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.

I woke to warmth. The kind that seeps into your bones, that makes you forget the rest of the world exists.

Matteo's chest was against my back, solid and warm, his breath steady against my neck. His arm was draped lazily over my waist, his fingers tracing idle patterns against my skin.

For a moment, I didn't move. I just let myself feel it-the impossible comfort of being in his arms, the quiet that only came after a storm.

"You're awake," he murmured, voice rough with sleep.

I smiled, eyes still closed. "You were drawing circles on my hip. Hard to stay asleep with that."

He chuckled, the sound low and sinful, and pressed a kiss to my shoulder. "Maybe I wanted to wake you."

I rolled onto my back, meeting his eyes. They were softer now, stripped of all the control and darkness he wore in front of the world. Just Matteo. My Matteo.

"Careful," I whispered, brushing my fingers along his jaw. "You're starting to sound like you actually like me."

His mouth curved, that small, dangerous smile. "Like?" His hand slid from my hip to cup my breast, thumb brushing my nipple until it hardened. His gaze darkened, even as his tone softened. "Piccola, you don't have the slightest idea what you do to me."

The name-his name for me-sent a shiver straight through me. Before I could breathe, he leaned in and kissed me. Slow at first, savoring, then deeper, hungrier, like the taste of me was something he could never get enough of.

The sheets tangled around us as his weight pressed me into the mattress, his hands roaming over bare skin, relearning every inch of me as though the night before hadn't been enough. I gasped when his lips trailed lower, across my throat, down to my chest, his teeth grazing until I arched for him.

"Matteo..." I moaned, already melting, already gone.

"Shh," he hushed, kissing his way lower, his voice husky with promise. "Let me take care of you, piccola. Again. And again... until you can't forget who you belong to."

When it was over, I curled against him, breathless and stupidly happy, like maybe the world outside didn't matter.

But then he spoke.

"I'm leaving today."

The words hit like ice water.

I sat up. "What?"

"Florence. Business trip. Father insists." He said it so casually, like he hadn't just shattered me. Instead, I swallowed the ache and smiled. The kind of smile you practice in mirrors, the one that hides more than it shows.

"When are you leaving?" My voice was soft. Too soft.

"Couple of hours. Father's jet." Matteo stretched lazily, like the weight of his absence meant nothing. He brushed his lips over my temple as if it would make up for everything. "Don't miss me too much, piccola."

I forced a laugh, light and playful, the kind a sister might give a brother she adored. "Oh, please. Don't flatter yourself. I'll enjoy the quiet while it lasts."

The lie tasted bitter on my tongue.

He smirked, clearly satisfied, and slid out of bed. I sat there clutching the sheets, watching him button his shirt. Every movement was torture, a reminder that soon this room would feel too big, too empty.

I got up, wrapped in my robe, and followed him downstairs. I slipped into the role expected of me: the sweet sister, dutiful, loyal, sending him off with a smile. Only-sweet sisters don't ache for the touch of their brothers. Sweet sisters don't memorize the curve of their brother's mouth in case it's the last time they kiss it.

At the car, he hugged me. His cologne clung to my skin, familiar, addictive. He pulled back just enough to press a kiss to my forehead.

"Be good while I'm gone."

I smiled again, steady, unshaken. "Always."

And then I let him go.

I stood at the driveway, watching the car disappear, the mask slipping the moment it turned the corner. My chest hollowed out, leaving nothing but the memory of his hands on me, the echo of his voice calling me piccola.

I told myself it was fine. That I'd wait. That this was what sisters did-see their brothers off with grace.

But deep down, I knew the truth. Sweet sisters don't burn this way.

Two days later, I was in the library when the murmur of voices broke through my concentration. I glanced up from my open book, my eyes narrowing as I caught two maids whispering near the shelves. Their tones were hushed, conspiratorial, and I almost ignored them-until I caught one word.

"Engaged."

My chest tightened.

I rose slowly, slipping between the rows of shelves, feigning disinterest as I plucked a book and pretended to scan its spine. My ears strained for every word.

"They say Signor De Luca is engaged in Florence," the younger one said, excitement dancing in her tone. "To the daughter of the Moretti family. A perfect match."

My hands froze around the book.

The older maid sighed wistfully. "Of course it is. The Ricci family is powerful, influential. And she's beautiful. Didn't you see her at the gala? They say the entire family attended the ceremony already."

My throat closed, but I forced a smile as I turned toward them, hugging the book against my chest. "You girls are up early with your gossip." My voice was light, too light.

The younger maid blushed. "Forgive us, Signorina. We didn't know you were here."

I tilted my head, keeping my expression calm though my heart was thundering. "This engagement... are you certain?"

They exchanged a glance before nodding.

"Yes, Signorina. The family all went. We just assumed you stayed back because you already knew," the older one said carefully.

My stomach flipped. They thought I knew.

I smiled tightly. "Of course. I was... busy with work. Couldn't make the trip."

A lie. A flimsy shield. I didn't wait for their response; I walked away with what dignity I could gather, though my legs shook beneath me.

By the time I reached my room, my composure shattered. I grabbed my phone, fingers trembling as I typed his name. Matteo De Luca. The headline flashed before my eyes, merciless and clear.

Heir to the De Luca empire engaged to Mia Moretti in Florence.

The picture burned into me. Matteo, impeccably dressed, was standing beside her. The same woman he had danced with at the gala. Her smile radiant. His hand resting over hers.

I dropped the phone onto the bed as if it scalded me. My vision blurred with tears I hadn't wanted to shed. My Matteo. My secret. My betrayal.

