Emilia's POV
"Do you or don't you?" The words came out sharper than I intended—defensiveness disguised as confidence.
He laughed. Low and dark and promising. "Careful, darlin'. Choices have consequences." His thumb traced my wrist. "Or did your daddy not teach you that?"
My stomach dropped.
Does he know?
Before I could retreat, his hand found my waist, pulling me into the crowd. His lips brushed my ear, and I felt it everywhere.
"I'm Luca." His breath was warm. "Let's see if you can keep up."
I swallowed hard. "Emilia."
Damn it. Fake name. I was supposed to use a fake name.
"I mean—Emma. It's Emma."
He smiled against my skin. "Nice name. Let me know when you're sure which is which."
Dio mio. What have I done?
---
The last thing I expected when I escaped my father's prison was to end up in a hotel room with a stranger.
Yet here I was.
And it wasn't even a nice hotel room. Cigarette burns on the carpet. A flickering lamp that hummed like a dying insect. The kind of place where viruses came to start families.
Luca backed me against the wall, his hands sliding up my ribs. His kiss was slow, deliberate—like he was savoring something. A taste. A secret.
I fumbled with his jacket zipper, my nails catching on metal.
Amateur.
He chuckled against my mouth. "Nervous?"
"No."
My pulse roared in my ears, louder than the distant sirens beyond the window. The jacket finally gave way, slipping off his shoulders to reveal a faded black tee and a scar slicing diagonally across his collarbone.
Fresh. Still healing.
His thumb brushed the hollow of my throat, pulling me back. "You're thinking too much."
I wasn't thinking. I was drowning—in the musk of his cologne, in the reckless need to prove I wasn't just a pawn. My fingers dug into his hips as I kissed him harder, chasing the numbness that only rebellion could bring.
He let me lead. Too easily. His hands trailed up my spine with practiced ease, pushing my shirt higher.
Then his palm grazed the scar beneath my shoulder blade.
He went completely still.
Not the casual stillness of someone pausing. The predator stillness of something going rigid just before it strikes.
I tried to pull away, but his hand pressed flat against my back—not hard, but immovable. His thumb traced the raised tissue once. Twice. A question without words.
"Who." His voice had changed. Lower. Flat in a way that made my skin prickle.
"No one."
His eyes found mine in the dim light. The gold flecks were gone. Just dark now. "That's not how scars work, Mila."
I should have been scared. Some rational part of me screamed that this man—this stranger—had just shifted into something dangerous. But the scar burned under his palm, and no one had ever asked. No one had ever touched it like it mattered.
"My father." The words came out before I could stop them. "After my brother's funeral. I said the wrong thing."
Something flickered across Luca's face. Too fast to name. Then his jaw tightened—a muscle jumping—and I realized with a jolt that the anger in his eyes wasn't for me.
It was for him.
His hand spread across the scar, warm and possessive, like he could erase it by sheer will. Like he wanted to.
"No one touches you again." His voice was rough. "Understand?"
It wasn't a question. It was a vow.
I should have laughed. Should have reminded him that we were strangers, that he had no claim, that tomorrow I'd be gone. But the way he looked at me—like I was something precious, something worth protecting—cracked something open in my chest.
"Luca—"
He kissed me before I could finish. Not the slow savoring from before. This was different. Hungry. Possessive. His hands mapping my skin like he was memorizing territory, erasing every ghost that had been there before him.
I let him pin my wrists above my head. Let him kiss me until the room spun.
I didn't care. For once, I wasn't Vittorio's daughter or Enzo's future bride.
I was fire.
And Luca?
He was the match.
---
Morning light stabbed through the curtains, painting yellow stripes across the rumpled sheets.
I reached for Luca's warmth.
My fingers found cold linen.
A single red rose lay on his pillow, thorns stripped clean. Taped to the stem was a note in slanted handwriting:
Stay safe, Piccola. – L
Piccola.
Little one.
The name Paolo gave me when I was six. But Paolo never said it like that—like a brand. Like a promise.
My throat closed.
Coincidence. It has to be.
My phone buzzed like a trapped wasp against the nightstand. Linda's texts flooded the screen:
< WHERE ARE YOU???
< Your dad's got every soldier in the city looking
< Call me before I DIE of stress
I dressed in last night's clothes—sequined crop top inside-out, Linda's stolen jeans smudged with hotel carpet grime. I pocketed the rose, ignoring the ache between my thighs. Ignoring the phantom weight of his palm against my scar.
My choice. My life.
The hallway reeked of bleach and stale cigarettes. A maid's cart blocked the elevator, so I took the stairs. My boots echoed too loud in the concrete stairwell.
Two flights down, voices. Italian. Harsh.
"—check every room. The Conti girl's worth fifty grand."
Fifty thousand dollars.
Not bad. Not as much as I'd hoped, but more than I expected. Vittorio always was a cheap bastard.
I bolted back upstairs, lungs burning. Ducking into a service closet, I pressed my ear to the door as heavy footsteps passed.
Wait. Breathe. Wait.
When the silence stretched long enough, I slipped out and sprinted down the fire escape. The metal groaned under my weight. I stumbled into an alley clogged with dumpsters.
A black car idled at the curb.
The driver's window rolled down. Linda, wearing oversized sunglasses and a scowl that could curdle milk, tossed me a baseball cap. "Get in. Now."
I dove into the passenger seat. She peeled onto the highway before my door fully closed.
As we merged onto the interstate, I twisted to look back. On the hotel rooftop, a figure stood against the dawn—tall, leather jacket flapping in the wind.
Luca.
He raised a hand. Just once. Then disappeared.
Linda's voice cut through. "Who the hell is that?"
I slumped in my seat. The rose's thornless stem dug into my palm.
My back still burned where he'd touched me. Where he'd claimed me, for one night.
"No one," I whispered.
But my fingers traced the scar through my shirt.
And I knew—somewhere deep, where logic couldn't reach—that was a lie.