Page 4
Penelope
I stand in the corner of Gianna’s wedding, clutching a lukewarm beer and watching the small crowd of friends and family mill around her backyard. The string lights swing between the trees and cast jagged shadows on the grass.
Laughter bounces off the wooden fence, and the smell of barbecue clings to everything.
It’s simple, messy, real—not some fancy blowout.
Just Gianna’s style. My short blue dress hugs my legs, the fabric creased from hours of hovering between folding chairs and sticky grass.
I tug at the hem, wishing I’d gone for something breezier, but it’s cute enough to survive the night.
Then he walks in.
Adriano Vieri shoves through the gate, and the whole damn yard freezes.
Heads snap his way and chatter dies fast, like he’s a black hole swallowing sound.
He’s in a black suit, no tie, his top button popped and tattoos on his neck like dark vines.
His strawberry-blond hair—gray streaks cutting through—drops over his forehead as he scopes the place out.
He strides in, his boots hitting the grass like he’s claiming it, all pure muscle and menace. My gut twists into a hard, sick lurch. I duck my head and then pretend to fuss with my beer label, but I can’t peel my eyes off him.
Gianna’s at my side in a heartbeat, her white dress rustling and veil jammed back like it’s pissing her off.
“Caught sight of tall, dark, and deadly yet?” she mutters, jabbing me with her elbow.
“Yeah,” I grunt, ripping the label now. “Guy’s a damn spotlight.”
She grins and takes a swig of her wine. “A saint when he’s not snapping bones for fun.”
I choke on my beer, coughing hard. “A saint? Didn’t you just say he tortures guys daily?”
“Give him a break, Pen.” She shrugs, eyes sharp. “He’s fucked up, sure, but he’s got a soft spot buried under all that psycho. Sophia’s death still guts him, same as us.”
Her name slices me open, fast, and brutal. I swallow, my throat closing up. Adriano’s here, and I’m a wreck of nerves buzzing like live wires and palms slick with sweat. I’ve been getting off to his pictures, panting his name in the dark like some twisted loser.
I gulp my beer, praying it’ll calm me down. It’s useless.
He’s coming our way now, clutching a small silver-wrapped box. Gianna straightens up, flashing a grin.
“Here’s my VIP, rolling in like royalty.”
“Congrats, kid,” he says, voice rough like gravel. He hands her the gift, then his gray eyes land on me. They widen, just a fraction. “Penelope?”
My heart slams against my ribs. “Hey,” I manage, voice thin.
He steps closer, and before I can brace myself, he pulls me into a hug.
His arms lock around me, so solid and warm, crushing me against him.
I smell him, it’s leather, smoke and something strong and male.
My hands freeze at my sides, then creep up to his back, feeling the hard lines under his jacket. I don’t want him to let go. Ever.
But he does, pulling back, his hands lingering on my shoulders for a beat too long.
“Didn’t know you were back,” he says, studying me.
“Surprise,” I croak, forcing a wry smile. “Italy got old.”
He nods, lips twitching. “You look good.”
“Thanks.” I tug at my dress again, thankful it’s short and pretty, showing off my legs. It’s the first time he’s seen me in years, and I’m not some scrawny kid anymore. “You too.”
Gianna snorts, unwrapping her gift and it’s a sleek silver bracelet. Definitely expensive.
“Oh, damn, Adriano. You didn’t have to flex this hard.”
“Shut up and wear it,” he grunts, but there’s a flicker of a smile.
She punches his arm. “Bossy as ever. Gerald’s gonna hate you for stealing my heart today.”
“Tell him to fight me for it,” he shoots back, deadpan.
I laugh and his eyes snap to me again, and my breath jams. I look away, fast, but it’s too late. He’s hooked me.
The party drags on, and I’m stuck orbiting him.
I grab another beer, and chat with Gianna’s colleague, Lisa, about her dumb ex, but every few minutes, my eyes find him.
He’s by the grill now, flipping burgers with a neighbor, and his sleeves are rolled up, those herculean forearms flexing.
Then he’s laughing at something Gerald says, a rare, low rumble that hits me in the gut.
God, I miss that laugh. I haven’t heard it since that night.
Each time our eyes meet across the yard, it’s equivalent to a punch, and I can’t fucking breathe.
It’s like, despite everyone standing there, he sees only me.
My skin prickles, wishing it could be true, and I hate it.
I hate wanting him this bad when it’s impossible. He could never feel that way. Not after what happened.
Lisa catches me staring and moves closer beaming. “Got a type, huh?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I snap, then chug my beer.
She laughs. “Oh, so touchy. He’s old enough to be your dad, you know.”
“Piss off,” I mutter, shoving past her. She’s right, and it stings worse than I’ll admit.
