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“Don’t look so wary, Jord. It’s one drink!” Bianca chirps, radiant and annoyingly persuasive.

Enzo gathers us all into a semi-formal circle of forced camaraderie—his bride, my parents, me, and the ever-brooding Matteo. There’s something ritualistic about it, like we’re part of a ceremony to summon the god of awkward family bonding through liquor.

The air’s warm and humid, thick with perfume, sweat, and the sharp tang of freshly poured drinks. Twinkling fairy lights flicker overhead like they’re watching me make bad decisions in real time.

With a sigh that’s basically an exorcism, I reach for the tiny glass of amber liquid. I bring it to my nose and sniff. Almonds. Cherry. Possibly regret.

“What is this?” I ask, peering into the glass like it might whisper back.

I swore off hard liquor after an unfortunate incident at seventeen involving too many vodka shots, a karaoke rendition of “Like a Virgin,” and three days of lying in bed convinced my brain was leaking.

Turns out, I’m a lightweight with the alcohol tolerance of a Victorian ghost. Wine is safe.

Wine loves me. Wine doesn’t judge. This? This is chaos in a glass.

Enzo grins, full of Italian charm. “It’s amaretto, Mio Caro. An almond liqueur. In Italy, we take a digestivo after dinner—to help the stomach, yes?” He lifts his glass with the exuberance of someone who’s already had two.

“Dai, beviamo!”

“Saluti!” everyone echoes, raising their glasses like they’re actors in a champagne commercial.

I hesitate. Then hesitate again. Then hesitate so hard my drink starts whispering insecurities.

Get it together, Jordyn.

I brace myself and glance up—only to find Matteo watching me with a look that could make my knees file for divorce. Dim lighting softens his face, but not the smirk curving his lips. That glint in his eyes is pure trouble.

Of course he would make a toast look seductive.

He tips his glass toward me, silently daring me. I raise mine in return because apparently peer pressure works if the peer is hot enough.

The drink slides down like silk dipped in sugar. It tastes like cherry bakewell tart in cocktail form. I lick my lips automatically; then immediately worry I’ve done it in slow motion like a siren from an old movie.

And then, to make it worse, a satisfied hum escapes me. Rookie mistake.

This tastes dangerously good. Too good.

One drink in and I already feel like my limbs are made of peach cobbler and rebellion.

I glance at Matteo again. He hasn’t stopped watching.

Great. I might have just activated the romantic subplot.

Boy, do Italians know how to throw a party.

By eleven o’clock, I’m all partied out, mingled to death, and questioning my life choices.

My feet have filed official complaints against these shoes, and I’m definitely tipsy—whether it’s the one shot of amaretto Bianca emotionally blackmailed me into, the four glasses of wine, or this prosecco that’s sliding down my throat like temptation in a flute.

If one more distant relative grins and says, “Welcome to the famiglia,” I’m going to fake a fainting spell and see if that gets me a hotel room with a foot spa.

Overstimulated and mildly buzzed, I slip away like a romcom protagonist who’s just had an epiphany.

The music softens behind me, dissolving into background static.

I’ve wandered far—past twinkling lanterns and dramatic marble terraces—barefoot, shoes dangling from one hand, champagne clutched in the other like a stress ball made of bubbles.

The reception was too much. Too loud. Too glittery. Too people-y. The alcohol haze is thinning and now I’m left with the soul-deep exhaustion of pretending to be charming for six hours straight.

Out here, it’s quiet. Blissfully, beautifully quiet.

Moonlight spills over the vineyard like someone turned the world into a fashion editorial. The vines stretch beneath the hill, silvered and serene. I don’t know where I am anymore. Possibly on someone else’s property. Possibly trespassing. I’m fine with it.

The breeze lifts my hair, and I tilt my face toward it like I’m auditioning for a fragrance ad. I inhale dew, flowers, and something grapey and nostalgic. It’s poetic. I’m poetic now. Blame the alcohol.

Then I feel it.

Not the breeze.

Not the buzz.

A shift. Like the universe has tilted five degrees and decided I need to meet my dramatic destiny.

“Sembri persa.”

The voice is low. Rich. Italian. Like the amaretto, but more dangerous. There’s a velvet intimacy in the sound that raises goosebumps on my arms.

I spin around on instinct. My heel snags on a slope and I become airborne. Not gracefully airborne. More “drunken woodland creature startled by headlights.”

I don’t fall. I’m caught.

Two arms. One around my waist, one steadying my shoulder, pulling me up against a chest that feels like sculpted marble and emergency.

Silence, warmth, close proximity.

