FOUR

JORDYN

The morning after Enzo and Bianca’s wedding is chaotic in the best way. Loud, bright, and brimming with laughter. The Russo manor hums with energy while we gather around the grand dining table, plates overflowing with lavish Italian breakfast spreads. Sunlight pours in through the tall windows like nature’s I*******m filter. Honestly, it’s almost suspicious how perfect everything looks.

At the head of the table is Luciano Russo. Enzo’s father. Silent, but somehow louder than everyone else combined. My parents sit beside Bianca and Enzo, all still glowing from last night’s fairytale. And then there’s Matteo and me, sitting side by side and pretending our knees haven’t been bumping like nervous passengers in a turbulence zone.

I lift my porcelain cup, inhale the perfect scent of latte, and take a slow, dramatic sip while observing Luciano. He’s dressed in a charcoal suit sharper than my sarcasm, silver streaking through perfectly styled hair, his expression carved from stone.

There’s something about the man that makes the air feel heavier, like the molecules themselves are afraid to misbehave. He doesn’t even have to speak. He just is. And now that I’m looking properly, it’s clear where Ares gets his whole “mysterious brooding danger” vibe. It's hereditary, like cheekbones and trauma.

The dining room sparkles around me. Silver clinks against overpriced china, laughter echoes off marble, and mood lighting works overtime. But the chair at the far end? Empty. Unspoken. Like the family just collectively forgot someone existed.

Where is the elusive dark knight? Again.

If this is supposed to be some traditional celebration breakfast, shouldn’t he be here glaring stoically over his coffee? I didn't see him much at the wedding either, just at the very end, lurking in the shadows like he was auditioning for a gothic reboot of Pride and Prejudice.

I can’t help but wonder if there’s some sort of tension between Ares and the rest of the family. The broody Russo brother. The outsider. Always present, but somehow... not.

Honestly? That makes him at least ten times more dangerously attractive. It's practically a rule, right?

No sign of a wife beside Luciano either. No warmth to soften his edges. No gentle presence to cancel out the general sense of existential dread he gives off. All I know about Enzo and Ares’s mother is that she died when they were young. Bianca said it’s kind of a taboo subject around here. Looking at Luciano now, I’d bet her death didn’t just take her—it carved something out of him that never grew back.

While everyone chats, my attention shifts to the last almond crème croissant on the tray. It’s golden, flaky, beautiful. Possibly sent from above. My mouth fills with saliva. Game on.

Just as I reach for it with the precision of a pastry thief, another hand moves in at the exact same time.

Matteo.

I almost roll my eyes. Of course it’s him.

Our fingers brush. Light and electric. I freeze long enough for the butterflies in my stomach to start unionizing.

He doesn’t pull back. Nope. Instead, he leans in with zero shame, voice low enough to slide under the hum of conversation.

“Are you going to fight me for it, Fossette?”

The smirk on his face says he really hopes I’ll try. I raise an eyebrow, casually pretending I’m not at all red in the face.

“Depends,” I murmur. “You planning to cry if I win?”

Matteo lets out a soft laugh, and it’s infuriatingly attractive. He still doesn’t let go of the croissant and neither do I. For a solid few seconds, it’s just us—locked in a silent, slow-motion standoff over pastry like its foreplay with high-calorie stakes.

Around us, Luciano mumbles something to my dad. Bianca is giggling at something Enzo whispered. Nobody notices that Matteo and I are currently tangled in a flirt war over baked goods. Nobody sees how dangerously close we are to turning brunch into a rom-com.

His thumb grazes mine, barely there, but enough to send my internal system crashing.

He glances down at our hands, then back up, eyes locked, and smile lazy.

“I don’t cry, Fossette,” he buff, voice smooth as ever, that Italian accent sliding off his lips like it was personally handcrafted for sin. “But I don’t lose either.”

Say less.

