Page 42

The annual Russo End of Summer BBQ is in full swing, wine flowing, laughter lingering, the scent of grilled meat curling through the warm air. Music hums low beneath the din of conversation as Sicily’s elite lounge across the manicured grounds of the manor like they belong to the world.

I hover near the edge of it all, tucked beneath the shade of a lemon tree, fingers curled around a half-full wine glass. I’m dressed in borrowed confidence and linen; a pretty yellow coloured sundress Bianca forced me to wear. And here I am trying to feel like I belong amongst these people.

Everywhere I turn, someone’s watching. Not me exactly, just... watching.

And then I see him.

Matteo Russo.

He’s leaning casually against the stone railing near the garden steps, laughing at something two girls are saying, both of them pretty, polished, and clearly vying for his attention. And of course, he eats it up like candy, lazy and golden, with that smug look he wears so well.

And still... when his eyes find mine, the smirk shifts.

He says something to the girls, pushes off the rail and makes his way over like he’s got all the time in the world.

“Blending in, I see, Fossette.” he drawls. “Didn’t have you pegged for a sundress kind of girl.”

I take a sip from my glass, gaze drifting past his shoulder. “Not really my preferred form of attire. I’m more of a denim shorts and crop top kind of girl.”

Matteo leans in to speak into my ear. “Mm, but I do like that I’m the only who knows what is hiding under all that cotton.”

I roll my eyes, but my lips twitch like they’re fighting a smile. “Could’ve fooled me. You looked pretty entertained back there with your little fan club.”

Matteo shrugs, unbothered, the corner of his mouth lifting. “What can I say? Girls like attention. I give it freely… until something more interesting walks by.”

“And I’m more interesting?”

He tilts his head, like he’s studying me. “You’re dangerous. And you don’t even know it. That’s the difference.”

I blink, caught off guard for a second by the sincerity laced under the flirt. He leans closer, close enough that I catch the clean citrus on his skin, the warmth of sun and wine clinging to him like a second scent.

“You always watch people from the edge, like you don’t belong here,” he murmurs. “But you do, Fossette. Especially in that dress.”

I cross my arms, chin tilting. “And you? Where do you belong, Matteo?”

Matteo grins like I just asked him to lie. “Wherever the trouble is.”

His hand brushes my waist, just a second too long to be casual. And when I don’t move, don’t slap it away, the silence between us thickens. From across the lawn, I feel the weight of someone’s gaze, hot and unrelenting. I already know who it is before I even look.

Ares.

Watching intently while he lifts his glass of white wine and takes a long sip.

And for some reason, it only makes me step closer to Matteo.

Matteo’s gaze drops to my mouth, then flicks over my shoulder again. “Shall we take a walk?”

I don’t have to ask where. Anywhere away from the crowd, away from the suffocating stares, from the storm brewing in a certain pair of dark eyes currently aimed straight at me.

I nod once. “Sure.”

We weave through the crowd like we don’t belong to it.

I feel eyes on us, some curious, some whispering behind wine glasses, but I don’t care.

With every step, it gets easier to breathe.

Maybe it’s the way Matteo walks like he owns the world, or the fact that he doesn’t expect me to smile or nod or perform.

We reach the edge of the garden, where the noise fades and the manicured hedges give way to the wild beauty of the estate’s private grounds.

I feel his hand brush mine, before his fingers slide and lock with mine.

Not in a grand, showy gesture, just a casual flick of his fingers, like it’s no big deal.

But the moment I slide my palm into his, a current shoots up my arm, hot and unexpected.

“So, how was Ibiza?” I ask, attempting to disperse the tension lingering between us. “Did you have fun?” Matteo went away to Ibiza for an all-boys trip to celebrate his best friends 21st birthday.

Matteo nods, glancing at me sideways. “It was a good trip. Sun, music, too many girls in very little clothing...”

I give him a questioning look. “Why do I feel like there’s a but coming?”

Matteo chuckles, “I would have enjoyed it a lot more if I didn’t spend the entire time thinking about you and wishing you were there with me.”

I stare at him surprised. No expecting that response from him. “Since that night at the pool, I haven’t been able to get you out of my head.” His eyes don’t waver from mine.

