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.

Two years later,

The De Luca Annual Charity Gala came again. It was an event hosted yearly by the De Lucases in honor of my parents to raise funds for charity events. From the top of the grand staircase, I paused, staring at the scene before me. Golden light spilled from chandeliers, scattering across polished marble and gowns that glittered like spilled jewels. A string quartet played in the corner.

At one end of the room stood the hosts-Alessandro and his wife, cloaked in grace and authority, shaking hands and offering practiced smiles. Every guest wanted time with them as if the family's approval was currency. One word from them could build or ruin empires.

Over the years, Don Alessandro had built an empire for himself in both the business and the mafia world. He was a force to be reckoned with. A man to be feared.

I exhaled slowly, tightened my grip on the railing, and took my first step down the stairs. It wasn't my first rodeo and certainly won't be my last. I adjusted the slit of my gown-a deep emerald satin that clung to my skin like sin. The kind of dress that dared people to look twice. My hair was swept up, my lipstick dangerous, all thanks to Serafina. She wanted me to be the star of tonight.

When I walked down the stairs, the air shifted. Heads turned. Whispers followed.

But I only search for one gaze-Matteo. While recalling the words he spoke to me 14 years ago. Don't look down.

He stood across the room, tuxedo pressed to perfection, jaw tight, glass untouched in his hands. For a moment, his mask slipped, and the hunger in his eyes nearly undid me.

Then he blinked, and the mask was back. Cold. Controlled.

For a while, I had noticed the changes in our dynamics ever since he returned to Italy. Gone were the innocent sibling bonds we once shared. Things were tense between us. To others, we were perfect siblings, polished and untouchable, but behind closed doors, everything was shifting. My personal training and study sessions turned into lingering touches and subtle flirting. Arguments flared into silences thick with something we dared not name. And the way he hovered-too overprotective, too quick to dismiss any man who so much as looked my way-it was as if he was claiming me without saying a word.

He met me at the bottom of the stairs, offering his arm. "You're late. You shouldn't linger," he murmured, his voice low enough for me to hear.

My lips curved in a teasing smile. "Why? Afraid someone else might notice me?"

"They already have." His jaw flexed. "And I don't like it. Let's go greet our parents."

Possessive. Always possessive.

I wanted to argue, to throw his hypocrisy in his face, but before I could, we were joined by another figure.

Damian Russo.

Heir to one of the ruthless families in Italy, and the De Lucas' greatest ally-or rival, depending on who was talking. His black suit was sharp enough to slice through glass, and his jet-black hair was styled to perfection.

"Well," Damian drawled, a smirk tugging at his lips. "Look who we have here. The De Luca princess."

His eyes lingered on me for a beat before sliding deliberately to Matteo. "And their prince."

Matteo's arm stiffened beneath my hand. tension rolling off him in waves, though his jaw remained locked, unreadable. His stillness was deceptive-like a predator calculating when to strike.

"I don't think we've met, princess." Damian's smile widened as though he had just been handed the evening's entertainment. He gave a short bow, hand pressed to his chest. "I'm Damian. Pleasure to meet you."

I offered him a small, polite smile, my voice softer than I intended. "Same here."

The music swelled around us-violins quickening into a waltz. Damian straightened, his eyes never leaving mine, bold enough to challenge Matteo's silence.

"Would you grant me the honor of this dance," he asked smoothly, extending a hand toward me, "if you aren't... otherwise busy?"

I gasped, heat rising to my cheeks. My eyes darted to Matteo. His gaze was locked on Damian, his lips pressed into a tight line. He appeared calm and collected, but I knew better. I could feel the storm beneath that façade; the restraint he clung to with white knuckled precision

I should have declined. Every bone in my body told me to say no. But a reckless part of me wanted to prod Matteo's armor and watch it crack.

"Why not?" I said lightly, loosening my hand from Matteo's.