Challenge fully accepted

I swipe the croissant out from under his hand and take a bite—slow, triumphant, and just dramatic enough to qualify as petty theatre. I even add a little moan of pleasure for effect, just to make sure he knows this victory is personal.

Matteo watches me with a glint in his eye, amused and maybe a touch impressed.

“Oh, what was that?”

“Cheeky little thief,” he mutters, the smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth like he’s enjoying this far too much.

I swallow, then flash him a sugary smile. “Don’t hate the player, Hotshot. Hate yourself for being too slow.”

I take another bite and deliberately lick the dusting of powdered sugar from my lips like it’s the final move in a high-stakes chess match.

“If you want something that bad,” I add, “you better learn to move faster.”

Matteo glances around the table casually. But it’s calculated, I can tell. Then his hazel eyes return to mine, piercing and full of subtext. “I don’t like to lose,” he drawls, “but when I set my sights on something I truly want, Fossette, I don’t quit until it’s mine.”

If I hadn’t already swallowed my bite, I would have choked on it when I feel his fingers lightly graze the side of my bare thigh. His eyes drop to my lips, slow and deliberate.

“But watching you lick the cream off your lips and hearing you moan?” he continues, voice dipping lower. “Made losing worth it.”

Oh. Bloody. Hell.

My face heats like someone lit a fire under my skin, but I refuse to look away. If anything, I lift my chin and meet his gaze head-on.

You want a show, Romeo? I’ll give you one.

I arch a brow, voice smooth and sweet as poison. “Careful now, Matteo. Keep looking at me like that, and I might start charging you.”

His smirk mirrors mine as I lift the croissant to my lips and take another bite—slow, purposeful. I drag my tongue across my bottom lip to catch the last hint of crème like I’m auditioning for an espresso commercial with wildly inappropriate undertones.

He leans in just close enough for his breath to graze my cheek, voice pitched low, meant only for me.

“Then I’d better get my money’s worth, Fossette.”

His tone is playful, but the look in his eyes? That’s not play...it’s intent. And God help me; I’m liking it way too much.

Who even am I?

Because I’m not entirely sure where this sudden burst of boldness came from. Normally, I fumble for my lip balm and run. Today? I’m flirting with my sister’s brand-new stepson over a croissant and powdered sugar in front of a table full of oblivious adults.

To them, we’re just two people making small talk over breakfast. Meanwhile, my entire moral compass is trying to decide if this is reckless, flirtatious, or dangerously brilliant.

Matteo shifts slightly, and now his thigh is pressed just a little closer to mine beneath the table.

When I glance his way, he’s already watching me. His mouth curves into a slow, smug smile that says he caught every single thing I didn’t say aloud.

“Careful, Fossette,” he murmurs. “Keep looking at me like that, and I might think you’re really into this.”

“Then I’d suggest you get your eyes checked,” I reply, elbow on the table, chin resting in my palm, gaze steady. “Because I’m not like the girls who fall at your feet. I actually have a brain. And I’m sorry to break it to you, but it’s going to take more than a wicked smirk and a pair of pretty eyes to win me over, Romeo.”

“Cazzo,” he murmurs.

His smile deepens—lazy, lethal, and entirely too satisfied. “I’m going to enjoy every second of making you eat those words, ragazza bella.”

Then he leans back and casually pops a grape into his mouth like he didn’t just toss my entire emotional equilibrium off a cliff.

It’s a good thing I’m flying home today, because I may have bitten off more than my big mouth can chew.

And note to self: D******d Duolingo and learn Italian. Immediately.

                                                                            ***

“Promise you’ll come visit us all the time?” Bianca says, pulling me into a tight hug. “I’ll go crazy out here all by myself.”

I smile, pressing my chin against her shoulder as I rub her back gently.

“I promise,” I whisper. “Every chance I get.” I squeeze her a little tighter, holding on just a second longer before letting go. “Have an amazing honeymoon.”

Bianca pulls back from our hug, quickly brushing away a tear that escapes down her cheek. Her blue eyes shimmer under the morning sun, a tight smile trembling on her lips as she turns to Mum and Dad.

