gold lights, red hands

The pendant lights hung low between the olive trees, casting a golden glow over the crystal glasses and small linen-covered tables. Music drifted softly through the air, a blend of modern jazz and old Latin instrumentals, wrapping the night like a thin, expensive mist.

The party was semi-formal. Guests arrived in long dresses and bow ties, but also in relaxed shoes and linen jackets. The scent from the antipasti table mixed with sea salt and too much perfume.

I stood beside Matteo, my arm looped through his. His fingers locked around my wrist like an invisible cuff. A possessive grip he probably didn’t realize...or maybe he did.

Bretta laughed loudly across the garden, her hand resting on Mauro’s arm as he stood there, patient as always. They spoke quickly, their body language like a small dance. Push and pull, tug and glance, like the world belonged only to them.

“Let’s hope you’re not like her when you’re pregnant,” Matteo suddenly whispered in my ear.

I didn’t turn to him. Just took a slow breath and lifted my champagne glass to my lips. Internally, I scoffed.

Pregnant? By who?

He hadn’t really touched me in our three years of marriage. Just formal kisses. Our bodies met, but never crossed that truly intimate boundary.

For a while, I thought he might be gay. Seriously. There were weeks where I’d analyze his facial expressions around other men, listen for a shift in tone when he said names like “Santino” or “Jared” or anyone I thought was too handsome to ignore.

But there were no signs. No attraction toward me either. Nothing at all.

Until one night, when I spoke to him—as a wife—about why we shared a bed but never truly… shared it.

And he just said: “I want to touch you when our world isn’t bleeding.”

I held back a snort and glanced at Matteo. Tonight, he wore a lightweight black tuxedo, his hair neatly combed, his face clean but tense. His eyes never left me, even when a man offered a polite smile from across the canapé table.

“Don’t wander too far,” he murmured, like I was a kitten that might get lost just from sipping a fourth glass.

“I’m just standing here,” I replied flatly.

He turned to me, one eyebrow raised. “You know what I mean.”

I didn’t respond. Just lifted my glass again and let the sweet, acidic champagne wash over my tongue.

My eyes followed Bretta now laughing with her mouth full of strawberries, sitting on a small swing near the fence. Mauro fed her casually, his face calm, patient, slightly amused. They looked like a living painting of a marriage far too warm for my world.

“I’m going to speak with Carlo for a bit,” Matteo said, loosening his grip on my arm. “Don’t go anywhere.”

He left, and the air around me felt slightly looser. I walked toward an outdoor table facing the sea, picking up a glass of white wine that no one had touched.

The night thickened. The music softened, almost jazzy. The lights around the garden made everything look like a stage. Beautiful, perfectly arranged, too flawless to be real.

But inside my chest, a hollow space slowly expanded. A silence no designer dress, champagne, or cheek kiss from a man who thought guarding meant loving could ever fill.

I stood alone at the edge of the garden, my gown brushing against the stone floor, the night breeze lifting strands of my hair. I decided to find someplace quieter.

I slipped off my stilettos and stepped out into the villa’s backyard. Cold grass brushed against the soles of my feet. The garden lights only lit part of the path, letting the rest dissolve into shadow.

Footsteps sounded behind me. Calm. Heavy.

I didn’t turn around.

There was a silence.

“Pretty shoes,” the voice finally came. Deep and calm. Like a thin fog that could lead you astray if you wandered too far in. “But not made for grass.”

I turned slowly.

A man stood at the edge of the stone path, half of his face hidden in the shadow of an olive tree. But the part I could see was enough to make my heart skip half a beat.

Him again.

His face was sharp, defined. A chiseled jawline, calm lips that weren’t quite friendly. His eyes were dark, their exact color unclear from the distance between us. Dangerous. And captivating.

His black shirt was rolled to the elbows, revealing a faint tattoo peeking from beneath the fold. His pants were dark, leather shoes silent.

I lifted my chin slightly. “I don’t remember inviting a shoe critic tonight.”

His mouth curved. “Sorry. Reflex,” he said, still in that low voice. “Bad habit, maybe.”

“Commenting on strange women’s shoes?”

“Analyzing.” He looked at me. Direct. Unblinking. “Reading the room. Finding cracks.”

I raised an eyebrow. “Is this... some kind of game?”