At that moment, a guard came, leaned close, and whispered into his ear. His jaw tightened as his gaze shifted to where his parents stood with Bryan Vincenzo, their Consigliere, and a young lady draped in pearls and satin. The picture was enough to sour my mood. There had been talks of an impending marriage to seal alliances. Matteo, ever defiant, had been stalling-rejecting several dates. But his parents, especially his father, had been relentless.

I felt my chest tighten, though I forced my features into calm neutrality.

Damian caught on instantly, his smirk widening as if the whole thing amused him. He leaned closer, lowering his voice.

"Don't worry, you can go on. She's in safe hands."

Matteo's eyes cut to him, cold and sharp as blade. "I don't think that'll be necessary-"

I slid in quickly, cutting him off. "Don't worry." I said softly, taking Damian's outstretched hand. "Seems like Dad needs your presence."

He blinked at me, surprised at my action. A thousand unspoken words passed between us in that silence.

I turned to Damian with a smile that didn't really reach my eyes. "Let's go."

The music swelled around us as Damian guided me into the dance. His hand was steady at my waist, his movements fluid. the dance was easy but no sparks. He talked, teased, even made me laugh at points, but my mind kept straying-kept finding Matteo.

Across the floor, he was done talking with his parents. He was with her. The young elegant lady with perfect posture. Every bit the woman his parents would approve of. I caught the flash of her hand on his arm, the way she tilted her hand to smile at him. And though Matteo's expression was schooled into stoic indifference, I felt the sting all the same.

I forced a laugh at something Damian said, swallowing the lump forming in my throat.

The ride home was silent. Too silent.

Matteo drove, his hands firm on the wheel, his jaw set in stone. The city lights streamed past the windows, throwing fleeting shadows across his face. I sat with my hands clasped in my lap, staring out the window. My mind replayed the images-him with her, the way our-his parents had so pleased, Bryan's calculating gaze as though every move tonight was another play on his chessboard.

The silence stretched, unbearable. Finally, I turned my head, my voice barely above a whisper. She was beautiful.

His hands tightened briefly around the steering wheel, but he said nothing.

The silence lingered, the air between us grew thick with everything unsaid till we got home. He didn't look at me as walked through the grand entryway of the de Luca estate, the sound of our footsteps echoing off marble floors like gunshots in the stillness.

I barely got two steps into my room after a quick bath, the steam still clinging to my skin, before the door slammed shut behind me with a resounding crack.

Matteo.

He stood there, body tense. His eyes-usually a storm contained-were dark, raw, and unreadable. His jaw was clenched so hard I thought his teeth might break. It was obvious: he'd just come from another clash with Alessandro.

I turned my back to him, casually, adjusting the tie on my bathrobe in front of the mirror. My hands moved to my face, dabbing moisturizer with slow motions as though he wasn't there burning holes into me.

"What?" I said flatly.

"Was that fun for you?" His voice was low, dangerous, laced with something far more than anger. "Letting him touch you like that? Letting him look at you? You were all smiles and laughter."

I paused, my hand hovering over the jar of cream, before slowly meeting his reflection in the mirror. One brow arched in mock confusion. "Excuse me?"

"You know exactly what I mean."

A bitter laugh escaped me, sharp and cutting, masking the way my pulse skittered. "Oh, I'm sorry, Matteo. I didn't realize my entire existence was yours to control."

His fists clenched at his sides, his voice rising, taut with fury. "Is that what you think? I'm controlling?"

I spun toward him, eyes blazing. "Oh, you tell me, Matteo."

"I'm trying to protect you."

"Protect me?" My voice cracked, anger spilling in my chest. "From what? From living? From breathing? Or is this just you taking out your rage at your father on me?"

The words hit their mark. His face flinched and for a second, I thought he would walk out of my room. But instead-

He moved.

One step. Two. Slow and calculated. My breath hitched as my back hit the wall with a dull thud, and suddenly his hands were framing my face. His breath was hot, uneven, his control unraveling before my eyes.

