Her fingers claw into my hair, my back, my arms trying to hold on and push me away at the same time.
The sounds we make echo off the marble and glass like a confession neither of us can keep silent.
She sobs my name, and the world around us fractures, splintering into pieces that don’t matter. But I can’t stop. I won’t stop.
I can’t stop loving her, even if it burns us both to ashes.
And that—God, that’s the problem.
Chapter 13
“Sir, you need to put your seatbelt on. We’ll be starting our descent shortly.”
The flight attendant’s voice cuts through the low vibration of the engines, pulling me back from the memories I shouldn’t be entertaining.
I scrub a hand over my jaw and sit up straighter, tightening the seatbelt across my hips. Raising the visor, I squint against the harsh light spilling through the oval window. Below, the Italian countryside stretches out in a sun-drenched tapestry—olive groves and vineyards quilted into rolling hills, pale roads cutting like scars through the landscape, golden haze softening the edges.
Minutes. That’s all I have left before we land on the Cosa Nostra’s private airstrip. Minutes until I’m face-to-face with the man who engineered this whole nightmare of a marriage contract, and, far too soon for my liking, meeting the girl I’m supposed to marry.
Perfect. Just fucking perfect.
The jet banks left, beginning its descent, and Turin slowly unfolds beneath us—a labyrinth of narrow streets, terracotta rooftops glowing red-orange in the heat, the distant Alps like ghostly sentinels blurred on the horizon. It’s a city carved in stone and history, ancient and unyielding, like the fate I’m chained to.
The plane bumps against the tarmac, jolting me back to reality. A little over two hours in the air and every muscle aches like I’ve gone five rounds with my Da in the Pit. I stretch my legs and roll my shoulders, trying to shake off the stiffness before making my way to the front.
The flight attendant greets me with a bright smile as she opens the cabin door. “Welcome to Italy, sir.”
Yeah. Fanfuckingtastic.
I slip on my sunglasses before stepping into the furnace outside. The air hits instantly—dry, heavy, tainted with jet fuel and the sickly sweetness of overblown gardenias.
At the foot of the stairs, they’re waiting. Antonio, flanked by his son, Nico, and half a dozen soldiers in tailored black suits. But it’s not the guards that make my blood run cold.
It’s the girl standing at her father’s side. Halfway between eighteen and nineteen, she still carries the soft roundness of youth, despite the thick mask of makeup plastered across her face. She looks like the perfect answer to someone else’s prayers.The good girl. The well-bred Salvatore daughter. Every inch of her screams obedience, duty, sweetness.
Andfuck you, Matt—this is your future.
But then I see it, the flicker beneath the surface. The way her fingers twitch at her sides, like she’d rather be clenching them into fists. The way her dark, glossy eyes dodge mine, the twitch of her lip as she reluctantly looks at me.
And maybe the cruellest part? None of this is her fault. She’s just another pawn in the game. A sacrifice disguised as a bride. She didn’t ask for this anymore than I did, and yet I can’t bring myself to pause as she tries to introduce herself. Instead, I focus my attention on Salvatore, ignoring the staccato click of camera shutters.
Fucking hell.
Did they really have to bring the paparazzi with them? I can already see how they’ll spin this and know that by nightfall, every news feed from Rome to New York will be flooded with images of me landing in Turin, meeting my soon-to-be bride.
And Lily will see it.
That thought lands hard and sudden, sinking like a stone in my gut. Lily, alone in her flat in Lyon. Watching. Judging. Hating me a little more than she already does. I should relish that, let her have a taste of her own medicine and see how she likes it, but my conflicted feelings for her make that anything but straightforward.
Part of me wants to push her away with this, make her feel the sting of helplessness, the same way she’s made me ache for months. And yet… there’s a knot in my chest at the thought of her watching, imagining her soft gasp, the tilt of her head, the way her dark eyes always pierce me.
I hate that I think of her like that. Hate that a part of me craves her judgment, her attention, even in moments I should use to punish myself for letting her get under my skin. And yet I can’t. I can’t pretend I don’t care. Can’t pretend that a single glance from her doesn’t set my pulse racing, makes me grit my teeth, makes my body remember exactly how she feels in my arms.
The anger at Salvatore, at the entire staged spectacle, battles with the ache for Lily, twisting me from the inside out. I should be focused, calculating, ready to strike, and yet all I feel is this pull, this damn pull, that has nothing to do with revenge, and everything to do with her.
Salvatore steps forward—short and thick-set, silver hair slicked back, every expensive detail of his suit screaming control. His sunglasses hide nothing of the sharp calculation in his eyes, and I can feel the weight of it all before he even speaks.
“Matthew O’Malley,” he calls out, spreading his arms like a doting father greeting a long-lost son. “My future grandson-in-law.”
