I slam the door of my childhood home and step out onto Via Cassano only to see Martina standing across the street.
What is she doing in Secondigliano? Her brother would lose his mind if he knew she’s here.
Then I remember it’s my job to protect her.
Fear engulfs me as I run across the street, trying to dodge the speeding cars. I’m afraid that when I get there, she’ll already be gone.
But when the bus passes, she’s still there, wearing a yellow sundress and a smile.
She laughs when I reach her and pulls me into an embrace. “Giorgio, it’s just a dream.”
In this dream, she’s the same girl I’ve gotten to know over the past week, but she’s different in a way I can’t quite put a finger on. When I inhale the scent of her hair, my restraint evaporates in a flash. Arousal fills me, so strong and demanding that my knees nearly buckle. When she makes a move to pull away, there isn’t a single chance I’ll let her.
All the times I’ve had to hold myself back from her flash before my eyes.
But this is just a dream.
And in this dream, she’s mine.
I back Martina against the crumbling wall of the fabric store where my mother used to buy patterned silk for her dresses, and I begin working down a list of all the things I’ve wanted to do to her since that day by the pool. I can be honest with myself in a dream. Honest about the fact that since that moment, not a single hour has gone by without me thinking about how good it would feel to bury myself to the hilt inside of her.
She’s tiny. My hands span the entirety of her waist, and my body engulfs her. Her sweet summer scent surrounds me and I press my nose to her throat where it’s strongest. Fuck. I’ve never smelled anything better.
My lips part on a moan, and I press them again her flesh. She’s soft and pliant, tilting her head to the side to give me the access I crave. I skim my lips down to her chest, dip my tongue into her neckline, squeeze her breasts. It’s fucking heaven. My cock is desperate for more as I grind against her, lifting up her hands over her head, her skirt over her thighs. My fingertips skim over her panties.
“Giorgio, stop.”
Tearing myself away from her is one of the hardest things I’ve ever done, but something in her voice gives me pause.
When I look at her, my heart sinks.
A wet track runs from her bottom eyelid down her cheek.
“Don’t cry,” I tell her even as a crack resounds inside my chest.
Even in a dream, I’m not good enough for her.
Even in a dream, it doesn’t work.
“Don’t cry, Martina.”
I should step away, but the knowledge that this can never happen again keeps me frozen.
One last kiss, and then I’m done, I tell myself.
Wrapping my palm around the back of her delicate neck, I dip my head and press my mouth against her pink lips.
And the next time I blink, we aren’t on Via Cassano anymore. We’re lying on the kitchen floor in the castello.
Her eyes are wide and wet and frightened as she stares up at me, her hair a messy golden pool beneath her head.
I scramble off her, off the floor.
There is no air. Not a square centimeter of oxygen floating anywhere in this room.
My palms slam against the marble counter, and I put my weight on it, giving her a view of my back while my thoughts sprint over boulders and cracked earth to catch up with what just happened.
We were in the dining room, eating, and then…
What happened?
What the fuck happened to make me lose my head like that?
My heart beats so hard it feels like it might break through my ribs. I’ve never lost control like that, not since…
Nausea roils though me.
“Gio,” she whispers, her voice broken and raw.
Did she scream for help? Did I make her scream?
“I’m sorry,” she says.
She’s closer now, but I still can’t look at her. What have I done? Her apology floods a sour taste through my mouth. What the fuck is she apologizing for?
“It’s my fault. The tea I gave you… It was meant to put you to sleep.”
My eyes narrow at the jar of sugar sitting on a wooden shelf in front of me. “What?”
She swallows loud enough for me to hear it in the deathly silence of the room. “I found a book on herbs, and it said I could mix two specific herbs in a tea to make a sedative. I found them in the kitchen. I made the tea and gave it to you so that I could steal the key out of your pocket and get my phone from your office.”
Quick, shallow breaths. She tricked me. I curl my hands into fists and press them into the counter until my joints whine in protest.
