Page 7

The morning after Enzo and Bianca’s wedding is chaotic in the best way: loud, bright, and brimming with laughter.

The Russo manor hums with energy while we gather around the grand dining table, plates overflowing with lavish Italian breakfast spreads.

Sunlight pours in through the tall windows like nature’s Instagram filter.

Honestly, it’s almost suspicious how perfect everything looks.

At the head of the table is Luciano Russo.

Enzo’s father. Silent, but somehow louder than everyone else combined.

My parents sit beside Bianca and Enzo, all still glowing from last night’s fairytale.

And then there’s Matteo and me, sitting side by side and pretending our knees haven’t been bumping like nervous passengers in a turbulence zone.

I lift my porcelain cup, inhale the perfect scent of latte, and take a slow, dramatic sip while observing Luciano. He’s dressed in a charcoal suit sharper than my sarcasm, silver streaking through perfectly styled hair, his expression carved from stone.

There’s something about the man that makes the air feel heavier, like the molecules themselves are afraid to misbehave.

He doesn’t even have to speak. He just is.

And now that I’m looking properly, it’s clear where Ares gets his whole “mysterious brooding danger” vibe.

It's hereditary, like cheekbones and trauma.

The dining room sparkles around me—silver clinks against overpriced china, laughter echoes off marble, and mood lighting works overtime. But the chair at the far end? Empty. Unspoken. Like the family just collectively forgot someone existed.

Where is the elusive dark knight? Again?

If this is supposed to be some traditional celebration breakfast, shouldn’t he be here glaring stoically over his coffee? I didn't see him much at the wedding either, just at the very end, lurking in the shadows like he was auditioning for a gothic reboot of Pride and Prejudice .

I can’t help but wonder if there’s some sort of tension between Ares and the rest of the family. The broody Russo brother. The outsider. Always present, but somehow... not.

Honestly? That makes him at least ten times more dangerously attractive. It's practically a rule.

No sign of a wife beside Luciano either.

No warmth to soften his edges. No gentle presence to cancel out the general sense of existential dread he gives off.

All I know about Enzo and Ares’s mother is that she died young.

Bianca said it’s kind of a taboo subject here.

Looking at Luciano now, I’d bet her death didn’t just take her—it carved something out of him that never grew back.

While everyone chats, my attention shifts to the last almond crème croissant on the tray. It’s golden. Flaky. Beautiful. Possibly sent from above. My mouth waters. Game on.

Just as I reach for it with the precision of a pastry thief, another hand moves in at the exact same time.

Matteo.

Of course it’s him.

Our fingers brush. Light. Electric. I freeze long enough for the butterflies in my stomach to start unionizing.

He doesn’t pull back. Nope. Instead, he leans in with zero shame, voice low enough to slide under the hum of conversation.

“Are you going to fight me for it, Fossette?”

The smirk on his face says he really hopes I’ll try.

I raise an eyebrow, casually pretending I’m not red in the face.

“Depends,” I murmur. “You planning to cry if I win?”

Matteo lets out a soft laugh, and it’s infuriatingly attractive. He still doesn’t let go of the croissant. Neither do I. For a solid few seconds, it’s just us—locked in a silent, slow-motion standoff over pastry like its foreplay with high-calorie stakes.

Around us, Luciano mumbles something to my dad. Bianca is giggling at something Enzo whispered. Nobody notices that Matteo and I are currently tangled in a flirt war over baked goods. Nobody sees how dangerously close we are to turning brunch into a rom-com.

His thumb grazes mine. Barely there. But enough to send my internal system crashing.

He glances down at our hands. Then back up. Eyes locked. Smile lazy.

“I don’t cry, Fossette,” he says, voice smooth as ever, that Italian accent sliding off his lips like it was personally handcrafted for sin. “But I don’t lose either.”

Say less.

Challenge fully accepted

I swipe the croissant out from under his hand and take a bite—slow, triumphant, and just dramatic enough to qualify as petty theatre. I even add a little moan of pleasure for effect, just to make sure he knows this victory is personal.

Matteo watches me with a glint in his eye, amused and maybe a touch impressed.

“Oh, what was that?”

“Cheeky little thief,” he mutters, the smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth like he’s enjoying this far too much.

I swallow, then flash him a sugary smile. “Don’t hate the player, Hotshot. Hate yourself for being too slow.”

I take another bite and deliberately lick the dusting of powdered sugar from my lips like it’s the final move in a high-stakes chess match.

