He looks like he wants to argue, but before he can, I hear footsteps behind us. I turn, and my breath catches in my throat.
Luca.
He's walking into the room, and the sight of him makes everything else fade into the background. He's wearing a charcoal suit that fits him perfectly, emphasizing his broad shoulders and muscular build. His short dark hair is styled back from his face, showing off his sharp jawline and those green eyes that have haunted my dreams for years. The gold chain around his neck catches the light, and I can see the edge of a tattoo peeking out from under his collar.
He's the most beautiful man I've ever seen, and looking at him hurts.
"The first car just pulled up," he says to Romeo, his voice low and professional. Then his eyes flick to me, just for a second. "Giulia."
"Luca." I keep my voice steady, neutral, giving nothing away. I swear I hear it tremble the slightest bit, but if anyone else does, no one gives it away.
There's a moment where we just look at each other, and I wonder if he can see it—the wanting, the longing, the desperate hope that maybe, somehow, things could be different. But then he looks away, his expression carefully blank, and I know the answer.
He doesn't see me. Not the way I want him to.
The distance between us feels like an ocean, and I'm drowning in it. This is how it's been since I came home—polite exchanges, nothing like the easy friendship we used to have. When I was younger, before boarding school, Luca would ruffle my hair and tease me. He'd answer my endless questions about his work with Romeo, would sometimes let me tag along when they weren't doing anything dangerous. He treated me like a little sister, and I was content with that because I was too young to want anything more.
But then I turned sixteen, and everything changed.
I remember the exact moment I realized I was in love with him. It was summer, and he and Romeo were in the gym, going through combat moves together. I was supposed to be studying, but I'd snuck out to watch them. Luca had his shirt off, his skin gleaming with sweat, and I’d felt something looking at him that I never had before. He was beautiful and dangerous and completely unaware that I was watching him with my heart in my throat.
I know now that first moment wasn’t love, of course—it was lust, pure and simple. But I spent the whole summer after that day memorizing every detail of his face, cataloging every smile, every laugh, every moment of kindness. And I fell so completely in love with him that I knew I'd never recover.
For the next three years, I tried to forget him and convince myself it was just a crush, just adolescent infatuation that would fade with time and distance. For the remaining two years of boarding school, I tried not to think about him at all when I wasn’t home.
But it didn't fade.
If anything, it got worse. I spent my last year at boarding school lying in my narrow bed at night, my hand between my legs, imagining it was Luca touching me. I would picture his hands on my skin, his mouth on mine, his body pressing me into the mattress. I imagined what his voice would sound like when he said my name in the dark, what his weight would feel like on top of me, what it would be like to finally, finally have him the way I wanted him.
I would come thinking about him, biting my pillow to muffle my moans, and then I would lie there in the dark feeling guilty and ashamed and desperately, achingly lonely. Because I knew it would never happen. I knew that Luca saw me as nothing more than Romeo's little sister, someone to be protected and kept at a distance. And even if he did want me—which he clearly didn’tand still doesn’t—it would never be allowed. Romeo would kill him. My father would kill him. The entire family would see it as a betrayal.
So I buried those feelings as deep as I could and told myself they would fade when I came home and saw him again. That reality would kill the fantasy.
But reality has only made it worse. Now I see him almost every day, and every interaction is a fresh wound. Every polite greeting, every moment he looks at me with those blank, professional eyes—it's killing me. And worse are the moments when I feel a sliver of connection with him, like when I helped protect Savannah from her insane ex-fiancé not all that long ago. Luca was there, bringing men to back us up, and I saw the appreciation in his eyes when he realized I’d stood my ground, that I was braver and stronger than he’d probably ever realized before.
Those moments don’t happen often. And I don’t think they’re what I wish they were.
"I should go greet our guests," I say quickly, and I don't wait for a response before I walk away.
The first to arrive is Marco Ferri. He looks to be in his mid-forties, average height, thinning hair, with a face that's more distinguished than handsome. But he's wealthy, well-connected, and his family controls significant territory in the northern part of the state. He greets my father with the easy familiarity of old business associates, shakes Romeo's hand, and then turns to me.
"Signorina Ciresa," he says, taking my hand and bringing it to his lips. "It's a pleasure to finally meet you. Your father has told me so much about you."
His hand is soft, and his lips are dry against my skin. I smile and say all the right things, playing the part of the gracious hostess, but inside I'm screaming. This man is old enough to be my father. The thought of him touching me, of sharing abed with him, makes my skin crawl. Just him holding my hand makes me want to flinch, but I force myself into complete stillness, and I keep smiling.
"The pleasure is mine, Signor Ferri. Welcome to our home."
"Please, call me Marco." His eyes sweep over me assessingly, and I feel like livestock being evaluated at market. "Your father didn't exaggerate. You're even more beautiful than he described."
"You're too kind."
"Not at all. Beauty like yours is rare, especially combined with such grace and breeding." He's still holding my hand, his thumb brushing against my knuckles in a way that makes my stomach turn. "I look forward to getting to know you better this evening."
I extract my hand as politely as I can and excuse myself to greet the next arrival. My skin feels contaminated where he touched me, and I have to resist the urge to wipe my hand on my dress.
The next few men are all much older than I am, just like Marco, until Enzo Gallari arrives. He's younger—maybe thirty—and handsome in a way that's almost too perfect. He has dark hair and eyes, and a smile that’s charming and only enhances his features, but has absolutely no actual warmth. He's wearing an expensive suit and even more expensive cologne, and when he takes my hand, he holds it just a little too long.
"Giulia.” I notice he doesn't call meSignorina; he doesn't show the proper respect. "I've been looking forward to this evening."
