“We prefer our privacy,” he said smoothly, the corner of his mouth curving just enough to make it believable.
Everyone chuckled, my cousins exchanging knowing looks that made me bite my cheek. I’d caught themgossiping and giggling about me having sex with Matteo earlier. I just smiled faintly, pretending to be amused, and stabbed at a piece of grilled zucchini like it had personally wronged me.
The conversation flowed around us again – business, gossip, travel plans, politics. The sound of laughter and the occasional clink of silverware filled the air. Across the table, my parents sat close together, hands entwined on the tablecloth. My father leaned in to murmur something in my mother’s ear, and she laughed softly, the kind of laugh that sounded like home.
He was a dangerous man – cold, calculating, feared. But when it came to her, he was still the boy who’d fallen in love with the girl from Palermo. The only thing in his world that could soften him.
For a moment, I let myself imagine what Matteo would be like as a husband.
Would he hold someone’s hand like that? Look at her the way my father looked at my mother? Would he ever let himself love that freely – or was Matteo Di’Ablo the kind of man who could conquer empires and never surrender his heart?
I forced myself to look away, catching the faint curve of his smirk as he spoke to my cousin, Romeo, about something I wasn’t even pretending to listen to. His sleeves were rolled up, forearms dusted with sunlight, the watch on his wrist glinting as he gestured lazily.
Fake husband, I reminded myself.Fake.
And yet, when he glanced my way and our eyes met across the chaos of my family’s laughter and the drifting smell of rosemary and wine…
My eyes caught onto the red lace poking from his pocket.
My face fell with realization.
I straightened, my gaze snapping back up to his smoldering one.
“What do you think you’re doing?!” I whisper yelled only for him to hear, and shoved my hand in his pocket to push my underwear out of anybody else’s view – like my aunt, Lucilia, sitting on my other side.
Matteo only leaned back in his seat, utterly unbothered, his arm draping over the back of my chair as if we were the picture of calm domestic bliss. The lazy shift of his body was pure provocation – relaxed, controlled, and maddeningly smug.
“Just holding onto a souvenir,” he murmured low, the words curling in the space between us like smoke.
I froze, breath caught halfway in my chest. Our eyes locked, and suddenly the chatter around the table – my cousins laughing, the clinking of silverware, my aunt calling for more wine – blurred into nothing but the music playing from the vinyl. All I could see was him.
For a split second, my mind betrayed me.
The memory flashed bright and unbidden – his mouth on mine, the feel of his hands gripping my waist, the way he’d said my name like he never wanted to let me go.
Heat bloomed under my skin, low and sharp. My pulse thundered in my throat, slowly flowing down between my legs.
And then, under my fingers, still deep in his pocket, I felt it. The shift. The unmistakable, living tension beneath the expensive fabric.
His eyes darkened, lashes lowering just slightly as his nostrils flared, the muscle in his jaw tightening.
My face went hot. I jerked my hand out of his pocket, then, without thinking, I slammed my heel down hard on his foot beneath the table.
He winced – quietly, but it was there. His eyes snapped to mine, burning the skin off me.
I glared at him, cheeks still burning, while he shifted in his seat and pulled his arm back, pretending to focus on whatever story my grandpapa was telling.
The tension coiled between us like a live wire.
I forced my attention back to my plate, spearing a piece of roasted pepper that I couldn’t taste, willing my heartbeat to slow.
Neither of us spoke again.
But every time his sleeve brushed mine, I swore I could still feel the echo of that moment – his touch, his heat, his pulse…
And that damned red lace burning in his pocket.
The party had thinned out slowly – like smoke fading into the cold air – until laughter and conversation were just faint echoes in the great hall. Coats rustled, kisses were exchanged, engines started. By the time I slipped away, the house had quieted to that particular hush that came only after family gatherings – half warmth, half exhaustion.