“If you want something that bad,” I add, “you better learn to move faster.”

Matteo glances around the table casually. But it’s calculated—I can tell. Then his hazel eyes return to mine, piercing and full of subtext. “I don’t like to lose,” he drawls, “but when I set my sights on something I truly want, Fossette, I don’t quit until it’s mine.”

If I hadn’t already swallowed my bite, I would have choked on it when I feel his fingers lightly graze the side of my bare thigh. His eyes drop to my lips, slow and deliberate.

“But watching you lick the cream off your lips and hearing you moan?” he continues, voice dipping lower. “Made losing worth it.”

Oh. Bloody. Hell.

My face heats like someone lit a fire under my skin, but I refuse to look away. If anything, I lift my chin and meet his gaze head-on.

You want a show, Romeo? I’ll give you one.

I arch a brow, voice smooth and sweet as poison. “Careful now, Matteo. Keep looking at me like that, and I might start charging you.”

His smirk mirrors mine as I lift the croissant to my lips and take another bite—slow, purposeful. I drag my tongue across my bottom lip to catch the last hint of crème like I’m auditioning for an espresso commercial with wildly inappropriate undertones.

He leans in just close enough for his breath to graze my cheek, voice pitched low, meant only for me.

“Then I’d better get my money’s worth, Fossette.”

His tone is playful, but the look in his eyes? That’s not play...it’s intent. And God help me; I’m liking it way too much.

Who even am I?

Because I’m not entirely sure where this sudden burst of boldness came from. Normally, I fumble for my lip balm and run. Today? I’m flirting with my sister’s brand-new stepson over a croissant and powdered sugar in front of a table full of oblivious adults.

To them, we’re just two people making small talk over breakfast. Meanwhile, my entire moral compass is trying to decide if this is reckless, flirtatious, or dangerously brilliant.

Matteo shifts slightly, and now his thigh is pressed just a little closer to mine beneath the table.

When I glance his way, he’s already watching me. His mouth curves into a slow, smug smile that says he caught every single thing I didn’t say aloud.

“Careful, Fossette,” he murmurs. “Keep looking at me like that, and I might think you’re really into this.”

“Then I’d suggest you get your eyes checked,” I reply, elbow on the table, chin resting in my palm, gaze steady.

“Because I’m not like the girls who fall at your feet.

I actually have a brain. And I’m sorry to break it to you, but it’s going to take more than a wicked smirk and a pair of pretty eyes to win me over, Romeo. ”

“Cazzo,” he murmurs.

His smile deepens—lazy, lethal, and entirely too satisfied. “I’m going to enjoy every second of making you eat those words, ragazza bella.”

Then he leans back and casually pops a grape into his mouth like he didn’t just toss my entire emotional equilibrium off a cliff.

It’s a good thing I’m flying home today, because I may have bitten off more than my big mouth can chew.

And note to self: Download Duolingo and learn Italian. Immediately.

“Promise you’ll come visit us all the time?" Bianca says, pulling me into a tight hug. “I’ll go crazy out here all by myself.”

I smile, pressing my chin against her shoulder as I rub her back gently.

“I promise,” I whisper. “Every chance I get.” I squeeze her a little tighter, holding on just a second longer before letting go. “Have an amazing honeymoon.”

Bianca pulls back from our hug, quickly brushing away a tear that escapes down her cheek. Her blue eyes shimmer under the morning sun, a tight smile trembling on her lips as she turns to Mum and Dad.

Mum steps forward first, gathering Bianca into her arms like she’s still her little girl.

“Be safe, sweetheart,” Mum whispers, her voice thick with emotion. “Have the adventure of a lifetime.”

Bianca lets out a soft, watery laugh, squeezing Mum tight.

“I will,” she promises, her voice cracking just enough to give her away.

Dad is next, pulling her into a strong, steady hug, the kind that says everything he can’t find the words for. “You take care of each other,” he murmurs into her hair.

“We will,” Bianca says, her fingers clutching the back of his shirt for just a second longer than she means to.

When she finally pulls away, she swipes at another tear and laughs again, a little breathless. “Go,” Dad says, nudging her gently toward Enzo. "Before your Mum changes her mind and tries to drag you back. Enzo, you take care of our baby girl.”

Bianca smiles through the tears, linking her arm through Enzo’s as he chuckles under his breath. “You have my word, James. I’ll protect her with my life.”

And just like that, with one last wave, they’re gone, getting into the car waiting to take them to the airport.