pushe him to the edge
At the bar the next night, Lorenzo lounged in the VIP section like a king on a throne he no longer wanted—Matteo on one side, Rafael on the other, the low thrum of bass vibrating through the floor and up into his chest. Crystal bottles gleamed under the crimson lights, half-empty glasses scattered across the marble table, but the usual rush of conquest felt hollow tonight.
His gaze swept the room again. Restless. Hungry.
He told himself he wasn’t looking for her. Lied to himself with practiced ease. But every flash of dark hair, every curve hugged by a tight dress, every laugh that carried over the music made his pulse kick hard—until the woman turned and it wasn’t Lily, and the disappointment hit like a shot of cheap whiskey.
“You’re distracted,” Matteo said, smirking as he swirled his glass. “And not by the blonde trying to catch your eye for the last ten minutes.”
Lorenzo didn’t bother looking at the blonde. He took a slow sip of his drink instead, letting the burn slide down his throat, but it did nothing to dull the sharper ache lower in his body.
“Still thinking about her?” Rafael asked,
voice low enough to cut through the noise without effort.
Lorenzo’s jaw tightened. He set the glass down harder than necessary, the clink sharp. “Drop it.”
But Rafael leaned forward, elbows on the table, eyes steady. “You keep saying that, brother, but you haven’t. Admit it—you’re hooked. Badly. And the more you fight it, the deeper she digs in.”
Something snapped.
Lorenzo slammed the glass down this time, amber liquid sloshing over the rim, drawing stares from nearby tables. He didn’t care.
“What the hell do you want me to say?” he growled, voice rough and dangerously quiet. “That I can’t stop thinking about her? That every time I close my eyes I feel her body pressed against mine on that damn beach, her breath hot on my neck, her nails scraping down my back like she wanted to mark me? That I wake up hard and aching because I dream about burying myself inside her until neither of us can think straight?”
The words spilled out raw, unfiltered, laced with weeks of pent-up frustration and need. Matteo’s eyebrows shot up; Rafael didn’t flinch, but the corner of his mouth lifted in grim satisfaction.
“That I’m losing my goddamn mind because I walked away from the one woman who looks at me like she wants to ruin me—and let me ruin her right back?” Lorenzo continued, voice dropping to a lethal rasp. “Fine. There. You happy now?”
Silence settled over their table, thick and heavy. Even the music seemed to fade for a moment.
Matteo cleared his throat, suddenly very interested in his drink. Rafael just held Lorenzo’s stare, unflinching.
“Maybe,” Rafael said at last, calm and certain, “it’s time to stop running. Go get her. Or spend the rest of your life wondering what it would have felt like to finally have her screaming your name.”
Lorenzo’s hand flexed around the empty glass, knuckles white. He could still taste her on his tongue from dreams that felt too real—salt and heat and the faint sweetness of her skin. Could still hear the way she’d gasped when his fingers had brushed the bare strip of her back that night on the island, the tiny hitch in her breath that told him she was just as lost as he was.
He exhaled slowly, the fight draining out of him.
Because Rafael was right.
No more nights like this. No more pretending the hunger would fade.
He wanted her—raw, consuming, irreversible.
And tomorrow, he’d stop pretending otherwise.
He’d go to her.
And when he did, he wouldn’t walk away again.
Matteo, who had been uncharacteristically quiet during Lorenzo’s outburst, finally leaned forward, elbows on the table, a slow, shit-eating grin spreading across his face.
“Well, damn,” he drawled, voice dripping with mock awe. “Listen to Mr. Iceberg over here finally cracking. Next thing you know, you’ll be writing her poetry, Lorenzo. Roses are red, violets are blue, I’m a ruthless bastard who closes million-dollar deals before breakfast, but your pretty eyes make me want to get on my knees and beg.”
Rafael snorted into his glass. Lorenzo shot Matteo a glare sharp enough to cut steel.
Matteo raised both hands in surrender, but the grin didn’t fade. “What? Too soon for sonnets? Fine. How about haiku? Five syllables: ‘Lily’s lips haunt me.’ Seven: ‘I dream of her thighs wrapped around my face.’ Five: ‘Send help, I’m ruined.’”
Lorenzo’s fingers twitched like he was considering wrapping them around Matteo’s throat.
But Matteo wasn’t done. He dropped the sarcasm just enough for the truth to slip through, lazy and undeniable.
“Seriously though,” he said, voice lower now, eyes glinting with something almost respectful. “I’ve known you since we were stealing sips of grappa from your father’s cabinet. You don’t lose control. Ever. You don’t stare at women like you’re starving and they’re the only meal on the planet. You don’t slam glasses and confess shit in public. And you sure as hell don’t walk away from something you actually want.”
He paused, letting that sink in.
