Page 8 of The Ruin I Chose

He took away the only thing that made me human—my wife. We had called a truce. No crossing lines. But Lorenzo always found ways to crawl under mine. He was lucky I didn’t empty a clip into his hairy little Italian ass today or the other day.

I downed my whiskey and threw the glass across the room. The glass shattered, but the rage stayed. I needed air. Whiskey alone wasn’t enough. I paced the room, grumbling, fists clenched. If I didn’t leave, I’d kill someone. Anyone.

I walked back to the far end of the fair. The noise of the fair helped mute my thoughts. The long walk settled my pulse. I headed towards one of the booths I’d invested in—clean, minimal, curated. They served me a drink the moment I arrived. I stretched my legs, tried to relax, and pulled out my phone, sending out messages.

Martin was with me. Santino handled ground operations. My two most trusted men. No one else came close.

Then I smelled it—that familiar, intentional blend of citrus, vanilla, and spice. I looked up slowly to find her already seated across from me. She tapped the table with manicured fingers, trying to get my attention. She didn’t know I’d already felt her arrive.

“I wanted to apologise properly,” she said. “For earlier. And for the shirt at the airport.”

I glanced at my phone, typed a final message to Santino, trying to stay indifferent.

“It doesn’t matter,” I said, flatly.

Holding her ground without dropping her gaze, she wouldn't let the moment dissolve.

God, this woman.

“It matters to me,” she said.

Then she bit her lower lip like the words escaped before permission. And I felt the tinge again. Those deep brown eyes stared at me—almost peeking into my barren soul. I set my phone down and studied her.

Her chest rose and fell with every breath. Shifting her blouse with it. Her cheeks seemed to have this constant blush and I was starting to wonder if it was because of me.

What the hell was wrong with me? She wasn’t even my type. And I don’t date. And I especially don’t do softness. I fuck women. That’s it. Just heat, release, and silence. That’s the rhythm. That’s the rule. Nothing more.

I felt the rage from Lorenzo fading. She made me feel something I didn’t recognise. And I didn’t like that either.

I don’t know what took over me. Maybe I spoke without thinking—so unlike me.

“Fine,” I said. “Buy me dinner.”

She blinked, surprisingly. Maybe she thought she’d offer an apology and leave, but I threw her a curveball. “Fine,” she said. “Just give me a moment.”

She didn’t hesitate. And she didn’t fucking flinch. That unsettled me more than her scent. I’d expected her to decline, to retreat. But she agreed, and that made me want to see what else she wouldn’t run from.

She spoke to someone over the phone, then came back. I stood, offering my hand.

“Marcello Vitale.” I introduced.

“Roxanne Talati.” She smiled.

CHAPTER 4

ROXANNE

Fifteen minutes later, we reached a trattoria tucked into a quiet Milanese alley—no signage, no tourists. Just the scent of garlic and fresh bread, slow jazz curling from the speakers, and bursts of laughter from the nonnas behind the counter. The quiet felt like a secret, and for a moment, I wondered if nights like this were allowed for someone like me.

Marcello walked in like he owned the place—kisses on cheeks, murmurs in Italian, the kind of ease that made me feel like I was stepping into his world. And I wanted to be part of it. Even if just for a night. Even if I knew I shouldn’t.

I followed him in, my steps quiet. I didn’t wear heels anymore. My sneakers were clean, minimalist—white leather with soft gold trim. Practical enough to walk the fair all day, polished enough to hold my own in any room. I’d stopped dressing for approval; I dressed for me.

And I especially didn’t follow strangers. Not anymore. That was something my younger Roxanne might’ve done—reckless, impulsive, romantic. But something about him made me want to be reckless again.

Then the guilt slipped in sharp and quick.

You’re a mother. You know better.