Mum steps forward first, gathering Bianca into her arms like she’s still her little girl.

“Be safe, sweetheart,” Mum whispers, her voice thick with emotion. “Have the adventure of a lifetime.”

Bianca lets out a soft, watery laugh, squeezing Mum tight.

“I will,” she promises, her voice cracking just enough to give her away.

Dad is next, pulling her into a strong, steady hug, the kind that says everything he can’t find the words for. “You take care of each other,” he murmurs into her hair.

“We will,” Bianca says, her fingers clutching the back of his shirt for just a second longer than she means to.

When she finally pulls away, she swipes at another tear and laughs again, a little breathless. “Go,” Dad says, nudging her gently toward Enzo. “Before your Mum changes her mind and tries to drag you back. Enzo, you take care of our baby girl.”

Bianca smiles through the tears, linking her arm through Enzo’s as he chuckles under his breath. “You have my word, James. I’ll protect her with my life.” And just like that, with one last wave, they’re gone, getting into the car waiting to take them to the airport.

I watch as the car pulls away and Bianca waves and blows kisses at us until they disappear out of the gates of the manor. Leaving me standing there... trying to shake the sudden, hollow feeling from my chest.

While I’m genuinely thrilled for Bianca, there’s this undeniable twinge of sadness knowing she won’t be nearby anymore. She’ll be a thousand miles away, living in a different country, in a whole new world.

She couldn’t have fallen for a good-looking Italian man who lives in London...oh no. She had to go and fall in love with one who lives sixteen-hundred miles away in Italy.

And sure, the thought of her being surrounded by vibrant culture, romantic sunsets, and the kind of scenery you see in films fills me with admiration and envy… but deep down, selfishly, I want her close. I want her home with us.

Who am I going to bicker with over who gets to use the bathroom first now?

Shit, it’s really starting to hit me how much I’m going to miss her.

“Come on, darling, we still have bags to pack before our flight.” Mum says as she throws her arm over my shoulder and leads me back inside the manor.

We came to Sicily with one suitcase each, somehow, we have wound up with two additional cases and three bags. “Jesus, how much did you shop, Anna?” I hear my Dad grunt as he and one of the Russo’s drivers play suitcase Tetris in the boot of one of the cars.

“Don’t ask questions you don’t want answers to, dear.” I let out a snicker when my Dad stills and shoots her a playful glare, and she shrugs back at him sheepishly.

“Well,” Dad huffs, stepping back and placing his hands on his hips while he stares at the luggage’s hanging out of the boot of the car. “All these bags won’t fit. We’ll have to load it in the back and have Jord hold a case in her lap or get a second car.”

I scowl at him and look at the large cases. Brilliant. An hour squashed in the back of the car with that heavy thing crushing my legs sounds delightful. Before Dad can suggest anything else, Luciano Russo steps forward, his voice smooth but firm.

“James, don’t stress, we’ll arrange another car,” he says, glancing over his shoulder. “Matteo, you’ll take Jordyn and follow them to the airport.”

Uh, what? An hour journey with Matteo...alone?

Matteo, who’d been leaning against a wall with his hands stuffed into his pockets, watching the entire spectacle, gives a lazy salute. “Sí, Nonno.”

Once the cars are loaded with the bags, we say our customary goodbye to Luciano Russo and pile into the cars to start our journey to the airport. As I climb into Matteo’s sleek, black Ferrari Portofino, because of course the playboy prince of the Russo family would drive a Ferrari, I feel a gnawing deep in my gut. It’s a feeling I can’t quite place. It’s not nerves of being alone with Matteo, no, something feels off...almost like impending doom. Maybe I’m just sad that we’re heading home to a life without my big sister.