The path curves, leading us beneath a tunnel of wisteria vines, the late summer bloom painting everything violet and honey. It’s quiet here. Private.

Dangerously so.

Matteo tugs me to a stop beneath the hanging blooms. His eyes search mine with something quieter now. Not just charm...something much heavier.

“It didn’t matter how much I drank or how pretty the girls were,” he says, glancing sideways at me, “Not one of them held my attention. Not even for a second. And it pissed me off,” he admits, almost like a confession. “Because I don’t chase or get attached to one girl. I don’t do... this .”

I arch a brow. “It’s probably because I’m not breaking my back trying to impress you.”

His smile is slow, appreciative. “Exactly, and I like that.” He drawls, stepping closer to me. I search his face, unsure what to say. Matteo Russo, golden boy, charmer, smooth talker… looking at me like I’m the one who’s thrown him off balance.

He steps closer, his voice rougher now. “You’re different.”

I blink up at him, lips parting, heart thudding. But I can’t help the slow smile tugging at the corners of my mouth.

“Wow, an entire trip to Ibiza and not one girl managed to steal your attention?” I tease, tilting my head, voice silky. “Either I’m really unforgettable... or your standards took a vacation too.”

His gaze sharpens with amusement, lips tugging into that signature smirk. “Confident little thing, aren’t you?”

I lean in slightly, matching his grin. “I mean, if confidence is what keeps you on edge, I’d hate to disappoint.”

He chuckles—low and wicked. “Edge? Sweetheart, you’re dancing on it.”

“Good,” I say, lifting a brow. “That’s usually where the fun begins.”

Matteo huffs a soft laugh through his nose, and then he reaches up, hand steady, eyes locked on mine, and plucks a single purple bloom from the wisteria vine overhead.

He twirls it between his fingers, then gently tucks it behind my ear.

“I have an endless list of fun things I would like to do with you...” he smirks. “...using my tongue.”

A soft, quivering breath pushes past my lips. Matteo doesn’t pull away.

Instead, his fingers linger at my jaw, brushing along my skin like he’s trying to memorise it. Slowly, he leans in, closer, closer, until I can feel the warmth of his breath against my lips.

“Muoio dalla voglia di assaggiare le tue labbra.” I’m dying for a taste of your lips.

And then he kisses me, slow at first, just a brush of his mouth against mine, but it deepens quickly, hungrily. His mouth moves against mine like he’s been starving for this, for me, for the space we’ve kept between us all summer.

Matteo’s kiss is warm and coaxing, and at first, I let myself get swept into it. He kisses like he talks, confident and practised, like he knows exactly what to do to make a girl melt. And, boy , does he.

His hand settles on my waist, the other cradling the side of my neck, tilting my face just the way he wants it.

It’s a good kiss. Anyone else would be dizzy from it.

But not me.

Because as his mouth moves against mine, all I can think about is another kiss. One that barely fully happened. One that hovered, dangerous and trembling, on the edge of restraint.

When Ares kissed me, it wasn’t because he knew what he was doing. He kissed me like he felt it, like it cost him everything.

There was no performance, no show. Just pressure and heat and that deep, aching hunger he barely kept leashed.

This? This is smooth. Perfect, even. But it doesn’t set me on fire. It doesn’t haunt . I feel the difference in my bones. I’m kissed like a girl he wants, while with Ares, I was kissed like a sin he couldn’t resist.

Matteo has no idea that this is my second kiss. Doesn’t realise the first with his uncle was something otherworldly. That it came from a man who didn’t take it, even when he could have, who fought it, like kissing me would damn him.

Ares didn’t just hesitate, he unravelled. I saw it in his eyes. Felt it in the way his hands trembled when they finally touched me. He didn’t kiss me to prove something; he kissed me like it broke him to do it. Like he wasn’t worthy.

Unlike Matteo, who takes without hesitation, assumes it’s his for the having.

And still, I kiss him back, because this is the safe choice. The simple one. Matteo is sweet, golden and uncomplicated.

Exactly what Ares said I deserved.

But I don’t feel safe. I feel hollow.

Because Matteo may kiss like he wants me, but Ares kissed me like I already belonged to him.