“Not all games need a board or rules.” He stepped a little closer but kept a respectful distance. His shoulders were broad. His posture firm. But not the kind of arrogance that’s forced. “And you,” he added, eyes trailing from my head to my feet, “seem like someone who often gets lost...like last night. But tonight, it looks like you know exactly where you’re going.”

I held back a smile. “Maybe I’m just tired,” I said lightly. “Or drunk.”

He nodded once, slowly. “Or bored.”

I turned toward the sea, hiding my expression. Because yeah... I was bored. “This place is too... bright,” I murmured. “Too many fake smiles. Too many meaningless handshakes.”

“And you?” His voice was softer now. “Do you smile sincerely?”

I turned to him. “Depends who’s standing in front of me.”

Our eyes locked. No smile, no jokes. Just a silence growing heavier by the second.

I should’ve walked away. Gone back inside. Found my husband and pretended to enjoy the party. But I didn’t move.

And he didn’t ask who I was. Just like I didn’t ask who he was.

There was something more intriguing than names. Like... the fact that he didn’t try to compliment me. Didn’t try to touch. Didn’t belittle. But didn’t admire either. He just... saw me.

And being seen by a man like that felt like a delicious little violation.

“You here alone?” I asked softly.

“No.” He looked at me. “But they don’t matter.”

“In that case,” I take a quiet breath, “enjoy your night.”

I stepped back. But before I could fully turn, his voice followed again.

“I hope... tonight doesn’t disappoint you completely.”

I stopped. Looked back one more time. And for the first time since arriving at that party... I smiled.

...

I returned to the villa after making sure Bretta and her husband had truly left. They disappeared into a glossy black car, Bretta waving with a yawn like a child full of warm milk.

“She’ll give birth while picking out curtains if no one watches her,” I muttered, tugging at the edge of my gown that nearly caught on a terrace step.

Matteo was already waiting for me near the bar. With two glasses of wine and a smile too neat for a night that had long lost its charm.

We walked side by side, greeting a few lingering guests. Some politicians from Naples. An oil investor from Kuwait. A Russian woman who’d sprayed on too much perfume and carried a tiny pistol in her diamond clutch.

Matteo shook their hands calmly, like the world could never collapse. As if his only fear was unbalanced wine in crystal glasses.

And I... stood beside him. Like an expensive decoration that only spoke when prompted.

Then... the lights went out.

Not dimmed. Out. Brutal. The speakers cut off. Laughter froze. Glasses rattled softly on the tables.

Silence.

Someone whispered, “Is this part of the event?”

—and a second later, a gunshot.

Then screaming.

A window to the right shattered violently. Glass shards hit the floor like a snowstorm from hell.

I grabbed Matteo’s arm. Tight.

So tight my nails might have left marks.

“What’s happening?” I whispered, my eyes scanning the dark room now lit only by the flicker of unstable candlelight.

Matteo pulled me close, his hand firm on my waist. “Stay behind me.”

But a small explosion near the balcony sent everyone into a panic. Guests scattered, tables overturned, glasses shattered.

Another gunshot. Closer.

I lost my grip on Matteo’s arm when someone shoved me from behind.

“Matteo!” I screamed, searching for his face in the chaos.

I saw him turn—looking for me—his face furious, worried, alive. But too far.

Someone grabbed me from the side. A strong arm wrapped around my body from behind and yanked me into a narrow hallway along the side of the villa.

“What....let me go!” I kicked, punched, tried to fight back, but the man was too fast. Too trained.

I tried to bite his arm as he dragged me through a half-open back door, out into a deserted yard slick with night dew.

We ran down the stone steps. The distant city lights cast a faint silhouette across his face.

And when he finally set me down, I recognized him.

“Jared?” I gasped.

He looked at me.

“What are you doing?” I struggled to stand, still swaying. “Why did you pull me away from Matteo?”

He only shook his head slightly. His face held exhaustion…. “I’m sorry,” he whispered.

I didn’t get a chance to ask anything else.

Another arm, cold, strong, unfamiliar, wrapped around my neck from behind.

And just as I tried to scream, everything… went dark.

Not normal darkness. But the kind that bites.

That pulls you under.

That smothers until there’s no sound, no feeling. Just black.