บททั้งหมดของ The Ricci Heir: บทที่ 21 - บทที่ 30

It had been a week in Italy, and somehow it still didn’t feel real.The villa, the warmth of Matteo’s family, the quiet moments on the balcony overlooking the gardens — all of it felt like stepping into someone else’s life. Someone braver. Someone who belonged here.And Matteo…He’d been nothing but a gentleman.Even when the sleeping arrangements should have been awkward. Even when the first night had been surreal enough to make my face burn every time I thought about it.I could still hear his voice from that night, low and matter‑of‑fact as he stood by the bed, tugging off his watch.“I normally sleep naked,” he’d said, like he was announcing the weather. “But I’ll wear boxers. First time since I was sixteen.”I’d choked on air.He’d smirked.And then he’d climbed into bed like it was the most normal thing in the world.I’d stayed on my side — stiff, careful, trying not to breathe too loudly. I remembered staring at the ceiling, telling myself to relax, that it was just sleep, that

I didn’t mean to kiss him again.At least, that’s what I told myself right before I did it.Matteo was still holding me, his breath warm against my cheek, his hands steady on my waist as I tried to take in the room he’d made for me. My room. My space. My dream.Something inside me cracked open.I turned in his arms and kissed him — not shy this time, not hesitant. I kissed him like I needed him to feel everything I couldn’t put into words. He inhaled sharply, surprised, then melted into it, one hand sliding up my spine, the other cupping the back of my neck as he kissed me deeper.“Ciara…” he murmured against my mouth, like he wasn’t sure if he should stop or pull me closer.I made the decision for him.My hands slid down his chest, slow and deliberate, feeling the warmth of him through his shirt. He tensed — not pulling away, just… aware. Focused. His eyes darkened as I traced the line of his torso, my fingers trembling but determined.I wanted to thank him.Really thank him.Before

The night air was cool when we stepped out of the restaurant, the soft glow of the streetlamps casting warm halos along the cobblestone path. Matteo’s hand found mine easily, like it belonged there, and we fell into step together.The town was quieter now, shops closing, families heading home, the distant sound of laughter drifting from a café down the street. It felt peaceful. Safe. Like the world had slowed down just for us.We walked in silence for a few minutes, not awkward, just… comfortable. Then Matteo squeezed my hand gently.“Ciara,” he said, his voice low, thoughtful. “There’s something I want you to understand.”I looked up at him, heart fluttering.“In my family,” he continued, “marriage isn’t just a ceremony. It’s sacred. Binding. When we choose someone, we choose them for life.”I swallowed, unsure where he was going but unable to look away.“And I need you to know,” he said, stopping so he could face me fully, “that the day I decided to be with you… that was it for me.”

A week passed in a blur of lace samples, menu tastings, and long afternoons spent with GreenLee at the villa’s sun‑drenched dining table. Matteo’s mother had a way of making everything feel warm and safe, like planning a wedding wasn’t overwhelming at all but something joyful, something sacred.She never once invited Isolde to join us.And I didn’t ask why.I didn’t need to.Every time I caught Isolde watching us from across the hall or lingering in doorways she had no reason to be near, a cold prickle crawled up my spine. She smiled too much. She listened too closely. She hovered like she was waiting for something — or someone — to slip.I tried to ignore it.Tried to focus on writing, on the wedding, on Matteo.But the feeling wouldn’t go away.By the end of the week, it had settled into my chest like a stone.That evening, Matteo found me curled up in the corner of his office — our office now — typing away at my laptop. He leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed, watching me wit

The package arrived just after dawn.Small. Unmarked. Wrapped in plain brown paper like it held nothing more dangerous than a trinket. But the moment I lifted it, the weight of it settled into my palm like an old memory.Like a promise.Like the past coming back to finish what it started.Marquez didn’t waste time.He never did.Inside was a single vial clear, harmless‑looking, almost elegant. The same formula he’d given me years ago. The same one that had helped me remove Maeve O’Connell from my path when she became too much of an obstacle.A soft smile tugged at my lips.Maeve had been a fighter.But even fighters fall when their body stops listening to them.And now… Ciara would learn the same lesson.I tucked the vial into the hidden pocket of my coat just as the front door slammed open.Cormac stormed in, face flushed with anger, shoulders tight with barely contained rage.“Where is he?” he snapped. “Where’s Declan?”I sighed dramatically, turning toward him with the practiced so