Later, I’m tipsy, the yard spinning a little, and Gianna’s shoving cake in Gerald’s face. Most of the guests have left, leaving the ones who live nearby, and I stumble toward the cooler for water, but Adriano’s there, leaning against it, watching me.
Okay, fine. I’m not actually thirsty, I just needed an excuse to talk to him.
But I am drunk, so thank the universe for liquid courage.
“You okay?” he asks when it seems like I’m finding it hard to shuffle through the bottles.
“Fine,” I lie, grabbing a bottle. My hand shakes when I bring it up to drink and he notices.
“Too much beer?” He steps closer, looming over me.
No, too much you. God, he is so close and so handsome. Did he even age a day?
“Maybe.” I twist the cap off, and take a sip. “You gonna judge me?”
“Nah.” There’s a soft, wicked twist to his lips. “Been there.”
“Yeah, well, I’m not you,” I shoot back, sharper than I mean.
His brow lifts. “Fair enough.”
I turn away, but his voice stops me. “Need a ride home?”
I freeze, bottle halfway to my lips. “I’m good.”
“You’re not,” he says, flat. “Come on.”
I should say no. I’m drunk, not stupid. But my mouth betrays me. “Okay.”
He nods once and steps aside, gesturing to the gate. I clutch the bottle tighter, my knuckles white, and stumble past him. His arm brushes mine—hard muscle under that suit—and my skin ignites a slow, shameful burn.
I hate how much I want him closer, how every step toward his car feels like a plea for him to wreck me.
We’re in his black SUV now, the leather seats icy against my bare legs.
He drives, one hand on the wheel, the other slack on his thigh.
I stare out the window, the streetlights flashing past and my head a drunken blur.
His scent—leather, smoke, him—floods the car, choking me.
I shift, cross my legs, and my dress hikes up.
His eyes snap to it, then jerk back to the road. My gut clenches.
“Thanks,” I mumble, cracking the silence.
“For what?”
“Driving me. Gianna’s too busy playing bride.”
He grunts and laughs a little. “She’s a damn nuisance. Always will be.”
I snort. “Tell me about it. Good thing she’s Gerald’s problem now.”
The quiet between us stretches thin, prickly, and taut.
I steal a glance and his jaw clenches as though he notices it too.
He’s close enough to brush against and fuck, I want to.
I’ve wanted him forever, ever since I’d sneak looks over at Sophia’s, too young to name the ache I felt.
Now I’m twenty, and it’s grown into something monstrous, those unholy fantasies fueled by his pictures and his name slipping out in the dark.
He’s right here, oblivious, and it’s twisted. Wrong. LIfe’s a cruel fucker, dangling the forbidden in front of me just to watch me writhe.
“You’re too quiet. Little Penelope doesn’t talk much anymore?” he teases, his eyes still fixed on the road.
His referring to me as ‘Little’ hits a nerve, but I shove it down.
“Thinking,” I mumble.
“About what?”
I hesitate, then let it out. “That night. Sophia. How I didn’t pick up when she called.”
He stiffens, knuckles whitening on the wheel. “Leave it alone, Penelope. It’s done.”
“Done?” My voice cracks, bitter. “I see her bleeding out every damn night. Her eyes—I didn’t—”
“Stop.” He cuts me off. “You were a kid. It’s in the fucking past.”
“Is it?” I turn, glaring at him. “You’re not haunted? You don’t wake up choking on it?”
His jaw ticks, but he doesn’t answer. Silence slams back, heavier now, like a fist. I slump against the seat.
He doesn’t get it or maybe he does, and that’s worse.
Sophia’s death ripped us both open and left us bleeding in different ways.
I ran to Italy; he turned into this—whatever the hell he is now.
Finally, he speaks, voice quieter. “Italy. What was that like?”
I scoff out a jagged laugh. “Pasta, wine, and a shit-ton of regret. Worked in a dive, hands stinking of garlic. Thought I’d outrun her ghost. Nope, I just traded nightmares for olive oil.”
He grins. “Sounds like you lived it up.”
“Oh, yeah,” I deadpan. “Real glamorous. You should’ve seen me crying into my spaghetti the first few months I got there.”
A low chuckle escapes him and I relish it. “You’re still a mess, kid.”
“Pot, meet kettle,” I shoot back as I roll my eyes, annoyed. “And kid? Really? Lay off the babysitter vibe, huh?” My tone’s sharp, but I keep it light so he knows it is just a jab and not a fight. I’m not some child he can pat on the head, not after everything.
He glances at me, beaming. “Noted,” he says, dry, and his eyes linger a beat too long. My breath hitches, and I look away fast.