Matteo’s Ferrari growls to life, the low, throaty purr of the engine filling the driveway. The car is sleek and predatory, all smooth lines and quiet power, the deep metallic black paint catching flashes of the morning sun. The leather seats are butter-soft beneath me, the interior smelling faintly of expensive cologne and something sharper that tastes a lot like adrenaline. He taps the steering wheel with an easy confidence, a cocky grin tugging at his mouth. As if he was born behind the wheel of a car like this.

“Don’t be nervous, Fossette. I’m a good driver,” Matteo says with a cocky smirk, sliding his designer shades onto his face like he has all the time in the world.

“I have a question,” I say, shifting in my seat to face him. “What is Fossette, and why do you keep calling me that?”

Matteo smiles, pulling his sunglasses down to the bridge of his nose until his hazel eyes meet mine. “Fossette means dimples, in Italian,” he says, his voice lower now, softer.

I blink, caught off guard.

Oh.

I fix him with a glare, and he smirks back at me, leaning over to turn the music up. “Relax princess, I know these roads like the back of my hand. You’re safer with me than with any speed limit.” The nickname makes me roll my eyes, but there’s no heat behind it. I’m not convinced, but I suppose I don’t really have much of a choice but to trust him.

I let my head fall back against the seat, watching the villa shrink in the side mirror as we pull away. Ahead of us, Mum and Dad’s car leads the way down the winding Sicilian roads.

The sun blazes high above, casting everything in a blinding, golden glow. Olive trees blur into green smudges as we speed past, and the warm air blowing through the window smells of salt and summer.

Matteo hums along to the music, tapping his fingers against the steering wheel. Every now and then, he sneaks a glance at me. “You sure, you’re okay?” he asks eventually, his voice softer than usual.

I nod, even though my chest feels tight. “Yeah, I’ve never really been apart from my sister,” I mumble. “Now that we’re leaving, it all feels very real.”

Matteo doesn’t say much, just a tight nod, eyes locked on the road ahead, one hand steady on the wheel, the other hovering close to the gearshift. The steady hum of tyres on asphalt fills the car, but it does nothing to soothe the gnawing tension crawling under my skin.

We’re cruising along the highway, the Sicilian hills a blur of dusty green and sunlit gold. It should feel peaceful and safe, but my gut is telling me something’s off.

I glance ahead. My parents’ car is two lengths in front, steady in the middle lane. Everything looks normal, until I feel Matteo tense beside me. His hand shifts on the steering wheel, jaw locked tight, eyes flicking from the road to the rearview mirror and back again.

“Matteo?” My voice cracks with unease. “What is it? Is something wrong?”

He doesn’t answer. Doesn’t even blink. Just leans forward slightly in his seat, like he’s bracing for something.

The air around us shifts, thick and electric. I twist in my seat and look behind us and that’s when I see it. A black Alfa Romeo, low-slung and mean, weaving through traffic like a goddamn predator. It cuts too close to a van, then darts behind us, riding Matteo’s bumper like it wants to climb into the boot.

My stomach free falls. “Matteo. Who the hell—?”

“Head down,” Matteo bites out. “Now.”

The panic hits like a gut punch. My breathing stutters, short and rapid, my hands scrambling uselessly at the seatbelt as if I can protect myself from something I don’t even understand. What the fuck is going on?

I barely finish my thought when the car jolts forward with a thud. The Alfa Romeo has tapped us, on purpose.

“Oh my God,” I gasp, eyes wide, pulse hammering in my ears.

“Figlio di puttana!” Matteo spits, swerving hard. “Lo sapevo… bastardo infame.”

The black car accelerates again, but Matteo suddenly jerks the wheel and veers into the left lane, just in time. The black car swerves violently and clips the rear of the car with my parents in it and sends it spinning.

Everything around me slows.

Their car lurches sideways across two lanes, caught in the stream of fast-moving traffic. A truck slams on its brakes...but not fast enough. Tires screech against the asphalt. The force slams the car into the guardrail at full speed. The impact is thunder, the noise deafening. Shattering glass, screaming metal. Their car crumples like foil against the guardrail with a crunch that echoes in my bones.

I don’t breathe.

