Page 11 of The Ruin I Chose

“And the landscapes, of course. Breathtaking.”

I paused, took another sip, then added, “I’m just… curious. Plus, I have a thing for bad boys.”

I said it lightly, looking at the tattoos on his arm, but my heartbeat betrayed the truth behind my words. I imagined his hands gripping my hips, those inked forearms braced against my skin. He looked like a man who carried danger like perfume. Who didn’t flinch when the world burnt and he relished in its aftermath.

“I’m from Sicily.”

He said as a matter of fact, like a warning. And suddenly, all my fantasies felt naïve. Sicily wasn’t just charm and legacy. It was him.

I blinked, surprised. “Oh. I thought you were from around here.”

He didn’t correct me. Just watched me again with that infuriatingly unreadable gaze. I felt the heat rise in my cheeks, but I didn’t look away.

After dinner, we stepped out into the cool Milan night. The city had quieted and the fair was asleep. The streets were slick with recent rain, reflecting amber light.

We walked in silence. Occasionally, our hands brushed, but neither of us pulled away. Each brush of his hand sent a shiver through me. I wondered how long I could pretend composure.

A drunk man, clad entirely in black, approached a little too close. Marcello reacted instinctively, pulling me closer by my waist protectively.

I felt soft against the hardness of his body. I sank into him, letting his warm embrace last longer than necessary. I clutched his shirt, breathing him in. He smelled like something I wanted to taste.

I hadn’t been held like that in years. Not protectively. Not instinctively. Not like I mattered. It made something ache inside me—something I’d buried under routines and resilience.

For a moment, everything else disappeared. I lifted my head to look at him with a quiet sense of belonging. He looked at me gently, then brushed a stray strand of hair from my face, tucking it behind my ear. We stood in silence, searching for something in each other’s eyes that neither to say.

Then he offered to drive me to the hotel. For once, I didn’t question where this was going. I simply allowed myself to be carried along. The thirty-minute car ride passed mostly in silence.

At my hotel, he opened the car door for me. We stepped up to the entrance of my hotel, the night still damp and humming. My heartbeat felt louder than the street.

The night was quiet, but my body wasn’t. I paused, then leaned in and kissed his cheek softly, letting my lips linger longer than they should have, toying with the line between caution and desire. I wanted to see if he’d turn his head. I knew it was stupid. I also didn’t care.

“Thank you for dinner,” I said, letting a small smirk lift one corner of my lips.

“Even if you paid—though I doubt you needed the reminder.”

He didn’t react. Just watched me with that calm, unreadable gaze that unnerved me more than any words ever could.

Why does his silence feel louder than most men’s confessions?

“Be ready,” he said. “Bags packed. We leave for Florence the day after the fair.”

The words landed like an instruction. My mind whispered caution—Roxanne, this is reckless. But my body ignored it. Something uncontainable awakened in me. I didn’t ask why, didn’t ask how. I just nodded.

I didn’t need to know where this was going. Not tonight. The thrill wasn’t in the destination—it was in the surrender. To this beautiful stranger.

To him.

To Marcello Vitale.

He stepped back, eyes lingering for a beat too long, then turned and slid into his car. I watched the taillights vanish into the Milan night. And for the first time in weeks, I felt awake. Lit from the inside, like something had been switched on that I hadn’t even realised was dark.

CHAPTER 5

ROXANNE

My heart was beating like a drum.

Not the kind that marched. The kind that trembled.