Chapter 3 Isla Pov

I swear, time flew so fast. One minute we were children playing tag in the gardens with Matteo stealing my dessert at dinner and being annoying, trying to fix my braids, and the next second we’re all grown, teenagers trying to figure our way around life.

But before that shift, there were years that belonged to just us—little fragments I still kept like pressed flowers between pages.

I remembered being thirteen, scrawny and determined, when he was sixteen and already stronger, faster. I thought I was clever enough to beat him at anything. He was sixteen, smug and annoyingly patient. He’d decided I needed to “learn how to throw a proper punch,” and we’d spar for hours in the empty gym with wooden practice swords until my palms blistered and my arms ached. 

“Keep your guard up, Piccola,” he’d snap, knocking my wrists up higher.

“You keep your mouth shut,” I’d retort, swinging wildly. He’d catch my fist midair, twist my arm behind my back until I squealed, and then grin down at me like he’d won a championship.

“You’ll thank me one day,” he’d say smugly.

And damn it, part of me already did.

Other days, it was quieter. I sprawled in the library with me, pretending to study history when in reality he was beating me mercilessly at chess.

“You think too emotionally,” he’d tell me, moving his rook with deliberate precision.

“And you think too slow,” I’d shoot back, even though I was always the one cornered in the end.

He’d smirk, leaning back like the throne was already his. “One day, you’ll understand the difference between strategy and impulse, Piccola.”

I hated that he was right.

And then there were the nights he’d sneak into my room with a deck of cards or the latest game he’d smuggled from London summers. He’d sit cross-legged on the carpet while I perched on the edge of my bed, both of us whispering too loudly past midnight.

“If you lose again, you’re fetching me dessert tomorrow,” he’d declare.

“And if I win?” I’d challenge.

“You won’t.”

But on the rare occasions I did, the scowl on his face was priceless, and I’d treasure my victory like gold.

All of that—all those little stolen pieces of growing up together—made the shift even sharper when it came.

At 17, Matteo was no longer a boy. I realized it one morning in the courtyard. I’d been reading under the olive tree when I heard a voice—low, rough, commanding. My heart skipped before I even turned. And there he was, taller, sharper somehow, giving instructions to the gardener like he owned the world.

“Matteo?” The name slipped out before I could stop myself. 

He stopped his conversation with the gardener and turned in the direction of my voice. The instant his eyes fell on me, a small smile pulled on his face.

He tilted his head with that smug and annoying smile still on his lips. “What?” He mouthed.

I stared, wide-eyed. That voice didn’t belong to him. At least, not the Matteo I knew.  

“Nothing,” I muttered, burying my nose back into my books. But my face and ears were burning red. I sneaked a look later from behind my book and saw that he had turned and continued his talk with the gardener.

Months later, after my first semester at college, I saw him again for the first time since his return from England, where he had gone to study. And this time, it was worse. He had grown into a fine young man, having just celebrated his 23rd birthday. He stood, waiting at the door as though he’d been there forever, leaning one shoulder against the marble pillar like it belonged to him. Broader. Taller. His dress shirt stretched across his shoulders in a way I swear hadn’t been there before. He held himself differently, too—chin lifted, posture proud—as the guards and even my chauffeur dipped their heads in greeting. He was growing to be the spitting image of Don Alessandro. I almost forgot how to breathe.

My mouth betrayed me. “You grew.”

His lips curved, slow and smug, the kind of smile that made my chest ache in a way I didn’t want to admit. “That’s what time does, Piccola.”

He opened his arms wide, as though daring me to refuse, and I hated myself for how quickly I walked into them. His chest was solid beneath my cheek, his arms firm around me as he picked me up and took me for a little spin. Gone was the boy whose hugs were all elbows and careless laughter. This was different. And boy, did he smell heavenly. Clean soap and something sharper, like cedarwood.

I pulled back before I could melt completely and lifted my chin. I tried not to look impressed. “Don’t get cocky. You still look ridiculous when you’re mad.”

“Oh?” His ocean blue eyes caught mine, a shade too intense, too knowing. The teasing tilt of his mouth didn’t reach them. “And when was the last time I looked ridiculous?”

I swallowed, heat crawling up my neck. Every time you stare at me like that. But I forced a smirk, curling my words like a shield. “Every day.”

He chuckled, low and husky, the sound of it so unfamiliar, yet so him. “Still sharp-tongued, I see.”

“Still insufferable.” I muttered as we made our way into the house.

He leaned just so slightly, enough that my pulse stumbled. Then, softer, he whispered. “Welcome home, Piccola. I’ve missed you.”

The words landed heavier than I expected. Especially with the way he called my pet name. I tried to shrug them off, but my chest tightened anyway.

“So… why are you home? I thought you were supposed to be in London until the summer.”

“Business,” he said, almost too casually. “Father needed me here for a while. Meetings, contracts, the usual headaches.” He tilted his head, studying me. “And you? What are you doing home so early? I thought you loved school.”

I rolled my eyes, relieved to slip back into banter. “Loved" is a strong word. Let’s just say the semester ended, and I survived the mess.”

The truth was that Serafina had told me that Matteo would be in Italy for a while before going back to complete his studies, and I didn’t want to miss out on any opportunity to spend time with him.

His smile tugged wider, like he was amused by my choice of words. “So, the princess returns.”

“You make it sound like I’m dramatic.”

“You are dramatic.”

I huffed and looked away, pretending his nearness didn’t rattle me. He was my brother—not by blood—but moments like this reminded me how the line between family and something else blurred too easily.

“Still,” I nudged his shoulder with mine. “Don’t act like you don’t miss me when I’m gone.”

He arched a brow, voice dropping. “Maybe I don’t.”

But his eyes told another story.

I made a face at him, standing up to go to my room. “That’s not what I heard.”

And in that instant, I knew—this wouldn’t be the last reunion that left me unsteady. Because the next time I saw him, he wouldn’t just be passing through for business. He’d be a man finished with his studies in England, finally back in Italy to stay. To take over as heir apparent to his father’s wealth. 

And I wasn’t sure if I’d be ready for him then.