"Don't," he whispered harshly, the word trembling with restraint. "Don't ever compare me to him. You don't know what you do to me, Piccola."

My heart slammed against my ribs. "Then tell me."

Maybe it was the challenge in my tone, the way I refused to look away. Maybe it was the years of restraint. But something snapped.

His mouth crashed against mine.

The kiss wasn't soft. It was fire-wild, consuming, years of tension combusting in an instant. His hands tangled in my hair, pulling me closer, while my fists gripped his shirt like I could fuse us together. The taste of him drowned me, salt and whiskey and something dangerous I couldn't name.

When we broke apart, I was shaking, lips swollen, breath ragged. This wasn't innocent anymore and we both knew it.

"Matteo-" I tried to speak, but the word broke into a gasp as his lips traced the line of my jaw, down the column of my neck, each touch scorching, leaving me undone.

"This is wrong," he muttered against my skin, though his hands betrayed him, sliding over my waist and lifting me up. "So damn wrong."

"Then stop." My voice trembled, defiant and pleading all at once. "Stop if you mean it."

But he didn't. Neither did I.

His mouth devoured mine again, rougher, hungrier, his control obliterated. And I... I loved it.

We stumbled blindly, knocking into the desk, the lamp shattering to the floor with a sharp crash. His teeth grazed my lower lip, and I thought I might come undone right there.

"Do you have any idea what you do to me?" His growl vibrated against my ear, raw, desperate with need.

"Then show me," I breathed, my body arching into his touch. Any ounce of self-control he had then flew out the window. He loosened my robe, baring my skin, and pressed me against the wall with his body caging mine. His finger slipped between my thighs, finding me already wet, a guttural sound tore from his chest.

"Already soaked, Piccola," he hissed, pushing a finger inside me, slow, deliberate. "Pathetic. You were waiting for this, weren't you?"

I tried to answer, but all I managed was a moan as he worked with long, tortuous strokes, curling his finger until my knees threatened to give out. He didn't speed up. Instead, he pulled out just as I was spiraling, leaving me clenching around nothing.

"Matteo, please..." I whispered.

"Beg louder," he commanded, his lips brushing my ear as his free hand squeezed my breast, pinching the nipple until I gasped.

"Please, Matteo. I need you."

He smirked, satisfied, before sinking to his knees. His mouth replaced his fingers, his tongue parting me, slow and devastating. My hands flew into his hair, pulling, guiding, but he held me still, forcing me to endure every languid lick, every tease. When he finally sucked my clit into his mouth, I screamed, my legs trembling around his shoulders.

"Come for me, piccola," he growled against my slick heat. The vibrations of his voice shattered me, pleasure ripping through me so violently I nearly collapsed, but he held me firm, drawing out every last wave until I was shaking.

I barely had time to catch my breath before he was on me again, lifting me off the ground and pressing me against the wall. His trousers were already undone, his cock heavy and straining against my stomach.

"You're mine," he said, the words harsh as he slammed into me in one brutal thrust. I cried out, nails clawing at his back, the stretch burning, overwhelming, perfect.

He set a merciless pace, each thrust driving me higher against the wall, his grip on my thighs bruising, his mouth devouring mine. Every sound he made was raw-groans, curses, my name rasped like prayer.

"Piccola," he gasped, forehead pressed against mine, sweat dripping between us. "You'll never let anyone else touch you like this. Only me. Say it."

"Only you," I sobbed, the words breaking as he angled deeper, hitting the spot that made me scream.

Pleasure coiled tight, unbearable, and when he pinched my clit between his fingers, I shattered around him, crying out his name. He followed, grinding into me as he spilled deep inside, his hoarse groan muffled against my neck.

For a moment, there was nothing but silence, our bodies trembling against the wall, slick with sweat, hearts hammering. He didn't let me go. His lips brushed my temple, softer now, almost reverent.

"My little piccola," he whispered again, but this time it sounded less like punishment and more like possession.