Page 22 of The Ruin I Chose

The drive from Florence to Rome was quiet. The kind of silence that built walls between us mile by mile. I hadn’t spoken since we left the gallery.

My arms were folded across my chest and my gaze fixed on the hills. But my mind was still in that gallery. Still hearing Lorenzo’s voice, still feeling his mouth on my skin. Marcello glanced at me more than once, with his jaw tight. His knuckles had turned white on the wheel, leather groaning under his hands.

There was something dangerous stirring in him—I could feel it—even if I didn’t yet understand why. Whatever it was, it had been enough to make him cut our trip short and insist on driving us straight to Rome himself.

We arrived at a historic Roman palazzo tucked into a quiet street near Trastevere. The building was centuries old—ochre stone, wrought iron balconies, ivy curling up the walls. Inside, the apartment was modern but reverent—two stories of polished travertine, arched windows and curated art.

Marcello led me upstairs. The bedroom was spacious, with high ceilings and a view of the city’s terracotta rooftops. A velvet couch sat in the hallway just beyond.

I crossed my arms, partly to shield myself, partly to hide the heat still simmering under my skin.

“One room?”

He nodded. “It’s safer this way. I’ll sleep on the couch, if you prefer.”

The image flashed—him on that velvet couch, shirtless. My body tingled with the thought. I hated that I still wanted him.

I didn’t answer, just stared at him, still agitated, still burning. Still feeling Lorenzo’s breath on my hand. I rubbed my wrist without thinking.

“Who is Lorenzo? And what does he want?”

His jaw ticked. “He’s dangerous. That’s all you need to know.”

“No,” I snapped. “He looked at me like I was something he could buy for entertainment.”

Marcello’s voice was tight.

“You’re not. Just steer clear of him.”

“Why?”

“He’s poison,” he said, running a hand through his hair. “The kind that kills you slowly, while smiling. He wears his rot in tailored suits and silk.”

“He grabbed me.” I showed him the faint bruise on my arm.

Marcello muttered, “Strunzu malidittu,” his voice low, fists clenched. The vein in his neck ticked—rage and something darker, flickering through his eyes.

“What does he want?”

“Doesn’t concern you.” His voice dropped to a growl. “Enjoy your little vacation and go back like you plan to. I don’t want him to hurt you to get to me.”

He said it like I wasn’t worth the trouble of staying. It wasn’t what he said, but how easily he placed me outside his world, like I was already gone. I stepped back, stunned.

“I can take care of myself. I’ve been handling things on my own for a very long time. I don’t need a shadow.”

I paused and took a sharp, deep breath.

“If I’m such a burden to you, just let me be.”

I grabbed my sling bag and walked out before the hurt in my chest turned into something louder than my footsteps. I left the palazzo without looking back.

The Roman heat clung to my skin, but it was nothing compared to the burn in my chest. My legs moved fast, but my chest felt hollow—like I was running away from something I still wanted to run towards. I needed a distraction.

Marcello’s words had stung more than I wanted to admit. It was clear he didn’t want me here. That our night together was nothing more than a good fuck—a release.

I was an inconvenience. A guest with an expiration date. And he reminded me I was temporary, that I’d return to Mumbai. Back to my life, my problems. Alone.

But I was a fighter. I didn’t need a babysitter. I didn’t need a man who’d go all guns blazing to protect me. That only happened in movies and romance books. And my life was far from fiction.