“It’s just wine,” he says quietly. “I’m not angry.”
The words don’t make sense. Dad would be angry. Anyone would be angry. I ruined his shirt, made a scene, and embarrassed him in front of everyone. I glance around wildly. Through the screen, I see that a few people have glanced our way, but most are already returning to their meals. The whole restaurant hasn’t frozen. The world hasn’t ended.
“Did you think I was going to shout at you?” Vincenzo asks, and there’s something strange in his voice.
I don’t answer. But yes, that’s exactly what I thought. At the very least.
His hand is still wrapped around my wrist, but it’s not restraining me. It’s anchoring me and keeping me from flying apart. The gentleness of his grip makes warmth spread up my arm and through my chest, melting the panic into liquid desire. My stomach flips and my thighs press together. He’s looking at me with concern, and it’s so foreign and unexpected that I feel myself softening toward him. My body wants to lean into him.The panic is still there, but underneath it is a pull so strong it makes me dizzy.
“Breathe, doe.” His thumb strokes the inside of my wrist, over my racing pulse. “It’s okay.”
I try. One shaky breath. Then another.
The dark patch on his shirt is just wine. Not blood. Not death. Just wine.
“I’m sorry,” I whisper again, but this time it sounds different. Less frantic. More genuine.
“Don’t be.” He releases my wrist slowly. “Accidents happen.”
Such simple words. But in my house, accidents mean consequences and punishment.
I sink back onto the seat, but my hands are still trembling.
Vincenzo is watching me with that same intense focus, but it’s different now. Like he’s seeing something he didn’t see before. Is he happy that the Montoni princess has shown yet another weakness? I feel sick to my stomach. So much for being the femme fatale in the edgy black dress.
“About the photograph,” he says suddenly, and my eyes snap to his.
His jaw works like the words are difficult to get out. “Last night.” He stops. Starts again. “I shouldn’t have done that.”
It’s barely an apology. More like an admission of error. But his eyes are sincere, and I can see it’s hard for him to apologize to a Montoni.
“It was a lovely picture of you and your family,” he continues, voice rough. “I destroyed it because… Fuck, I don’t know why. I don’t know what came over me.”
The tears that have been threatening to fall finally spill over. “It was our last Christmas,” I hear myself say. “Before Nonna died. Before everything fell apart. Mom was so happy that day.”
I swipe my cheeks, angry at the tears but unable to stop them.
“Dad destroyed most of Mom’s things after she died. Threw them away or burned them before I could stop him. That photograph was one of the few things I had left. You took that from me.” The accusation hangs between us.
“I’m sorry. I can’t give it back,” he says, and there’s genuine anguish in his eyes. “I can’t undo what I did.” He reaches for my wrist again and his grip tightens, almost painful. “I took something precious from you, and I thought that would make me feel better.”
My breath catches. This is the truth, raw and ugly.
“But it turns out, I don’t want that.” The words are fierce, almost angry. “I don’t want you to hurt the way I’m hurting, Adora. And that’s the problem.”
His eyes meet mine, and what I see there makes my pulse spike.
Hunger.
“You’re supposed to be my enemy. I’m supposed to destroy you.” His hand slides up my arm, proprietary, possessive. “But every time I try, I just want you.”
His hand grips my jaw, tilting my face up to his. His eyes are dark and dangerous. “Tell me to stop.”
It’s not a request. It’s a warning.
There’s poison in my purse. I have my father’s orders. This is my only chance to be free.
But all I can think about is the way he’s looking at me. Like I’m something he wants to devour, and restraint is costing him everything.
