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The intensity in his eyes is almost suffocating, a storm raging within those dark green depths.

“You want the truth, Aria? You can’t handle it.” His breath trembles, and I catch a flicker in his eyes—regret, maybe. Or is it fear… fear of losing me? A shiver runs down my spine as his control snaps, like a taut wire stretched beyond its limit.

And in that moment, I know. He’s not just hiding something—he’s hiding everything.

20

MARCO

Ihave Aria caged between my arms, her body pressed against the edge of my desk—but it’s me who feels trapped. My heart hammers against my ribs as a war rages inside me: protect her from the truth or give her what she wants and lose her forever.

Her eyes—those goddamn hazel eyes that have somehow wormed their way to pierce right into my heart—shine with unshed tears and righteous anger.

“You’re hiding something from me,” she whispers, her breath warm against my face. “Something about my family. About who killed them.”

I swallow hard, unable to look away from her accusing stare. If she only knew. If she could see the images burned into my mind—my father recounting Emilio DeLuca’s execution over celebratory brandy, voice thick with pride. How he bragged about ordering the massacre, ensuring no one survived.

Except there were. Two tiny girls, spirited away in the night.

Two girls my father is now hunting.

Nicolo’s warning echoes in my mind, as vivid as the day he said it: “If she ever learns your father ordered her parents’slaughter, she’ll never forgive you, Marco. Blood demands blood in our world. You think she’s yours now? Just wait until she realizes she’s sleeping with the son of her family’s executioner.”

I’d scoffed then, confident in my ability to keep the past buried where it belonged. Now, with Aria’s hands pressed against my chest, trying to push me away, I realize how precarious my position truly is.

“Marco,” she demands, “answer me!”

The truth hovers on my tongue, bitter and corrosive, eating away at every shred of restraint I have left. But I can’t say it. Not yet. Maybe not ever. Because the moment those words leave my lips, she’ll be gone—ripped from me like flesh from bone. And the thought of her walking out that door, of never feeling the heat of her skin against mine, of watching her look at me not with love, but with betrayal in her eyes… it doesn’t just scare me—it destroys me.

If I’m going to lose her—and I am, God help me, I am—then I’ll have her one last time. I’ll burn this moment into my memory, into my skin, so deeply that even her hatred can’t erase it.

I’ll make her stay.

My hand moves from the desk to her face, cupping her cheek gently. Her skin feels like silk beneath my callused fingers.

“Marco,” she says again, but this time her voice holds affection.

I let my thumb trace the curve of her lower lip, feeling her sharp intake of breath. “You want truth?” I murmur, my voice dropping to a husky whisper. “Here’s one truth I can give you: I want you, Aria. Right now. More than I’ve ever wanted anything.”

Confusion flickers across her face, but she doesn’t pull away when my finger trails down from her lips to her throat, followingthe delicate line of her collarbone exposed by her shirt’s neckline.

“You think you can distract me?” she asks, but her voice catches as my finger continues its slow descent.

“Is it working?” I counter, watching in fascination as her pupils dilate slightly.

“No,” she says, but her body betrays her. Her breathing has quickened, and when my hand grazes the swell of her breast through her thin blouse, she can’t suppress a small gasp.

“Liar,” I whisper against her ear, letting my lips brush the sensitive skin just below it. I feel her shiver against me, her resistance beginning to crumble. “Your body knows what it wants, even if your mind is stubborn.”

“This doesn’t change anything,” she insists, even as her hands clutch and pull me closer now, rather than push. “I still want answers.”

“Not now,” I avoid answering, hating myself for it. “Not tonight.”

My mouth finds the pulse point at the base of her throat, and I feel it quicken beneath my lips. Her skin tastes faintly of salt and that jasmine perfume she’s taken to wearing. I breathe her in deeply, committing this scent to memory.

For a moment, she remains rigid against me, fighting her body’s response to my touch. Then, with a sound somewhere between frustration and surrender, her fingers tangle in my hair, and she yanks my head up to crash her lips against mine.

The kiss is violent, desperate—teeth clashing, tongues battling for dominance. I let her unleash her anger on me through this kiss, accepting the punishment in her fierce grip as she pulls me closer.