Chapter 7

HOLLY

I stared at Luca, unsure whether to laugh or run. Dance after dinner? That sounded like something out of a dream — the kind of dream I wasn’t supposed to have. Not with him. Not with anyone.

But there he was, standing in my kitchen like he belonged there. Like he’d always belonged there.

“You’re serious?” I asked, trying to keep my voice steady.

He shrugged, but his eyes betrayed him. “I don’t know. Maybe. I just… I like this. Us.”

Us. That word hit harder than I expected. I turned away, pretending to adjust the wine glasses, but really, I needed a second to breathe.

Because if I let myself fall into this — into him — I might forget why I came here in the first place.

And I couldn’t afford that.

Dinner was perfect. Too perfect. The risotto was creamy, the peppers were stuffed with just the right amount of spice, and Luca kept pouring wine like he was trying to loosen me up. It was working. Damn him.

We talked about everything and nothing. He told me about his childhood — the parts he was allowed to share. I told him about mine — the parts I was willing to reveal.

But the truth hovered between us like smoke. Thick. Unspoken.

I hadn’t told him about my mother. About my plan. About the man he called uncle.

And he hadn’t told me about his world. Not really. Not the blood-soaked corridors of Casa Da Varano. Not the deals made in shadows.

We were two liars playing house.

And yet, when he reached for my hand across the table, I didn’t pull away.

After dinner, he stood and offered his hand. “Dance with me.”

I laughed. “There’s no music.”

He pulled out his phone, tapped a few times, and suddenly soft jazz filled the room. “Problem solved.”

I hesitated. “I don’t know how to dance.”

“Neither do I,” he said. “But I’ll lead.”

I let him pull me into his arms. His hand settled on my waist, the other clasping mine. We swayed, awkward at first, then slowly finding a rhythm.

His breath brushed my cheek. “You smell like lavender.”

“I wanted to set the mood,” I teased.

“For what?”

I looked up at him. “For this.”

He smiled, and for a moment, I forgot everything. The revenge. The lies. The danger.

It was just us. Just this.

Until his phone buzzed.

He ignored it at first. But it buzzed again. And again.

“Maybe you should check that,” I said, stepping back.

He frowned, pulled out his phone, and his face changed.

“What is it?” I asked.

"I'm so sorry. I need to go. It's an emergency." 

"But--" 

He was gone before I could finish my sentence.

**

I’ve never been good at waiting. Not for answers. Not for people. Not for feelings to settle into something I can understand. But with Luca, everything feels suspended — like we’re dancing on the edge of something too big to name.

Tonight, he’s here again. No warning. No text. Just the sound of his knock, soft and deliberate, like he knows I’ll open the door even if I shouldn’t.

I do.

He’s holding a paper bag and wearing that half-smile that makes my stomach flip. “I brought dessert,” he says.

I arch a brow. “You didn’t even ask if I wanted dessert. Is this to make up for last time?” I am referring to the time he left without letting me finish what I was going to say.

“You always want dessert,” he replies, brushing past me into the apartment like he owns the place.

He doesn’t. But sometimes, I wish he did.

We settle on the couch, the bag between us. He pulls out two slices of tiramisu, neatly boxed, and a bottle of red wine I know costs more than my rent.

“You’re trying to impress me,” I say.

He shrugs. “Is it working?”

I take a bite. It’s perfect. Creamy, bitter, sweet. Like him.

“Maybe,” I say, licking the fork clean. His eyes follow the movement, and I feel the heat rise in my cheeks.

We’re quiet for a moment. The kind of quiet that feels like a question.

Then he says, “You always look like you’re thinking ten things at once.”

I glance at him. “That’s because I am.”

“Tell me one.”

I shake my head. “Nope.”

“Why not?”

“Because you’ll use it against me.”

He leans closer. “I’d never.”

I laugh. “You already do. Every time you kiss me when I’m trying to be serious. Every time you show up with wine and dessert and that face.”

He grins. “What’s wrong with my face?”

“Too charming. It’s suspicious.”

He tilts his head. “You think I’m hiding something?”

I meet his gaze. “Aren’t you?"

He doesn’t answer. Instead, he pours the wine, hands me a glass, and clinks his against mine.

“To secrets,” he says.

I sip. “To pretending they don’t exist.”

He watches me over the rim of his glass. “You ever think about what this would be like if we were normal?”

I snort. “Define normal.”

“No secrets. No family drama. No revenge plots.”

I freeze. Just for a second. He doesn’t know. Not really. But he’s close. Too close.

“I don’t think we’d be as interesting,” I say, forcing a smile.

He nods slowly. “Maybe. But I’d trade interesting for safe if it meant keeping you.” Luca smiled. "By the way, I just got that line from a movie somewhere. You know about the secrets, family drama and revenge." Then he laughed and I was mesmerized for a second.

My heart stumbles. Because I want to believe him. I want to believe that he’d choose me over everything else. But I know better. I know what loyalty looks like in his world. And I know I’m not part of it.

Not yet.

Later, we’re lying on the couch, my head on his chest, his fingers tracing lazy circles on my arm. The wine is gone. The tiramisu is a memory. And the silence is heavier now.

“I used to think love was a distraction,” I say quietly.

He doesn’t speak, just keeps tracing.

“But with you… it’s like I forget what I’m supposed to be doing.”

He shifts. “What are you supposed to be doing?”

I hesitate. “Surviving.”

He turns to face me. “You don’t have to do that alone.”

I want to believe him. But I’ve learned that believing is dangerous. It makes you soft. It makes you miss.

And I can’t afford to miss again.

He stays the night. Not in the way that changes everything. Just in the way that makes it harder to breathe when he leaves.

In the morning, he’s making coffee, shirtless, humming something low and Italian. I watch him from the doorway, arms crossed, heart aching.

“You’re domestic,” I say.

He glances over. “You say that like it’s a bad thing.”

“It’s suspicious.”

He laughs. “You’re always suspicious.”

“Because I know better.”

He walks over, hands me a mug. “Then prove me wrong.”

I take the coffee. “Maybe I will.”

He kisses me before he leaves. Soft. Slow. Like he’s memorizing me.

And I let him.

Because I’m not ready to let go.

Not yet.

After he’s gone, I sit at the table, staring at the empty mug. My phone buzzes. A message from an unknown number.

“He’s watching you. Be careful.”

I read it twice. Then I delete it.

Because I already know.

And I’m watching him too.