“So yeah, keep pretending this is just a phase if it makes you sleep better. But we all know the truth: that girl’s already got you collared, brother. You’re just too proud to admit you like the leash.”
The table went quiet again.
Lorenzo’s jaw worked, the muscle ticking hard. He didn’t deny it. Couldn’t.
Because Matteo—idiot, instigator, occasional genius—had just said the one thing no one else had dared to.
Lily didn’t just haunt him.
She owned him.
And tomorrow, he was done fighting it.
Matteo, sensing the tension still crackling in the air like static, flashed that trademark devil-may-care grin and scanned the room with theatrical purpose.
“Alright, enough of this brooding bullshit,” he announced, loud enough to turn a few heads. “We’re in the best club in the city, surrounded by beautiful women who aren’t imaginary, and my boy here is acting like someone kicked his puppy. Time for reinforcements.”
Before Lorenzo could protest, Matteo stood, snapped his fingers at a passing server, and within minutes had orchestrated the arrival of three women to their table—effortless, like he owned the place (which, technically, he partially did).
First came the blonde who’d been eyeing Lorenzo all night: tall, legs for days, poured into a silver dress that caught every strobe light like liquid mercury. She slid into the booth right beside Lorenzo without waiting for an invitation, her thigh brushing his as she settled in close—too close—her perfume a heavy cloud of vanilla and something sweet.
“Hi,” she purred, leaning in so her breath grazed his ear. “I’m Valentina. I’ve been watching you from across the room. You look like you could use some… distraction.”
Her fingers trailed lightly down his forearm, nails painted blood-red, lingering just above his watch. She tilted her head, blonde waves spilling over one shoulder, lips parted in a practiced pout that usually worked like a charm.
Matteo dropped back into his seat opposite them, flanked now by a brunette with a wicked laugh and a redhead who was already pouring shots. He raised his glass in a mock toast.
“Look at that, Lorenzo—real, warm, willing company. No daydreaming required. Valentina here’s a model. Legs up to her neck, mouth made for sin. And she picked you out of every man in this room. You should be flattered.”
Valentina laughed softly, pressing closer, her hand sliding to rest on Lorenzo’s thigh under the table—bold, testing. “He’s right,” she whispered, lips brushing the shell of his ear. “I like a man who looks dangerous. Makes me wonder how dangerous you really are.”
Rafael watched the whole thing with quiet amusement, sipping his drink and saying nothing. Matteo, on the other hand, wasn’t done.
“Come on, brother,” Matteo goaded, smirking over the rim of his glass. “Show the lady some of that famous Moretti charm. Or are you saving all your best moves for the girl who isn’t here? Because—newsflash—she’s not watching. Valentina is. And she’s very… hands-on.”
Valentina’s fingers inched higher, a teasing promise, her eyes locked on Lorenzo’s face like she was daring him to take what she offered. The brunette beside Matteo giggled, leaning into him, while the redhead traced circles on Rafael’s wrist.
Lorenzo’s body stayed perfectly still, but his eyes—dark, unreadable—flicked down to Valentina’s hand on his thigh, then back up to her face. He didn’t move it away. Not yet. But he didn’t encourage it either.
“Valentina,” he said finally, voice low and smooth, the kind of tone that usually made women melt. He wrapped his fingers lightly around her wrist—not pulling her away, just holding her there. “You’re beautiful. Any man in this room would kill to have you this close.”
She smiled, triumphant, leaning in even more.
He continued, quieter, lethal soft: “But I’m not any man.”
The smile faltered. Just for a second.
Matteo barked out a laugh. “Oh shit. Shot down in 4K. That’s gotta sting.”
Valentina recovered fast, tracing a nail along Lorenzo’s jaw. “Playing hard to get? I like a challenge.”
Lorenzo’s lips curved—polite, detached, nothing like the heat he saved for someone else. “I’m not playing.”
He gently but firmly removed her hand from his thigh, set it back on her own lap, and turned to signal the server for another round—dismissing her without a single harsh word.
Matteo groaned dramatically, flopping back in his seat. “You’re hopeless. Absolutely hopeless. I bring you a goddess on a silver platter and you send her back to the kitchen untouched. One day, Lorenzo, you’re going to wake up old and alone, still jerking off to memories of a girl who probably forgot your name by now.”
Lorenzo’s eyes cut to him, sharp and dark. “Careful, Matteo.”
Matteo just grinned wider, unbothered. “Or what? You’ll glare me to death? Relax. I’m doing you a favor. One day you’ll thank me for trying to save you from blue balls and bad decisions.”
Rafael finally spoke, voice calm. “He’s not wrong about the blue balls part.”
Lorenzo exhaled through his nose, fingers tightening around his fresh glass. Valentina was still watching him, waiting for an opening that wasn’t coming. The other girls were distracted now, laughing with Matteo, but the blonde hadn’t given up.
