The shock strikes her face for a fraction of a second—eyes widening, lips parting, breath hitching—before she snaps her gaze back to the table, too fast, too obvious. Her friends follow her line of sight, find me, and immediately launch into teasing whispers. The blonde one grins like she’s in on some delicious secret.
Beatrice tries to shush them, but her fingers tremble around the stem of her wine glass.
She’s uneasy.Good.
Because I’ve been losing my mind over her for days. It’s only fair she feels even a fraction of it.
Her friends drift toward the restroom in a cloud of laughter and perfume, leaving her alone at the table with the dim amber light washing over her skin. The moment they disappear, I rise from my booth and cross the room, not rushed—not hesitant—just moving toward her with the certainty of a man walking toward something he has already decided he cannot turn away from.
She looks up as I reach her table. She doesn’t send me off. I don’t ask to sit.
“I thinkit’s time we talk, bella. No more ignoring. No more running.”
“Matteo…”
“No, Beatrice.” My voice sharpens. “I’ve given you space. Enough of it.”
I study her then—the faint tremor in her hand, the way her shoulders soften when she’s not pretending strength for anyone but herself. The piano slips into a slower melody, something aching and nostalgic, wrapping itself around us like a confession waiting to happen.
“I’ve been trying not to think about you,” I say.
Her eyes lift to mine. “You’re not doing a very good job.”
The corner of my mouth twitches, but the warmth doesn’t reach the hollow space in my chest. I inhale once, steadying myself.
“I started to have feelings for you.” The words fall quietly, without urgency, without theatrics—just truth, worn and tired and impossible to swallow any longer. “And I will risk everything to get you out of this.”
Her lashes flutter, the smallest betrayal of composure. She knew this moment would come; she just didn’t want to witness it.
“Matteo… if you take me from him, it’s war.”
“Then let it be war,” I answer, softer than a threat, heavier than a vow. “You deserve more than the life he’s forcing on you.”
She shakes her head, and pain flickers across her features like a shadow. “You’ll die. Or my family will. Or someone who never asked to bleed for our mistakes. This… whatever this is, Matteo—it has to end.”
Before she can say more, her attention flicks past me.
“Oh, Rachel, you’re back?”
Her friends arrive at my back, but I don’t turn. My eyes remain on her.
Rachel steps around the table, offering her hand. “Hi, I’m Rachel—Beatrice’s friend. And you are?”
I take her hand but never break eye contact with Beatrice. “Matteo Davacalli. Charmed.”
Emma appears on the other side, her gaze sweeping unapologetically down my body. “Emma. Pleased to meet you.”
I nod politely, but they don’t exist to me. Only Beatrice does.
“Matteo was just leaving,” she says firmly.
“No,” I answer before I can stop myself. “I wasn’t.”
Both women glance between us, identical knowing smiles stretching across their faces.
Rachel recovers first. “We were actually coming to say we can head out now if you want. Emma heard about this big Manhattan party and?—”
“She can’t make it.”
