Page 6 of The Ruin I Chose

The name sparked like a match in a dark room, and suddenly, everything had edges. It sounded expensive and dangerous. Like something you whisper before you sin.

Marcello.

It suited him too. Sharp syllables, velvet vowels. A name that could ruin you if you let it. It didn’t just sound like a name; it was a warning. A promise. A door I wasn’t sure I should open.

I hadn’t known his name until now. And now I did. And now he felt real. Before I could respond, Ritu tugged my arm.

“Let’s go, Roxy,” she said, voice bright and mischievous.

I offered a dry smile, mouthing I’m sorry—barely audible, barely brave. My heart pounded against my ribs and my cheeks flushed, making me feel like I’d just run a marathon in heels.

Ritu giggled, pulling me into the crowd, disappearing before he could respond. But I felt his gaze linger—like a thread tugging at the hem of my resolve. And I wasn’t sure I wanted it to let go.

CHAPTER 3

MARCELLO

Twice.

She’d bumped into me twice. This bundle of chaos—once with coffee, once with her head, like a bull charging. Neither moment felt coincidental. My mind, annoyingly alert, started cataloguing her every motion.

Born in Palermo, raised in blood and silence, I learned early that even chaos follows a pattern. And she was starting to look like mine—something I neither expected nor wanted.

At the airport, she was chaos in motion—half-running through the terminal, bag swinging. Her voice was rushed, apologetic, almost mechanical. I didn’t flinch. I rarely do.

But I noticed her. Not because she spilled coffee. Because she didn’t look away. My chest clenched, breath catching for a moment—I wasn’t used to that. But today, she was different.

I was in Milan for business. Not distraction. Officially, I was a patron of the arts—a major investor in the brands showcasing their collections. Unofficially, Milan was my annual laundering ground. Art crates masked weapons. Limited-edition furniture carried coded transactions. Elegance layered over violence. Just the way I liked it

She passed me earlier, ducking behind a light sculpture when her friend shrieked. I pretended not to notice. But my chest tensed, pulse spiking. That was unlike me, and it annoyed me.

But I was drawn back to the airport when her scent hit me like a truck—a deep sensual blend of citrus with a touch of vanilla and spice. Like memory and a seductive temptation that felt entirely dangerous—and I knew I should look away.

I hadn’t smelled anything like it since Elaine. Not the same—but close enough to stir something I didn’t want to acknowledge.

I sat in the armchair, fingers grazing the fabric, pretending to test its comfort. The sales rep beside me kept talking, but her voice blurred. All I could hear was the echo of her scent.

I watched her from across the hall—her confident stride, the way she touched the pendant light like it held a secret. The way she moved through the fair as if she owned it. She didn’t just see design. She saw intention. A precision I could never own, no matter the wealth or power.

Then came the jolt. Her forehead slammed into my back. Reflexively, my muscles tensed, a spark of irritation tangled with intrigue.

“Che diavolo…” I muttered, turning sharply.

My eyes narrowed on her. She looked up with flushed cheeks and parted lips, but this time, she didn’t babble. Just stared in silence.

“You again,” I said, voice low with amusement.

A jolt shot through my chest, unbidden, like recognition before reason. Her louse dipped just enough to tease. My eyes lingered a beat too long. I felt the unwelcomed twitch in my pants.

God, I hated how alive she made me feel.

How could someone like her have that effect on me?

“Mr. Marcello, sorry—the invoice took a little longer than expected,” the sales rep said, handing me an envelope.

I took it without looking. Her friend tugged her arm.

“Let’s go, Roxy,” she said, giggling.