I raised a brow. “Thought you didn’t want any part in this ten minutes ago.”
Matteo’s smile deepened, slow and deliberate. “Neither did you.”
For a second, I couldn’t look away from him. There was something in his expression – mischief, challenge, maybe even understanding – that made the whole situation feel less like a cage and more like an unexpected game I suddenly didn’t mind playing.
Maybe this arrangement wasn’t going to be entirely unbearable.
I finally picked up the card, sliding it between my fingers, feeling the weight of it – ofhim– settle in my palm.
“Alright then,” I said, standing from my chair. “We’ll see what happens.”
And for the first time since hearing the wordwedding,I caught myself smiling.
He stood too, though by the time he was done and towering over me, my neck was tilted up.
My love must be a kind of blind love…
His eyes held mine, steady and unreadable, but there was something there – something quiet and dangerous, like a tide you didn’t notice until it pulled you under.
I can’t see anyone but you…
For a few long seconds, we just… Stood there. Not quite close enough to touch, but close enough tofeel something.
Are the stars out tonight…
From somewhere down the hall, faint music drifted through the open door – the soft hum of an old record, the delicate crackle of vinyl. A song I hadn’t heard in years filled the silence between us.
I don’t know if it’s cloudy or bright…
I Only Have Eyes For You.
The melody curled through the air, slow and honey-smooth, wrapping itself around the two of us like a secret. Matteo’s gaze didn’t waver. For a heartbeat, it almost looked like he was going to take a step closer.
Instead, he tilted his head slightly with a faint smile. “Should we join the others for lunch?”
“Yeah,” I said softly.
He moved first, reaching for the door. I followed, the distance between us narrowing, though it felt charged in a way that made every breath feel sharper, more deliberate.
As we walked down the marble hall toward the foyer, the song followed us – its verse growing in the hum of conversation and the faint scent of rosemary and wine drifting from the kitchen.
Sunday lunch suddenly didn’t seem so dreadful after all.
The dining room glowed in soft golden light, the kind that made even the chaos of my family look idyllic. The long table stretched across the room beneath the chandelier. The air was thick with the scent of grilled sea bass, lemons, and the faint sweetness of my grandmother’s cannoli.
As Matteo and I stepped inside, dozens of heads turned. Laughter hushed, wine glasses paused midair, and for a moment, every eye was on us.
“Finally,” my aunt Carla said, her diamond bracelets catching the sun peaking through the windows. “Look who decided to grace us with their presence.”
Matteo’s hand brushed the small of my back as we made our way toward the table. It was casual, polite – something any fiancé might do. But it burned through me like static.
We took our seats beside each other, near the center of the table, just across from my parents. My father’s dark eyes studied Matteo for a second too long before turning his attention back to the conversation. My mother smiled warmly, clueless to the tension that never seemed to fully disappear when Matteo Di’Ablo was around.
Halfway through the first course, my uncle Vito leaned forward with a grin. “So,” He said, his voice loud enough for everyone to hear, “You two really thought you could keep this whole thing a secret? A year together, and not a word?”
My fork froze midair.
Matteo didn’t miss a beat.
