Page 36 of The Ruin I Chose

A lie. But I needed it to be true.

I needed a distraction, something reckless enough to drown out the ache in my chest. The storm inside me was restless, raw, clawing at the edges of my heart. I leaned into his chest, seeking stillness.

Then tilted my head as a distant growl echoed through the valley—low, guttural, unmistakable.

I turned to Marcello, eyes glittering with sudden excitement. The anxiety retreated. Something wild surged inside me—hungry for anything that wasn’t guilt.

“Is that a Ducati Panigale?”

Marcello blinked, surprised. “Yes. Santino’s. One of my trusted men, my second in command.”

I smiled to myself. A joyride on a roaring machine? Exactly the kind of thrill that could burn away the guilt—if only for a moment.

“Didn’t peg you for a biker girl,” he said, amused.

I brushed past him, grabbing my jacket from the chair. My shoulder grazed his chest, and I felt the steady, magnetic heat of him. I wanted to lean in, just for a second longer.

“You don’t know half of me, baby,” I said with a wink. “My first boyfriend in college was a sucker for beastly bikes.”

I tossed the jacket over my shoulders like armour. Marcello stood still, taking in that simple detail. And then he followed me outside.

Santino pulled in, the Ducati purring like a beast—sleek and dangerous. Something wild unfurled inside me—reckless, hungry, begging to breathe. I walked straight up to him, fearless.

“Hi. I’m Roxanne.”

He swung off the bike like sin on wheels with practised ease. Leather and smoke clung to him, a heat that felt almost sentient.

Santino was lean, rugged, bad-boy beautiful. Different from Marcello, but the kind of man who could make a woman clench their thighs just by looking.

A fitted black tee clung to his torso, dark jeans hugging his hips, boots scuffed from roads he’d explored. His jaw was sharp, dusted with a stubble, lips full and curled in a smirk that promised trouble.

Tattoos inked down his neck and arms—one mirrored Marcello’s, the other a twisted Trinacria, its Medusa face haunting, feminine, almost real. Something fluttered sharply inside me—wrong, electric—as if the ink itself was watching me.

“That’s my ex-wife,” he said casually, nodding to the Trinacria.

Her face stared from the ink, haunting, almost alive. Then he took my hand and kissed it, eyes flicking up with practised charm. His lips lingered a second longer than necessary. And my skin betrayed me, tingling where his mouth had been.

He was charming, dangerous in a different way than Marcello. The kind of man who didn’t need to speak to be heard. Who knew exactly how much to give and when to hold back.

“Oh, so you’re the Roxanne,” he said, smirking, eyes glinting with mischief—like I was supposed to know what that meant.

“How can I help you?”

There was something in the way he said it, like he already knew too much. Like my name had passed through his mouth before. I didn’t know if that thrilled me or made me want to run.

“A ride,” I purred, tilting my head, lips curved in playful challenge.

He looked me over with a kind of amused reverence. Like he’d already decided I was trouble—and liked it.

Santino grinned, sitting back on his bike. “Hop on.”

“You can’t ride that in a dress like that,” Marcello growled, stepping forward, eyes locked on Santino.

Santino didn’t flinch. He could’ve defied Marcello. I saw it in the way his jaw tightened, the way his fingers flexed near the ignition. But he didn’t. Out of respect. Or maybe curiosity. Maybe he wanted to see how this played out.

I turned, met his gaze—unflinching. “Watch me.”

In one fluid motion, I swung my leg over the bike. The leather seat was warm beneath me. My dress rode up—half my thigh exposed to the evening light, and I didn’t care. I wanted to be seen like this—wild, reckless, exposed, a woman who didn’t just survive desire but commanded it.