I’m frozen.

Just staring, like I'm trapped in some action movie.

No sound, no thought...just the image of their car, smoke curling from the hood and the high pitch ringing in my ears.

“M-mum...Dad.” I whisper and then my brain starts to function again, and I realise what just happened. A scream tears from my throat before I even realise it. Matteo curses sharply, pulls into the shoulder and slams the brakes, but it’s too late. The world is already tilting, chaos swallowing everything.

Smoke, the crumpled wreck of my parents’ car mangled and motionless against the twisted barrier.

My seatbelt locks tight across my chest as we screech to a halt, the smell of burning rubber thick in the air. My limbs tremble as I fumble desperately with the buckle, my hands shaking, my heart a wild, stuttering drum in my ears.

“Mum!” I cry, throwing the door open and stumbling into the road, oblivious to the traffic, to Matteo shouting after me. “Dad!”

All I can see is them. Trapped inside.

“No!” I scream again, raw and broken. It feels like it rips through my entire body, like it tears something open inside me that I’ll never be able to put back together again as I stumble toward the wreckage. But before I can reach it, arms clamp around my waist, hauling me backward. “MUM!” I scream, my voice ripping the air. “DAD!” I thrash against the hold. Wild, desperate, kicking and clawing, anything to break free. “Let me go!” I sob, the words splintering from somewhere deep inside me.

Matteo’s voice is harsh against my ear, strained with panic. “Jordyn, stop, stop! It's not safe!”

Not safe? They’re trapped. They need me.

The world blurs at the edges. Sound bends and distorts like I'm underwater. The only thing that matters is them. With a surge of frantic strength, I break free, my feet barely touching the ground as I bolt forward.

“Jordyn!” Matteo’s shout is distant, fading behind the roar in my ears as I skid to a stop at the side of the car. Glass is scattered across the road, blood painting the twisted metal a sickening red.

“Mum,” I whisper, my voice cracking into pieces.

I see her first. She’s crumpled against the back seat, head slumped at an unnatural angle, her once beautiful dress now soaked in blood.

And then...my Dad. He’s slumped in the passenger seat, his body eerily still, his head resting against the shattered window, blood trailing from a cut at his temple. His hand hangs limply against his thigh, lifeless. The driver is wedged between the door and the guardrail.

“No,” I gasp, the word burning my throat. I reach through the broken glass, desperate, my fingers brushing my mother’s blood-slicked cheek.

“Oh God... Mum, please. Please open your eyes. Please don’t die. I'm right here. Can you hear me? You're going to be okay. Both of you, you're going to be okay...”

I sob so hard I can’t breathe. My chest feels like it’s caving in on itself. “Please, please just hold on.”

And then Matteo is by myside again. Stronger this time, wrapping his arms around me, dragging me back as I scream and fight him, clawing at the air, desperate to stay.

But the wreckage slips further and further away, swallowed by smoke, the wail of sirens in the distance, and the deafening sound of my own heart shattering into a million pieces. “No, please!” I wail, my voice shattering against the smoke-thickened air. “We need to help them. Matteo, my parents are in there! Please...we need to get them out of there!”

I claw at him, desperate, helpless, but Matteo only tightens his arms around me, grounding me when my legs buckle and give out. I collapse against him, sobbing into his chest. My bloodstained fingers curling into his shirt like I can anchor myself there...like if I hold on long enough, I can undo what’s happening. “Someone help them, please!” I scream. “Why is no one doing anything?! We need to get them out!”

“They're coming, Jordyn,” Matteo says urgently, his voice rough in my ear. “Help is coming, I promise.”

But I can't hear him. All I can hear is the roar of my own heart splitting apart inside me.

“Oh God, I can’t lose them...” I whisper, the words dissolving into a broken sob against his chest. “Matteo, I can’t lose them...I can’t...I can’t.”

Matteo holds me tighter, tucking my head under his chin as sirens wail somewhere in the distance, still too far away.

Way too late.