CHAPTER 44
ROXANNE
After the ceremony, Sahil and Priya posed for photos. Marcello and I were heading back when I saw someone waiting in the garden. I squealed in surprise.
“Santino?”
Dropping Marcello’s hand, I rushed over to Santino, who opened his arms to pull me into a playful, laughing twirl.
I looped my arm through his, casually. Marcello stood dumbstruck, jaw clenched as a dark shadow flickered in his eyes.
Vihaan raised a brow, confused. And I looked like I was chaos in a saree.
Marcello and Vihaan exchanged confused looks. I couldn’t blame them. One moment, I was wrapped in Marcello’s arms. The next, I was hugging another man like he’d been here all along, and I was just waiting for him.
But Santino was family. Just not the kind Marcello expected. Not the kind that came with blood. But with secrets and history.
“Vihaan, this is Santino—Marcello’s right-hand man.”
“And cousin,” Santino added, offering a handshake.
His tone was light. His eyes weren’t.
“I didn’t know that,” I said, surprised.
“Distant,” Marcello muttered, frowning.
“Care to explain?” Marcello asked, looking sternly at Santino.
His voice was calm, which meant he was anything but. The kind of calm that comes before a storm.
“Santino and I have been in touch since after China,” I explained.
“I wanted to know if it was really you. I needed answers.
Found his secret biker boy page on social media, hounded him until he gave me what I needed.”
“How else do you think I kept tabs on her?” Santino said, grinning.
But his eyes flicked to Marcello like he’d crossed a line and knew it.
“You were spying on me? For him?” I pinched his arm.
“And here I thought you were my friend.”
I rolled my eyes and laughed it off. But the thought lingered—quiet, unresolved—because loyalty, once claimed, doesn’t vanish. It just finds new places to rest.
“Ahh… I am.” Santino said easily. “But you’re his girl. That takes precedent.”
I nudged his shoulder playfully.
Marcello’s arm slid around my waist, pulling me towards him.
Vihaan laughed. “You’ve got the Italians wrapped around your finger.”
“Not all,” I said lightly. “Just these two. For now.”
Marcello angled me closer, his hand firm at my hip.
“Amore, you didn’t tell me,” he whispered.
“Well, we reconciled just yesterday,” I said. “I would’ve told you. Eventually.”
His expression didn’t harden, but something in it paused, like a thought he didn’t finish. I stepped on my toes and kissed him. Slow. Intentional. In full view of them all.
His grip tightened just slightly. Message received.
That evening, we dressed for the reception. I wore a burgundy gown that hugged me in all the right places. Marcello and Santino were in tuxes, and I adjusted both their bow ties before we headed out.
Later in the evening, the air seemed different. The music faded. The laughter dulled. Marcello and Santino were deep in a conversation.
Santino’s arrival wasn’t just a surprise. It was a signal. A warning. Like danger was breathing down our necks. Why else would Marcello call him over?
I was grateful to have two strong, capable men protecting my family.
But I was scared too. Because Santino’s presence meant Lorenzo was close.
And that made my skin crawl. Made the hair on the back of my neck stand.
Made me want to hold Kyra tighter. And Marcello closer.
I didn’t want to lose what I’d just found.
After dinner, Kyra fell asleep on Marcello’s shoulder.
“I’ll put her to bed,” he said softly.
Later, when I went to check on them, I found him asleep too, curled around Kyra, protective and peaceful.
My heart swelled. I took a picture for keepsake. For proof that softness still existed. My mother opted out of the afterparty, claiming it was for the younger crowd.
She winked at me. “Go be young.”
I changed into a silver sequin dress—fitted, full-sleeved, flared at the ends.
The deep cowl neckline left my breasts barely contained—a glittering invitation.
The pleats dipped low, just enough to hide my pooch.
The back a deep keyhole style—scandalous.
I didn’t care. I felt powerful. Still claimed. Still aching. Still his—Marcello’s.
I knocked on Santino’s door. He opened it, shirt half-buttoned, tattoos peeking through. His hair was ruffled. Jaw sharp. His eyes darkened when he saw me. Then he exhaled, slow. Like he was reminding himself who I belonged to.
He was hot. Undeniably. The kind of hot that made your skin buzz and your thoughts misbehave. He stared at me for a beat too long and forgot to breathe. I brushed past him and entered the room.
“You look…”
“Hot? Stunning? Sexy?” I asked, not turning.
“Yeah. All of it. Does Marcello know you’re wearing that?” he asked.
“He’s asleep. Plus, I think he’ll like it.”
And if he didn’t, he’d learn to.
“Come on. Take a picture. I want to send it to Marcello. So he can see what he missed when he wakes up.”
I posed. He took a dozen flattering shots. I reviewed them and gave him a nod of approval.
“I can hire you as my personal photographer.” I winked.
“Now for your page. Let’s make the ladies go wild.”
He grinned. “You’re the bait. I’m the trap.”
He stepped behind me, hand sliding low to my waist. A little too low for sanity.
“You smell like heaven,” he murmured, voice grazing my neck. “Like sin dressed in silver.”
I froze, heart thudding. His fingers pressed just enough to make me forget. Just enough to make me remember. Marcello flickered through my mind—sharp, grounding—and I stilled.
We clicked pictures, making sure not to reveal any of our faces. Mystery was part of the thrill.
A few poses flirted with the edge—provocative and suggestive. Perfect for the algorithm. Dangerous for me. One had his hand on my lower back—a bit too low. His fingers flirted with the edge of scandal.
Another: his shirt undone, tattoos bared, my hands sprawled across his chest. My nails grazed ink and muscle. The camera caught the tension. I felt his chest tighten under my touch.
Then came the one. I stood facing him. Just glimpses of our faces. Too close. It looked like a kiss. But wasn’t. That was the tease.
His eyes dropped to my lips. He didn’t blink. Didn’t smile. Just stared—slowly licking his own lips. Like he was measuring how close was too close.
Heat crawled up my spine, and settled between my thighs. I snapped out of it, stepping back like I’d been burned. I didn’t owe anyone an explanation, but I owed myself clarity.
“Wow. These pictures are hot,” I said, too fast. Voice a pitch higher.
Like I needed to say something—anything—to break the spell.
“I should get Marcello to pose with me.”
“You won’t get the same effect,” Santino said, in a confident low voice.
Then he smirked slowly.
“I shoot tension. Not comfort.”
It wasn’t a boast. It was an admission. I rolled my eyes. But my skin still buzzed. And he just gave me his bad boy grin. But I know it meant something more, and I wasn’t ready for the chaos.
That grin had ruined women before. I wasn’t going to be one of them. He looked at me again, longer this time. Then stepped back. His jaw clenched. His eyes flicked to the phone. He took one last photo. Then typed something.
I saw the message flash before he hit send.
And for the first time tonight, it wasn’t a flirt. It was a warning. Not to stake a claim. To protect one.