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~ Aria ~

Luca opened the door for me, and I swept past him without a word. I remembered the way to my old suite—west wing, third floor, overlooking the gardens. My heels echoed as I climbed the stairs, intensely aware of him following three steps behind.

My rooms were exactly as I'd left them: cream and gold, elegant and impersonal. Someone had put fresh flowers on the dresser.

Luca followed me inside, checking the windows with professional efficiency, scanning for threats.

"You can go now," I said.

"I'm your bodyguard. Where you go, I go."

"Even in my bedroom?"

"Especially in your bedroom." He finished his inspection. "This suite has three entry points. The door, the balcony, and the service entrance through your closet. I'll be sleeping in the adjoining room."

"Of course you will." I laughed bitterly. "This is insane. You realize that, right? Last night you're close to me, today you're my shadow."

His expression didn't change. "Last night was a mistake. This is my job."

"Your job." I moved closer, anger overriding self-preservation. "Your job is to protect me. Not to kiss me like you're drowning. Not to make me feel so deeply. Not to hold me afterward like you…"

"Stop." The word cracked like a whip.

"Why? Does the truth hurt?"

"This conversation is over."

"Like hell it is." I grabbed his arm as he turned away. "You don't get to do this. You don't get to make me feel what I felt last night and then act like I'm nothing but an assignment."

He looked down at my hand on his arm, then back at my face. Something dangerous flickered in his eyes. "Let go, Aria."

"No."

"Let. Go."

"Make me."

It was a mistake. I realized it the moment the words left my mouth, the moment I saw his control finally, catastrophically, snap.

He moved so fast I gasped. He caught both my wrists in one hand and pinned them to the wall above my head, his body closing the distance from chest to thigh so hard the framed painting beside us rattled. I could feel the intense warmth of him against my stomach.

"You want the truth?" His voice was gravel and intensity. "Last night was the most powerful night of my life. I spent four years thinking of you, and one night of the real thing has ruined me. The way you spoke my name. The way you trusted me."

My breath came in short, desperate pants. Heat flooded through me, instant and profound.

"Then why…"

"Because touching you again will destroy everything I've built." But his posture shifted, pressing closer. "Because every time I look at you now, I see you on that hotel bed, wanting closeness."

"Luca…"

He crushed his mouth to mine, all passion and fury. I kissed him back just as hard, biting his lip until I tasted copper.

Then I twisted my wrists free.

He let me. I saw it in his eyes: he could have held on, and he didn't. I shoved him back a step, grabbed his tie, and yanked him down to my level.

"Say it," I breathed against his mouth. "Say you want me. Right now."

His jaw locked. His chest was heaving.

"Say it, Luca, or walk out that door."

For a long, burning second, I thought he'd leave.

"I want you." It came out raw, like it had been dragged from him. "Cristo, Aria, I want you so much I can't think."

That was all I needed.

I pulled at his jacket while he helped steady me, our hands meeting. He lifted me gently against the wall, my legs locking around his waist, and there was no patience this time. None of last night's slow worship. He pulled me close in one deep embrace, and we both caught our breath, the sound raw and true.

He held me firmly against the wall, one hand at my throat, not squeezing, just holding, the other gripping my waist so tightly I knew I'd find his touch there tomorrow. Every movement pressed my back gently against the plaster.

"Every time some guard made you laugh that summer," he rasped against my jaw, "I wanted to break his face. Every time you left a room, I counted the seconds until you came back."

"Then stop pretending," I gasped. "Stop pretending you don't need this."

He answered by drawing closer, his hand working soothing circles on my back. I dug my nails into his shoulders hard enough to show through his shirt.

It was fast and furious, and I broke first, a violent, emotional release that made me lean into him until he groaned like he'd been overwhelmed. He followed seconds later, burying his face in my neck and cursing in Italian as he held me tight.

We stayed locked together, panting, foreheads pressed together, the painting still crooked on the wall beside us.

Slowly, he lowered my feet to the floor. Stepped back carefully. Immediately smoothed his suit, rebuilt every wall I'd just torn down.

"This changes nothing," he said, voice wrecked but firm.

"You keep saying that. It keeps not being true."

"I mean it, Aria. This is..."

"Unprofessional. I know." I grabbed his tie, forced him to meet my eyes. "But it's going to happen anyway. Because you want me. You just said so. And I sure as hell want you. And we're stuck together for god knows how long."

His jaw worked. "Your father…"

"Isn't here right now." I released him. "Dinner is at eight. You have three hours to decide whether you're going to keep torturing us both with this professional distance bullshit, or whether you're going to admit what this is."

"And what is this?"

"I don't know yet." I moved past him toward the bathroom. "But it's sure as hell not nothing."

I closed the door behind me, leaving him standing in the wreckage of his control.

Through the door, I heard him exhale slowly. Then his footsteps crossing to the adjoining room, and the soft click of a door that he didn't quite slam.

I leaned against the sink, my reflection staring back at me—lips slightly swollen, mussed hair, eyes too bright, feeling his warmth still lingering.

What was I doing? This was insane. He was right about that much.

But god help me, I didn't care.

I'd spent four years being sensible. Being good. Building a life separate from my father's shadow.

And where had it gotten me? Dragged back to France, named as a mafia successor, assigned a bodyguard who set me on fire with a look.

Maybe it was time to stop fighting. Stop pretending I could be anyone other than Vittorio Santoro's daughter.

Maybe it was time to take what I wanted.