CHAPTER 19: Caught in the Storm

The city lights flickered past as the car glided smoothly through the streets. The tension between us had lessened, but something still lingered beneath the surface—unspoken words, unanswered questions.

Marco sat beside me, his elbow resting against the door, fingers lightly tapping against his knee. His gaze was fixed ahead, but I could feel his attention on me, like a gravitational pull I couldn’t escape.

“You barely ate today, did you?” His voice was quiet, but there was an edge of certainty to it.

I hesitated before admitting, “I wasn’t really hungry.”

His jaw twitched. “You need to take care of yourself, Mia.”

I let out a soft laugh, though there was no humor in it. “Says the man who probably hasn’t had a full meal in days.”

Marco smirked, finally turning to face me. “Touché.”

The car slowed as we neared a sleek, high-end restaurant. The kind of place where the wealthy and powerful dined in quiet luxury. The driver pulled up to the entrance, and before I could even think about opening my door, Marco was already stepping out, moving around to my side.

He opened the door for me, offering his hand. I hesitated only for a second before taking it, letting him help me out of the car.

Inside, the restaurant was dimly lit, the soft glow of chandeliers reflecting off marble floors and polished tables. A waiter immediately approached, recognizing Marco without a word. We were led to a private booth near the back, away from prying eyes.

As I settled into my seat, Marco studied me carefully. “Order whatever you want.”

I picked up the menu, but the weight of his gaze made it impossible to focus on the words. My appetite was still shaky, but I knew better than to argue.

“So,” I said, setting the menu down. “Are you going to tell me why you really brought me here?”

Marco leaned forward slightly, resting his forearms on the table. “You needed to eat.”

“And?”

His lips curved into a knowing smirk. “And maybe I just wanted your company.”

I rolled my eyes. “Right.”

But deep down, I wasn’t sure if I wanted to know his real reason. Because whatever it was, I had a feeling it would change things between us even more.

The waiter returned, taking our orders with quiet efficiency before disappearing again, leaving us in the cocoon of our private booth.

Marco leaned back, stretching one arm across the back of the seat, his fingers just inches from my shoulder. He studied me, his gaze sharp yet unreadable.

“You’re quiet,” he noted.

I sighed, tracing my finger over the condensation on my water glass. “I don’t know what to say.”

“About last night?”

I nodded. “About everything.”

For a moment, he said nothing, as if choosing his words carefully. Then, he leaned forward again, closing the space between us just enough that I could catch the faint scent of his cologne—dark, expensive, unmistakably him.

“I know you have questions.”

I swallowed. “And will you answer them?”

His smirk was slow, deliberate. “Some.”

I exhaled a quiet laugh. “Of course. Can’t have Marco Valentino giving away too many secrets.”

His expression flickered, something unreadable passing through his eyes. “Some things are better left unsaid.”

I frowned, but before I could press further, the waiter returned with our food.

The tension broke just slightly as the plates were placed in front of us, the rich aroma filling the air. I hadn’t realized how hungry I was until I picked up my fork and took the first bite.

Marco watched me, amused. “Told you.”

I rolled my eyes but kept eating. “You enjoy being right, don’t you?”

“Only when it comes to you.”

My stomach flipped, but I focused on my plate, refusing to let him see how easily his words affected me.

For a while, we ate in comfortable silence. But I knew it wouldn’t last.

Marco wasn’t the kind of man to ignore the inevitable.

And neither was I.

So when I set my fork down and looked at him again, I didn’t hold back.

“What really happened last night?”

Marco took a slow sip of his wine, his gaze never leaving mine. When he set the glass down, he exhaled lightly, as if weighing his response.

“I told you it was because of the gala,” he said smoothly.

I frowned. “The gala?”

He leaned forward slightly, forearms resting on the table. “Not everyone was happy about it. Hosting an event that brings together powerful figures—it always comes with risks.”

I studied him carefully. He was giving me just enough to sound like an answer, but not enough to satisfy the nagging feeling in my gut.

“But people died,” I pressed. “This wasn’t just some protest against the gala, Marco. This was targeted.”

His jaw tensed for a fraction of a second before he masked it with a casual shrug. “Some people are willing to do anything to send a message.”

I scoffed. “And you’re just… accepting that?”

His lips twitched, though it wasn’t quite a smile. “What do you want me to do? Cry about it?”

I stared at him, frustrated. “I want you to be honest with me.”

He was silent for a beat, then leaned in closer, his voice softer but no less intense. “And I will be. When the time is right.”

I hated that answer.

But more than that, I hated how much I wanted to believe him.

Before I could argue, Marco shifted the conversation. “How’s work?”

