บททั้งหมดของ TO HATE, TO TOUCH, TO RUIN: บทที่ 1 - บทที่ 10

The sky above Santorini melted into a deep orange hue, spilling across the sea like paint on canvas. Our table sat right at the edge of the terrace, facing the ocean. The summer breeze brushed gently against my skin, carrying the salty scent of the sea mixed with a faint hint of rosemary from the restaurant kitchen. Soft jazz music played in the background, barely audible.Matteo hadn’t touched his wine.“Someone died this morning,” he said, staring into his empty glass. “Two men from Palermo. Shot in the street, broad daylight. Old-school. Brutal.”The steak knife in my hand paused over the still-bloody meat. I looked at him, waiting. He was always like that… opening conversations like dropping a grenade on the table.“They were probably trying to make a statement,” he went on. “Or send a message. We know who did it. But not enough to strike back without starting a full-blown war.”I leaned back into the linen-covered rattan chair and took a deep breath. The candlelight on the table f

The first breath that filled my lungs tasted like metal. Cold and sharp.My eyes opened slowly, blinking a few times before focusing on the unfamiliar interior. Leather so smooth it felt unnatural, soft lights hidden in the seams of the car ceiling, the engine barely making a sound.This wasn’t something I rode in just to get around. And I was sitting… on a leather couch facing another couch.Facing him.The man from the garden. The one who didn’t touch me. Didn’t say my name. But made me feel like I was already stripped bare under his stare.He sat casually, one arm resting on the back, legs crossed. Still wearing the same black shirt from last night, fitting far too comfortably on his body.His eyes lifted when I moved, then dropped to my feet. “You’re awake,”I instinctively leaned back, my spine hitting the side of the car door. “Who are you?” I asked, my voice hoarse.He didn’t answer right away. Instead, he reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a handkerchief. He offered

I didn’t sleep.Not because I was scared. But because too many things were moving in my head like an old machine that kept ticking long after the power was cut. The layout of this house, the number of steps from my room to the main staircase, the sound difference between leather shoes and rubber soles in the north corridor.Even the timing between guard shifts.All of it. Filed away. Neat.And at three in the morning, when the entire villa felt like it was holding its breath, I started to move.Bare feet. Quiet steps. My breathing steady in a slow rhythm. The thin linen dress I wore hung loose on my body, silent, unnoticeable.Hallway after hallway, I passed.This house was too bright in the daylight, but at night... the darkness felt like snake skin.Cold. Smooth. Poisoned.But I knew where I was going: the lower level, east wing. A room I’d seen guarded earlier that day. Large steel doors. A security system too sophisticated for a storage room. I didn’t know what was inside. But I k

I sat across from him, watching how he bit into the arepita slowly, like a lion testing the taste of its kill before deciding to devour it.His hands, of course, were bigger than mine. Long fingers. Subtle veins along the back of his hand as it curled around the espresso cup.God. How does a man look that sexy doing something so basic?“How is it?” I asked, stabbing the silence.He just chewed, swallowed, took a slow sip of his coffee, then looked at me. Those eyes. Deep, cold blue. But somehow too alive for a man who killed without blinking.“The arepita’s good,” he answered. “The picadillo... decent.”My eyebrow lifted. “Decent?”“Simple,” he said, plainly. “I like simple.”I let out a quiet scoff. “Right. Because a half-stale croissant with two sour slices of peach is your idea of simple.”His mouth tugged into something that wasn’t quite a smile. A crack in that stone-cold line he always wore. “Peaches are expensive.”“And depressing,” I shot back. “What are you, a mafia don or a

I walked through the long hallway, winding like the fossilized guts of some ancient beast.The villa's floors were dark limestone. The walls thick, with white paint flaking off in places, revealing the coarse coral stone beneath the arched doorways. The arches were tall, absurdly tall, making me feel small and, strangely, safe.My fingers brushed the wall. The surface was cold, lightly dusted. The scent of the sea slipped through a tiny window down the corridor. Every detail. Old bronze chandeliers, faded paintings of Tuscan vineyards, a cracked marble tile at the end of the hall, whispered something dangerously close to nostalgia.It was ridiculous, standing in the house of a man who could kill me with a smile, yet still thinking: God, if this villa were in the Dolomites...I’d been to the Dolomites once. Long ago. Before Matteo. I stood in front of a crumbling nobleman's castle, staring at the stone tower and stained-glass windows, thinking, If I had a place like this, I’d sleep in