No bloody way is he real. He’s tall. Built like Greek mythology.

His face is half in shadow but all intensity.

Eyes dark. Lips unmoving but faintly curved like he knows he’s messing with me.

My hand is fisted in his shirt like a damsel with zero chill.

His heartbeat is calm. Mine sounds like a drumline at We Are Fest.

“Ti ho presa.”

My brain short-circuits. My mouth opens. No useful words emerge.

“What?” I finally squeak, which is disappointing for everyone involved.

He doesn’t repeat himself. Just stares like he’s trying to decide if I’m a threat, a lost tourist, or his next problem.

Then in English. Dripping with an accent that could cause international incidents.

“Who are you?”

I shift, trying to put space between us. His hand is still on my waist, searing through the fabric of my dress. I straighten quickly, pulse hammering beneath my skin.

“I should be asking you that,” I say, trying for sharp but landing somewhere closer to flustered. “Do you always sneak up on people and scare them half to death?”

“If they’re trespassing on my property, yes.”

My stomach dips.

I glance around at the vineyard, then back at him.

“And I don’t usually make a habit of saving them. You’re lucky you’re still breathing.”

“Wha— your property?” I ask, already knowing the answer.

He nods once.

Oh, so I’m trespassing? Okay, deep breaths. Don’t make it weird.

Of course, I’d be the idiot who drunkenly wandered into someone else’s vineyard and nearly fell into the arms of a living, breathing villain origin story.

“Shit, I’m sorry,” I blurt, stumbling over my words. “I didn’t realise. I must’ve walked farther than I thought. I’ll leave, promise.”

I start to step away, but then his voice, deep and casually infuriating, stops me.

“You still haven’t answered my question.”

“What question?”

He leans in just enough that I feel his breath when he speaks. Is this dramatic? Yes. Is my brain short-circuiting? Also yes.

“Who are you?”

“I’m… Jordyn. Jordyn Windslow.”

Something shifts in his expression. Recognition flashes through his eyes, like he just solved a very intense Wordle.

“Windslow,” he repeats. “You’re Bianca’s little sister.”

I blink. Wait.

If he knows Bianca and my family, and he lives next door, that means…

Oh, no.

This isn’t some mysterious stranger. This is Ares Russo . Enzo’s younger brother. The one nobody talks about, but everyone somehow knows. Like an ominous rumour with excellent cheekbones.

He steps back, sliding his hands into his pockets, his eyes never leaving mine.

“Careful where you wander off to, bambina. Next time, I might not be there to catch you.”

And just like that, he turns and strolls into the night like some moody novella hero—swallowed by shadows and attitude. I stand there blinking like I’m rebooting.

The breeze feels sharper now. Colder. Rude, honestly.

I grip the now-warm champagne flute like a lifeline. Pretty sure it’s been downgraded to hand accessory because I don’t even remember drinking it. My arches ache. My pride is missing in action.

His voice loops in my head: Careful where you wander off to, bambina…

I wrap my arms around myself and start walking, trying to shake the tension in my limbs and the heat still humming low in my stomach.

I tell myself it’s just the prosecco. Or the stumble.

Or the fact that he looked at me like he could see through every emotional firewall I didn’t even realise I had installed.

As I reach the Russo manor again, music and laughter swell around me. Lanterns flicker like fireflies overhead. I step onto the gravel path leading back to the garden, crunching softly beneath my bare feet—because yes, I ditched my shoes ages ago. They were plotting my demise.

Then I hear it.

A whisper. A giggle. Muffled and breathless.

I stop.

It’s coming from behind an ivy-covered wall on the far side of the garden, tucked neatly between two dramatic olive trees like something out of a suspicious fairy tale.

Curiosity taps me on the shoulder. Or maybe it’s lingering adrenaline from nearly performing a face-first trust fall into Ares Russo. Either way, I tiptoe closer.

Another laugh. Soft and feminine. Followed by fabric rustling and a low, familiar voice muttering Italian that sounds like it was designed to ruin moral integrity.

I peek around the wall.

And immediately wish I hadn’t.

Matteo.

Of course, it’s Matteo.

He has a girl in a tight red dress pressed against the wall, legs tangled with his, lips locked like they’re trying to consume each other.

His right hand is between her legs and she’s moaning as she rocks her hips up, her fingers are buried in his hair while they kiss ravenously.

His voice is smoother than usual, dripping with amusement and intention.

Her fingers are tangled in his hair like she’s afraid he might escape.

He’s murmuring something low and seductive, and she moans in response.

Which feels excessive, but I’m not here to kink-shame.

For a second, I forget to breathe.