Without hesitation, he crossed the room in three easy strides and dropped onto the sofa beside Renzo—close enough that their thighs brushed.
Deliberate.
Renzo went still.
Tension snapping through him like a live wire.
“What the fuck are you doing?” Renzo demanded, voice low and dangerous.
Ciro leaned in.
Close enough that there was no room for doubt.
And then—he pressed a quick, mocking kiss to Renzo’s cheek.
Renzo froze for half a second.
Then exploded.
“What the actual fuck!”
He shot to his feet, fury igniting instantly.
In the same motion, he grabbed a bottle from the table—no hesitation—and hurled it across the room.
“Renzo—”
Too late.
The crystal bottle flew.
Sliced through the air.
Ciro barely moved—just enough to step aside.
It smashed against the far wall in a violent burst of glass and liquid.
Amber shards scattered.
Ciro exhaled a soft laugh.
Unbothered.
He retreated a few steps, positioning himself behind the opposite couch, his posture relaxed as if nothing had happened.
“Easy, Renzo,” he said lightly. “Temper.”
Renzo stood there for a moment, chest rising and falling rapidly, fists clenched so tightly his knuckles went pale.
Then, slowly—he sat back down.
“That’s not fucking funny.” Renzo’s voice was quieter now.
Ciro’s expression shifted.
The humor faded. In its place—something more authoritative.
“You’re right,” he said evenly. “It isn’t.”
