Cece
The elevator climbed toward Rafe's penthouse, and I couldn't wipe the smile off my face. His grandparents had been nothing like I'd expected—warm, boisterous, and genuinely loving in a way that made my chest ache. The wine-induced warmth still buzzed through my veins, making the world seem softer around the edges. I glanced at Rafe, surprised to find him watching me with a warm expression.
"What?" I asked, nervously smoothing my hands over my dress.
"You surprised me tonight." His voice was lower than usual. It had a rough edge to it that sent an unwelcome shiver down my spine. "I didn't know you spoke Italian."
Shrugging, I feigned nonchalance. "Like I said, you never asked."
"What else don't I know about you, Cecelia?" The way he said my name made my skin prickle with awareness.
"Probably a lot." I leaned against the elevator wall, needing the cool metal to ground me. "I make a mean risotto, I can nameall fifty states in alphabetical order, and I once had a pet turtle named Vladimir."
His lips twitched, a ghost of a smile threatening to break through. "Vladimir the turtle?"
"He had a very serious personality," I explained solemnly. "It seemed fitting."
The laugh that escaped him was genuine—rich and deep and startling in its rarity. It transformed his face completely, softening the hard edges and making him look younger, almost boyish with those dimples cutting deep into his cheeks. Something warm unfurled in my chest at the sound, a dangerous feeling I seriously couldn't afford.
"Your grandparents are incredible," I said, eager to change the subject before I did something stupid like step closer to him. "Enzo reminds me of my dad, before he got sick. That same... I don't know, zest for everything."
Rafe's expression softened further. "He's always been like that. Even when they had nothing, he found reasons to celebrate."
"And your grandmother's carbonara?" I closed my eyes briefly. "Pretty sure I had a religious experience with that pasta."
"Wait until you try her lasagna." His voice dropped even lower, taking on a teasing quality that felt new between us. "Orgasmic."
Heat rushed to my face at the word, at the way his eyes darkened when he said it. The air in the elevator suddenly felt too thick to breathe properly, charged with something I was too afraid to acknowledge.
"I'll, uh, look forward to that," I managed, my voice embarrassingly breathless.
His gaze dropped to my lips for a fraction of a second, then back to my eyes, the moment stretching between us like taffy about to snap.
"You should," he murmured. "She makes it with four cheeses and—"
The elevator doors slid open, cutting him off mid-sentence, and the tension between us shattered as we both turned toward the opening.
Two people stood in the hallway outside the penthouse door, their rigid postures a stark contrast to the warm, chaotic energy of the trattoria we'd just left. The woman wore a tailored cream suit that probably cost more than my entire wardrobe, her silver-streaked dark hair pulled into a sleek chignon that emphasized the sharp angles of her face. The man beside her was tall with broad shoulders and a commanding presence.
Rafe's entire body transformed in an instant. His shoulders stiffened, his jaw clenched tight enough that I could see a muscle jump beneath his skin, and his eyes—those eyes that had been warm with laughter seconds ago—went flat and cold.
"Mother, Father," he said, his voice clipped as we approached the penthouse. "What brings you here?"
The woman—his mother—ran her gaze over me with clinical detachment, taking in every detail from my hair to my shoes in a single sweep that somehow managed to make me feel completely inadequate. "Your new... wife, I presume."
The pause before wife spoke volumes.
"Cecelia," Rafe said, not moving to unlock the door. "My parents, Vittorio and Sophia de Luca."
I extended my hand on autopilot. "It's nice to meet you."
Sophia's hand was cold and her grip deliberately limp, as if touching me were distasteful. Vittorio didn't bother to shake my hand at all, turning his attention to his son instead.
"Are you going to invite us in?" he said, ignoring me completely as if I were a piece of furniture rather than his son's wife.
"No," Rafe said flatly. "Whatever you came to say, you can say it here."
Sophia's perfectly painted lips thinned into a disapproving line. "In the hallway? Really, Rafael. This childishness is precisely the problem."