I let out a sharp breath. “Seriously?”

His smirk returned, but there was something else in his eyes now—something protective, almost possessive. “I’d rather talk about you than a bunch of dead men.”

The bluntness of his words sent a shiver down my spine.

Marco wasn’t a normal man.

The weight of his words settled between us, thick and unspoken. I knew what he was doing—redirecting, keeping me at arm’s length from the truth. But instead of pressing him further, I exhaled and picked at the food on my plate.

Fine. He wasn’t ready to tell me everything.

But that didn’t mean I wouldn’t figure it out myself.

“Work is fine,” I muttered, stabbing at a piece of grilled chicken. “Same routine every day.”

Marco arched a brow. “And you enjoy it?”

I hesitated, twirling my fork against my plate. “I don’t hate it.”

A low hum left his throat, like he wasn’t convinced. “You own a bookstore, don’t you?”

That caught me off guard. “Yes.”

He leaned back in his chair, studying me like I was one of his business dealings. “So why work a job you don’t love?”

My fingers tightened around the cutlery. “Because it’s practical.”

His smirk was slow, knowing. “And you’re a practical woman?”

I narrowed my eyes. “Is that a bad thing?”

“Not at all.” He reached for his glass again, tilting it slightly as he watched the deep red liquid swirl inside. “But practicality doesn’t always lead to happiness.”

The way he said it, like it was a lesson he’d learned the hard way, made my stomach twist.

I swallowed and forced a small smile. “Not all of us have the luxury of chasing whatever we want.”

His gaze flicked to mine, something unreadable flickering behind his eyes. “Maybe you should.”

The conversation felt too intimate, too heavy, so I looked away, taking a sip of my water.

Marco let the silence linger for a moment before shifting the subject again. “Have you thought about what you’ll wear to your next event with me?”

I snorted. “What makes you think there’ll be a next time?”

His smirk was back, full of quiet arrogance. “Because I’m not done with you, Mia.”

My breath hitched.

Damn him.

My throat went dry at his words.

Because I’m not done with you.

I hated the way my pulse reacted, how my stomach did that ridiculous fluttering thing. I should have been annoyed, should have reminded him that I wasn’t just some piece on his chessboard that he could move at will.

But I wasn’t sure if that would be entirely true.

Marco took a slow sip of his wine, watching me over the rim of his glass. He knew exactly what he was doing—stringing me along, pulling me deeper into his world with every calculated move.

I forced myself to focus on my food, even though my appetite had all but disappeared. “You sound awfully sure of yourself, Marco.”

He set his glass down, his fingers tapping lazily against the table. “That’s because I am.”

I scoffed, shaking my head. “Unbelievable.”

Marco only chuckled, but then his expression softened slightly. “Tell me something, Mia.”

I glanced up at him warily. “What?”

“If I hadn’t texted you today, would you have reached out?”

The question was unexpected, and it knocked the breath right out of me.

I swallowed, gripping my fork a little tighter. “I don’t know.”

Marco tilted his head, waiting.

I exhaled, finally meeting his gaze. “Maybe.”

A ghost of a smile played on his lips. “Good.”

Something about the way he said it—low, satisfied—sent a shiver down my spine.

I should have known then that Marco Valentino always got what he wanted.

And right now?

He wanted me.

Dinner continued in silence, the air between us thick with unsaid words.

The restaurant, once filled with the soft hum of conversation and the clinking of cutlery, seemed to quiet around us. Marco ate with his usual composure, unfazed by the tension lingering between us, while I found myself pushing food around my plate more than actually eating.

I hated the way he unsettled me. The way a single glance from him could make my stomach tighten, my pulse skip.

But what I hated most?

The fact that he knew it.

When Marco finally signaled for the check, I felt both relieved and restless. The moment we stepped outside, however, relief turned into something else entirely.

Rain.

Not the soft, misty kind that left a gentle sheen on the pavement.

No—this was a downpour. Sheets of water pounded against the sidewalk, sending people scattering for cover. The streetlights cast a golden glow on the wet pavement, reflections of passing cars rippling in the puddles.

I instinctively wrapped my arms around myself, my thin blazer no match for the cold seeping into my skin. Marco, on the other hand, barely reacted. He glanced up at the sky, then back at me.

“Stay here,” he ordered. “I’ll get the car.”

Before I could argue, he was already moving, stepping into the storm without hesitation. The rain soaked through his expensive suit in seconds, but he didn’t seem to care.

I watched him disappear into the downpour, my breath hitching as I realized something.

Marco Valentino was a storm himself—dangerous, unpredictable, impossible to ignore.

And somehow, I was standing right in the middle of it.