Matteo raised his glass again. “To unrequited obsession,” he toasted sarcastically. “May it hurt just enough to make you finally do something stupid—like go after the one you actually want.”
Lorenzo didn’t drink to that.
But his silence said everything.
He was already counting the hours until morning.
Lorenzo pushed back from the table without a word, his chair scraping harshly against the floor. He tossed a stack of bills onto the marble—more than enough to cover the night—and muttered something about an early meeting. Valentina opened her mouth to protest, but one cool glance from him shut it. Then he was gone, cutting through the crowd like a blade, leaving a wake of turned heads and unsatisfied tension behind him.
Matteo watched him disappear through the velvet rope, then let out a low, theatrical whistle.
“Well, that was dramatic. Our boy just blue-balled a supermodel and stormed off into the night like a tragic hero in a bad telenovela. I’m almost proud.”
Rafael leaned back, swirling the ice in his glass. “He’s gone to get her. Finally.”
Matteo snorted. “Yeah, sure. In theory. But knowing Lorenzo, he’ll spend three days psyching himself up, rehearse the perfect line in the mirror, then show up at her door with flowers and a speech about destiny. And if he can’t find her? Poof. He’ll convince himself it was ‘fate’ and go back to brooding in silence. Tragic. Boring. Unacceptable.”
He slapped the table with sudden energy, eyes gleaming with pure mischief.
“I’m not letting this story die like that. Where’s the fun in watching Lorenzo Moretti—king of closing deals, breaker of hearts, terror of boardrooms—get quietly cockblocked by his own pride? Nah. This needs fireworks. Drama. Maybe a little light stalking.”
Rafael arched a brow. “You want to help him.”
“Help him?” Matteo grinned like a shark scenting blood. “I want to produce this shit. Think about it: the untouchable Lorenzo finally on his knees for a girl none of us have even met properly. I need popcorn rows for this. Front-row seats. And if he crashes and burns on his own, it’ll be over too quick. I’m investing in the extended cut.”
Rafael exhaled a laugh despite himself. “You’re an asshole.”
“Correct. But I’m an asshole with resources.” Matteo was already pulling out his phone, thumbs flying. “We know literally nothing about this girl except her first name and that she has the supernatural ability to make Lorenzo lose his goddamn mind. That’s a challenge I can get behind.”
He leaned in, voice dropping to conspiratorial glee.
“Step one: basic reconnaissance. Lorenzo mentioned an island—private resort in the Aegean, two months ago, right? There can’t have been that many guests. I know the owner’s cousin. One call, I get the guest list. Narrow it down to women named Lily, or variations—Liliana, Lilith, whatever rich girls call themselves these days.”
Rafael shook his head, half-amused, half-alarmed. “You’re really doing this.”
“Step two,” Matteo continued, undeterred, “social media sweep. Once we have a last name, we go full creep. Instagram, LinkedIn, TikTok, that weird art app everyone’s on. Find mutual friends, tagged photos, geotags. If she’s in this city—and she is, because Lorenzo’s been scanning every bar like a lost puppy—she’ll pop up.”
He paused, eyes narrowing in mock seriousness.
“Step three: relationship status. Critical intel. If she’s got a boyfriend, we evaluate threat level. Finance bro? Easy sabotage. Artist? Trickier, but doable. Married? Okay, that’s a hard no, even I have limits. Mostly.”
Rafael smirked. “You have limits?”
“Very flexible ones.” Matteo waved a hand. “If she’s single, perfect. We manufacture ‘coincidental’ run-ins. I know every gallery opening, charity auction, rooftop party in town for the next month. One anonymous tip to the right organizer—‘Hey, invite this person’—and boom. Lorenzo ‘happens’ to be there. Sparks. Tension. Maybe a drink thrown in his face for flavor. I’m not picky.”
He leaned back, spreading his arms like a director framing a scene.
“Imagine it: Lorenzo thinking he’s taking fate into his own hands, while I’m pulling strings in the background like a benevolent puppet master. He gets the girl, I get the greatest love story slash train wreck I’ve ever witnessed, everybody wins.”
Rafael studied him for a long moment. “You’re doing this because you actually care about him.”
Matteo’s grin turned sharp. “Please. I’m doing this because I’m bored and chaos is my love language. If a little happiness falls out of it for Lorenzo, fine. Bonus points. But mostly? I want to watch the man who once negotiated a hostile takeover over brunch finally negotiate his way into a woman’s bed without knowing I handed him the map.”
He raised his glass toward the exit where Lorenzo had vanished.
“To Operation: Make Lorenzo Beg. May it be humiliating, spectacular, and highly entertaining.”
Rafael clinked his glass against Matteo’s, lips twitching.
“You’re going to hell.”
“Yeah, but I’ll have the best stories.”