The walls of the room closed in, suffocating me. I pressed my hand over my mouth to muffle the sobs clawing their way out of my throat. That explained the trip Serafina had embarked on yesterday.

When I finally dragged myself together, I went to Serafina. She was arranging flowers in the greenhouse, her elegance infuriatingly serene.

"Why didn't you tell me?" My voice cracked, though I tried to keep it steady.

Her head tilted slightly, eyes cool and calm. "Tell you what, Isla?" She smiled.

"That he's engaged. That the family already went to Florence without me. That I wasn't even thought of enough to be told!"

She sighed, as though I were being dramatic, and smoothed a petal between her fingers. "It was an impromptu arrangement, nothing more. These things happen quickly, and Matteo is-well, Matteo. You know how duty works."

I laughed bitterly, though it sounded broken. "Duty. Right. And I'm supposed to just smile and accept that the one person I..." I swallowed the rest, forcing my face into something, more detached. "It doesn't matter. I only thought I deserved to know as a member of the family."

Her gaze lingered on me for a moment too long before she turned away, dismissive.

"I'm sorry, Isla" That was all she said.

By the time Matteo came to my room that evening, my grief had hardened into fury.

He pushed the door open without knocking, his broad frame filling the doorway, his expression unreadable. "Isla, we need to talk."

I shot to my feet, the sting in my chest burning hotter than tears could soothe. "Talk? About what? About how you danced with her at the gala while I watched like a fool? Or how you were in Florence getting engaged while I stayed here, waiting for scraps of your time?"

His jaw tightened, eyes darkening. "It wasn't supposed to happen like this-"

"Don't!" My voice cracked, but I held my ground, glaring at him through the blur of unshed tears. "Don't feed me excuses. You could have told me, Matteo. You should have told me."

He stepped forward, closing the space between us, his voice low and urgent. "It wasn't my choice, Isla. You know how these things work. My father-"

"Your father?" I laughed bitterly, sharp and hollow. "Since when have you ever bowed to Alessandro's commands? You fight him at every turn, but suddenly now, when it comes to her, you just... obey?"

His silence was damning. Guilt flickered in his eyes, though his lips pressed into a hard line.

I felt the floor tilt beneath me, my breath hitching. "You promised me," I whispered, softer now, the venom draining into raw hurt. "You promised I'd never be alone. That it was you and me against the world."

His hand twitched, like he wanted to reach for me but didn't dare. "It still is. Isla, you don't understand what's at stake. This-this engagement, it's politics, it's business. It's survival."

"And what am I, Matteo?" My voice broke entirely, the words spilling like a wound that wouldn't close. "A shadow you keep in the dark? A secret you can't even name? Or just the charity case your family took in-loyalty to the dead, nothing more?"

Pain carved across his features. "Don't you dare call yourself that. You are more to me than anyone else, Isla. You always have been."

"Then prove it!" I snapped, tears streaming down my cheeks. "Prove it, Matteo! Because right now, all I see is you smiling next to her like I never mattered."

He crossed the room in two strides, too close now, too overwhelming. I backed up until the edge of the bed caught me. His scent-cedarwood, musk, and something distinctly him-wrapped around me, blurring the edges of my anger with dangerous familiarity.

"You think I wanted this?" His voice was low, rough, almost a growl. One hand braced against the wall beside my head, caging me in. "You think any of this was my choice?"

"Then why didn't you fight it?" My chest heaved, tears burning my eyes, but I refused to let them fall. "Why do you let them decide everything for you? For us?"

For a moment, silence. Then his hand lifted, cupping my chin, forcing my eyes up to his. His touch was gentle, infuriatingly so, though fire burned beneath it-like he was both restraining himself and unraveling all at once.

"I fight every damn day, piccola," he rasped, his thumb brushing the corner of my trembling lip. "But you-you're the only battle I don't know how to win. You undo me."

My chest rose and fell in ragged bursts, his nearness suffocating and intoxicating all at once. His words brushed against my lips, his restraint hanging by a thread I almost wanted to snap.

"Tell me to go," he said, voice low, dangerous. "And I will."

But my throat locked. I couldn't form the words, couldn't push him away when my heart screamed for the opposite.

Instead, I whispered, broken and furious all at once, "Damn you, Matteo."

And then I pulled him to me. Or maybe he moved first-I couldn't tell. All I knew was the crash of his mouth against mine, hot and desperate, anger and grief tangled into reckless surrender.

The kiss wasn't gentle-it was punishment and apology fused together. His hand slid into my hair, tugging, anchoring me as though he feared I'd vanish if he let go. My fingers curled into his shirt, pulling him closer, hating him, needing him still.

But then Florence intruded-the image of him standing beside her, the whispers of his engagement wrapping around my ribs like chains. The truth was a blade, and I let it cut through the haze of desire.

I pushed against his chest, trembling but firm. "Stop."

Matteo froze, breath heavy against my cheek, his hand still tangled in my hair. His eyes searched mine, raw, desperate, begging me to take it back, to let him stay.

I swallowed the ache and forced steel into my voice. "Leave, Matteo."

For a heartbeat, he didn't move. Then his jaw clenched, and without another word, he turned and strode out, the door slamming shut behind him.

The silence that followed was deafening. My knees buckled, and I sank onto the bed, pressing a hand to my mouth as the sobs finally tore free. I cried until my chest ached, until my throat burned, until there was nothing left but the hollow echo of his absence.

The sheets still carried his scent, cruel and familiar, and I curled into them as though they could anchor me. But the truth was unrelenting: he was promised to another, and all I had left was the ghost of a kiss that had already felt like goodbye.