“I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean for it to go this way.”
I whirl around, and when she sees the look on my face, she backs away and bumps against the island.
“I’m so—”
“Don’t say it.” I point my finger at her. “Do not fucking say it.”
Tears spill over the rims of her wide, red eyes.
I can’t think.
As I prowl out of the kitchen, I hear her sob.
The sound ricochets between my ears even as I try to chase it away by slamming the door so hard it jerks on its hinges.
The dark colors of my bedroom swim before my eyes. What have I done?
I rake my fingers through my hair and review the sorry facts. She’s cleverer than I gave her credit for. No one’s ever managed to knock me out with a cup of tea before. The funny thing is that my little game to get her out of her funk worked. She got her win. I just never expected her to make a mess out of me in the process.
A vise wraps around my heart and squeezes it with a deathly grip. For days, she’s been testing my will. I offered to be her teacher without a proper appreciation of what being in close quarters with her would do to me.
Being around her, touching her soft, warm skin for hours at a time, seeing those full lips part and speak and tremble… Fuck me.
Instead of obsessing over her every detail, I should have been thinking about how I could get out of the commitment I made to her.
But I convinced myself that my restraint would hold. And it did.
Until tonight, when she turned it into glass and shattered it at my feet.
Leaning my forehead against the wall, I thump my fists against it.
Life is irrational. I’ve always known this, but somehow, I’ve managed to navigate its irrationality for thirty-three years. Thirty-three years of schemes, plots, close calls, and tragedies.
And yet it seems my compass has finally broken.
The needle’s stuck, and it’s pointing in a single direction.
Martina.
The only woman in this world I categorically can’t have, and yet it’s her that I crave.
I never thought I’d be so drawn to innocence. That’s what it is, isn’t it? She bleeds it through her every pore—a cocktail of youth, inexperience, and strength that’s fatal to a rotten man like me.
I push off the wall and drag my hand over my face. If Damiano ever finds out, I’m done. The favor won’t materialize. And fuck, I need that favor. I need it because it will free me from the burden I’ve carried ever since I entered this world.
I have to be the one to kill Sal.
Damiano has to let me do it, even though it will put him at risk. If anyone finds out, his claim will be questioned, but no one will find out. I’ll make sure of it. I don’t want the fucking throne. I just need to be the one to squeeze the life out of that son of a bitch.
Resolve hardens my spine. I’m going to fix this. I’m going to get this situation back on track, just like I always do.
The remnants of the tea-induced fog clear from my mind, and with it comes a sinking sensation.
She was crying. I left her there crying.
The horror of what she’s just experienced at my hands rams into me.
What was I thinking leaving her there like that?
Fuck!
I prowl toward the door, but before I have time to tear it open, a knock comes.
“Giorgio?” Her voice filters through.
It doesn’t sound like she’s crying anymore. The thought of her doing her best to calm down so that she could come and speak to me opens up a hole inside my chest.
I stop in front of the door and press my palms against the frame. “Yes.”
“Can we talk?”
There’s an inch of solid wood between us, and like a coward, I use it as a shield for a few more seconds.
What’s the plan, Giorgio?
Make sure she’s okay, apologize, then…lie. Use every excuse under the sun to make her believe the episode in the kitchen was nothing but the confused actions of a man under the influence. She can never suspect any of that was real.
When I finally set my eyes on her, her posture is slumped, and her face is pink and puffy. She averts her gaze to the floor before slowly dragging it back to me, as if struggling to do it.
“Martina.” The word vibrates with feeling, no matter how I try to tamper it down.
She blinks at me, and she seems so small and dejected that it takes everything in me not to drag her into my arms.
“Did I hurt you?” I force out.
She sucks in a breath and shakes her head. “No.”
“Where did I grab you? Was I…rough with you?”
