shoulders, ready, wide-eyed, as he reached for the ignition. His shoulders were solid under my hands—warm, steady.
“Stop,” Marcello barked, voice sharp as steel.
Santino froze. I looked at Marcello with disappointment and narrowed my eyes.
“That’s a death machine,” he said, striding towards us.
“I like danger,” I said, voice teasing, eyes daring.
He turned to Santino. “Off the bike. Helmet. Jacket. And get her one too.”
God, the authority in his voice. It shouldn’t have thrilled me—but it did. Santino obeyed. As he handed me the helmet, his fingers brushed mine. For a heartbeat, something primal flickered between them—territorial, male. He leaned in slightly, voice low enough for only me to hear.
“If you ever want a ride without rules… I’m around.” He winked, then stepped back.
My pulse throbbed deep and dangerous, betraying me.
Marcello slipped into the leather jacket over his linen shirt—the weight familiar, grounding.
He strapped on his helmet, then turned to me, adjusting mine with deliberate care.
I watched him—lips parted, eyes wide, breath caught somewhere between thrill and surrender.
He looked like sin wrapped in leather. And I was ready to be ruined again. His fingers brushed my jaw, slow and deliberate.
And just like that, the storm inside me settled—only momentarily, yet enough to cling to. He didn’t ask for permission. He never did. And maybe that’s why I kept giving it.
I wanted him to kiss me right there—on the mouth, on the neck, anywhere. I wanted him to take me apart again, piece by piece.
“Ride the danger with me, bella.”
My heart fluttered, and he saw it in the way my lashes dipped, the way my lip curled under my teeth. I smiled, climbed on behind him, and wrapped my arms around his waist.
I glanced over my shoulder. Santino was still watching me—arms crossed, mouth curved in that lazy, knowing smirk.
I blew him a slow, teasing kiss and gave a little wave. His grin widened, but he didn’t say a word—like he was ready to play the game.
“Hold tight,” Marcello said.
I did—arms around him, body flush against his back. My chest pressed to his back, arms wrapped tight, feeling every shift of muscle beneath his shirt.
He roared the beast to life, and we vanished into the dusk. Every bump in the road sent a jolt through me, reminding me of how close we were, how far we’d gone, and how easy it would be to fall again.
The engine roared beneath us, every vibration sparking something I wasn’t ready to name.