005

The dining room of the Montoya estate was a gallery of old power and colder memories. Walls lined with paintings of long dead ancestors watched over the evening like silent judges, their stern faces catching the flicker of candlelight. The clink of cutlery, the polite hum of conversation, and the occasional burst of laughter.

Rafael Montoya sat at his place, a full glass of deep red wine untouched in front of him, a plate of carefully prepared venison going cold. He could barely hear the conversations around him. Everything else was a blur.

All he could feel was the phantom weight of Alessio De Luca against the wall minutes ago.

The taste of him.

The way Alessio’s mouth had yielded beneath his, the heat of his breath, the sharp hitch in his throat when Rafael had bitten his bottom lip. It had been reckless. A mistake. One Rafael had meant to punish, to reclaim control, to remind Alessio where the power really lay between them.

But it hadn’t gone that way.

He hadn’t meant to crave it. To feel that surge of want that made him reckless.

And now they sat, just as expected, like nothing had happened.

Alessio was seated four places down, beside Isabella. He looked perfectly composed, his expression polite, charming when addressed by one of the older relatives, gracious when Isabella leaned into him to murmur something in his ear. No one else would see it, the stiffness in his shoulders, the slight tension in his jaw but Rafael saw it. Felt it like a taut string stretched between them.

Alessio hadn’t so much as looked his way since they returned.

It made Rafael want to drag him out of his chair by his tie and finish what they’d started in front of the whole goddamn table. He took a slow, steady breath, clenching his fingers around the stem of his wine glass until his knuckles went white.

Isabella laughed at something Alessio said. It was a light, sweet sound, and it grated against Rafael’s skin like sandpaper. He couldn’t hear the words, didn’t want to, but the easy way she touched Alessio’s wrist, how Alessio smiled back at her, that he couldn’t stomach.

And yet, no one else noticed. To them, it was a beautiful thing. Two houses united at last. A wedding to secure peace, wealth, and power. The perfect picture of duty and tradition.

Except Rafael knew better.

His eyes flicked up just in time to catch Alessio’s gaze. Brief. Almost accidental. A half second too long to be meaningless.

There it was. That spark. That undercurrent of want, sharp and undeniable.

Alessio was the one to look away first, smoothing his thumb over the rim of his wine glass like he hadn’t meant to look at all. But it was too late.

Rafael’s pulse thudded in his throat.

The meal carried on, courses arriving in elegant procession, roasted potatoes , saffron risotto, wild mushroom consommé. Rafael barely touched any of it. The table around him hummed with small talk, updates on trade routes, vineyard expansions, the expected merger of the Montoya and De Luca shipping ports. Javier Montoya presided at the head of the table like a king at court, his sharp eyes missing nothing.

It was all routine. Performances they’d all mastered since birth.

But Rafael’s stomach twisted with each passing minute, with every careful touch Isabella laid on Alessio’s arm, with every pleased nod from Alessio’s father across the table.

He couldn’t do this. Not like this.

A lull in conversation came, as desserts were cleared and coffee poured. A hush that felt carefully orchestrated. His Father rose from his seat, lifting a glass of vintage Amarone.

“To the future,” he began, voice carrying through the room with the gravity of a man used to commanding attention.

Everyone raised their glasses.

“I believe,” He continued, glancing toward Alessio’s father, “it’s time we gave this union a date. Enough talk. Enough delays. Our families deserve to celebrate.”

A murmur of agreement rippled through the room.

Rafael’s stomach dropped.

“I propose,” Montoya said, his gaze sweeping to Isabella and Alessio with a pleased glint, “two months from now. The coast of Amalfi. The De Luca villa. No delays. No excuses.”

Applause. Soft, scattered at first, then stronger as the others followed suit. Isabella let out a delighted little gasp, pressing a hand to her chest as she turned to Alessio.

“Oh, it’ll be beautiful,” she beamed, and Alessio smiled back.

A perfect, dutiful smile.

Rafael’s throat closed.

He heard himself breathing, the sound too loud in his ears. The scrape of forks against china. The rustle of silk as guests shifted in their chairs. The way Alessio’s hand rested too easily on the table, his expression carefully unbothered, like Rafael hadn’t had his mouth on him not an hour ago.

Two months.

Two months until Alessio became his brother inlaw.

Until Rafael would have to stand beside him in front of witnesses and gods, knowing what he knew, tasting what he’d tasted.

The heat rushed up behind Rafael’s eyes before he could stop it. A sick, choking kind of anger twisted in his chest.

Without thinking, without caring, Rafael shoved his chair back. The sudden scrape of wood against marble was sharp in the heavy silence.

Heads turned. Conversations faltered.

His father arched a brow. “Rafael?”

Rafael didn’t look at anyone.

“I need air,” he said, voice low and even, though it cost him everything to keep it that way.

He didn’t wait for permission. Didn’t care what it looked like.

He left.

The heavy doors closed behind him with a dull finality.

The corridor outside was dim, lined with tall windows overlooking the moonlit gardens. The quiet pressed in around him. Rafael braced a hand against the cool stone wall, his pulse hammering in his ears.

What the fuck was he doing?

This wasn’t supposed to happen. He wasn’t supposed to feel anything for Alessio De Luca. Not for his father’s rival’s son. Not for his sister’s fiancé.

And yet,

And yet.

The memory of Alessio’s mouth, the heat of his skin, the way he’d moaned Rafael’s name like it meant something, it clung to him, a ghost he couldn’t shake.

Rafael slammed his fist once against the wall. The sharp ache in his knuckles grounded him, but it didn’t burn the desire out.

A quiet sound made him turn.

Alessio stood in the doorway, the light from the dining room haloing around him. For a long moment, neither of them spoke. The tension in the air between them was a living, breathing thing.

Rafael’s voice was low, rough when it came.

“What the hell do you think you’re doing?”

Alessio stepped forward, slow, measured. The perfect son, the perfect heir. Except now, away from watching eyes, his expression cracked.

“I wasn’t going to let you fall apart in front of them,” Alessio said quietly. “I know what this is.”

“You don’t know shit.”

Alessio’s gaze met his. Tired. Unforgiving. Wanting.

“I know I’m supposed to marry your sister,” Alessio murmured, stepping close enough that Rafael could feel the heat of him. “And I know I shouldn’t have let you touch me. But you did. And I let you. And now we have to live with it.”

The words lodged in Rafael’s throat.

He wanted to say don’t marry her. He wanted to say I’ll kill you if you do.

But he said nothing.

Because what was there to say?

Alessio gave him one long look, then turned and walked away, his shoulders tight, the back of his neck flushed.

Rafael stayed behind, breath ragged, hand still curled into a fist.

This war wasn’t over.

It was just beginning.