I don’t miss the absentminded drag of her teeth over her bottom lip. Did I bite her there? If I pull down that lip, will I see the marks from my teeth?
My cock presses against the zipper of my pants.
The fact that I have so little control over my body around her sends a pulse of frustration through my veins.
“You kissed me,” she whispers.
I’m certain I did a fuck of a lot more than that.
Sensing my skepticism, she adds, “I’m fine. You didn’t hurt me.”
I feel a light brush of relief. “Good.”
“I…I don’t know what to say.”
“What happened was a mistake.”
She flinches and tries to hide it by brushing a lock of hair out of her face. “It’s my fault. I had no idea how strong the tea would be. I take full responsibility.”
I’m about to argue, but then I halt. This is good. She’s already putting the blame on that fucking tea, and she clearly feels guilty for giving it to me. All I have to do is validate her understanding of what happened.
“You made it yourself?”
“Yes.”
“Congratulations, you outwitted me.”
She exhales through her mouth and shakes her head. “I thought you’d be impressed.”
Despite the situation, a smile tugs at my lips. “I am. It was clever.”
Her expression lightens a tiny bit. “After I got the phone, I came back to you and…”
Is she going to go into detail about what I did to her? I’m not sure I want to hear it.
She shifts her weight between her feet. “You were having a bad dream. That’s why I was so close to you. I was trying to comfort you.”
She was? The idea of her trying to help me pierces my chest. “How did you know I was dreaming?”
“You were talking in your sleep. Something about a woman. You said she deserved better.”
The feeling that washes over me feels like being bathed in tar. Heavy and uncomfortable. How much of the conversation with my father did I say out loud? How much does she know?
“What else did I say?” I have to force the words past my dry throat.
“You said someone didn’t watch her carefully. Who were you talking about?”
“No one. I was dreaming, but they were just dreams. Nonsense.”
The way she holds my gaze for a second too long tells me she doesn’t believe me.
She wraps her arms around her midsection and asks, “What did you dream about afterwards?”
Sundresses, lush lips, and soft, fragrant skin.
My hands curl into tight fists, my blunt nails digging into my palms. “Nothing.”
“Nothing?”
“I didn’t know what I was doing, Martina. Like I said, what happened with you was a mistake.”
“You didn’t know it was me you were kissing?”
“Of course not. I would have never done it otherwise.”
Hurt flashes across her eyes. “You said my name.”
“I did what?”
“You said my name when we were doing it. You said, ‘Don’t cry, Martina.’”
Panic spreads through my lungs. “You must have imagined it.”
Her eyes narrow. “I didn’t.”
Why won’t she let it go? “Maybe it was when I was already coming back around.”
“But you kissed me again after you said it.”
The silence that follows is tense. “Your brother would be very upset if he knew about this…misunderstanding.”
Her expression clouds. “Ah, so that’s what you’re really worried about.”
My jaw clenches. She doesn’t know what’s on the line for me, and it’s likely she never will.
“He trusts me with you.”
“Don’t worry, I won’t tell him about what happened.” She takes a half-step forward, her gaze flashing with anger. “Or that I think you were kissing me in your dream as well.”
My pulse races. “Even if I did, it must have been just my brain playing tricks. We had dinner right before it happened. It would make sense for my subconscious to latch on to the most recent person I’ve been with.”
Her lips tighten into a thin line and then quirk up into a bitter smile. “I see.”
I need to hammer the point home, because the last thing I can afford is her believing there’s something here. “I’m a grown man, Martina. You’re a teenager. I can fucking promise you I have no interest in teenagers whose primary concern in life is their damn phone. It was the tea, that’s all.”
She huffs a laugh. “Got it.”
“Good.”
“You know what’s interesting, though?”
I wait for her to continue.
“My phone wasn’t the only thing that I found in your office.”
My muscles stiffen as something sparks inside her eyes.
“I hope you enjoy reading my book.”
She brushes past me and slams the door behind her.
