Matteo watched Lorenzo disappear through the crowd, the door swinging shut behind him with a heavy thud that seemed to echo longer than it should. He exhaled slowly, the smirk fading into something sharper, more thoughtful.
Rafael took a long pull from his beer, then set it down with a soft clink. “You pushed him too hard.”
Matteo shrugged, leaning back into the leather, fingers drumming idly on the table. “He needed it. He’s been circling this thing like a shark smelling blood but refusing to bite. Someone had to shove him into the water.”
Rafael’s mouth twitched. “And if he drowns?”
“Then he drowns.” Matteo’s voice was casual, but his eyes were serious. “But he won’t. You saw his face. That wasn’t a man walking away. That was a man going to war.”
Rafael studied the empty space where Lorenzo had been, then turned back to Matteo. “You really think the guy at the shop is nothing?”
“I know he’s nothing.” Matteo’s grin returned, slow and predatory. “I double-checked after Lorenzo stormed off last week. The man’s name is Luca Valenti. Thirty-four. Architect. Drives a Mercedes because he thinks it’s understated. And—here’s the best part—he’s her older brother. Just flew in from Milan for a surprise visit before the holidays. Brought pastries from her favorite spot because that’s what big brothers do when they’re making up for missing her birthday last month.”
Rafael let out a low laugh, shaking his head. “Porca miseria. You knew the whole time?”
“Not the whole time,” Matteo admitted, swirling the whiskey in his glass. “But after Lorenzo came back looking like he’d been gut-shot, I made a few calls. Turns out Sofia let it slip over drinks—Lily’s been complaining about her ‘overprotective fratello’ showing up unannounced and scaring off potential dates. Apparently he’s been playing third wheel all week.”
Rafael’s laugh deepened. “And you didn’t tell him?”
Matteo’s eyes glinted with pure mischief. “Where’s the fun in that? Let him stew. Let the jealousy eat him alive for a few days. Men like Lorenzo don’t move unless the fire’s hot enough to burn. Now it’s an inferno.”
“You’re a bastard,” Rafael said, but there was affection in it.
“Correct.” Matteo raised his glass in a mock toast. “But I’m a bastard who’s about to watch his cousin finally claim something he actually wants. Imagine it—Lorenzo Moretti, the man who can make a room full of armed men go quiet with a look, completely undone by a woman who arranges roses for a living.”
Rafael clinked his beer against Matteo’s glass. “She’s going to destroy him.”
“Or save him,” Matteo said quietly, the sarcasm gone for a rare moment. “Either way, it’ll be one hell of a show.”
They both fell silent for a beat, listening to the low hum of the bar around them.
Then Matteo’s grin returned, wider than before.
“Place your bets, fratello. How long before he’s at her door?”
Rafael thought about it. “Tonight. Before midnight.”
Matteo shook his head. “Tomorrow morning. He’ll drive around the city first, punish himself a little more. Then he’ll show up with that terrifying calm face and scare the shit out of her brother.”
“Loser buys the next bottle of Macallan?”
“Deal.”
They clinked glasses again, settling back into the booth, the tension easing into something almost relaxed.
Because they both knew the truth.
Lorenzo was already gone.
Not just from the bar.
From the careful, controlled life he’d built.
He was heading straight into the chaos of wanting something—someone—he couldn’t control.
And for the first time in years, Matteo and Rafael weren’t worried about their cousin surviving it.
They were just looking forward to watching him burn.
They were just looking forward to watching him burn.
Matteo signaled the waiter for another round, then flopped back against the leather like a man settling in for the best movie of the year.
Rafael eyed him over the rim of his glass. “You’re enjoying this way too much.”
“Too much?” Matteo scoffed, mock-offended. “I’m enjoying this the exact right amount. My stoic, untouchable cousin—who once stared down a loaded gun without blinking—is about to lose his mind over a girl who probably has a ‘Live, Laugh, Love’ sign hidden somewhere in that shop. This is premium entertainment. Oscar-worthy.”
Rafael snorted. “You’re forgetting the part where he finds out the ‘rival’ is her brother. He’s going to kill you.”
“Only if he figures it out before he grovels,” Matteo said cheerfully. “And even then, worth it. Imagine the scene: Lorenzo, flowers in hand—because he will bring flowers, mark my words—ringing her doorbell, rehearsing some dark, poetic apology in his head. Then boom, big brother opens the door. Six-two, protective, Italian. Lorenzo’s brain short-circuits. He either punches the guy or proposes marriage to Lily on the spot to establish dominance.”
Rafael barked a laugh. “He’ll do both. Punch first, propose later. In that order.”
“Exactly!” Matteo slapped the table, grinning like a devil. “And we’ll be here, sipping whatever thousand-euro bottle you’re buying when you lose the bet, watching the security footage I definitely didn’t install outside her building.”
“You didn’t.”
Matteo winked. “I absolutely did. High-def. Night vision. Audio. The works.”
“You’re going to hell.”
“Straight to the VIP section,” Matteo agreed. “But I’ll have company. Because you’re just as invested. Don’t pretend you’re not already picturing Lorenzo on his knees—metaphorically, literally, whatever—begging her to forgive him for being a dramatic idiot.”
Rafael tried to look stern and failed miserably. “He won’t beg. He’ll just… loom intensely until she forgives him.”
“Loom intensely,” Matteo repeated, dissolving into laughter. “That’s his love language. Looming. Brooding. Occasional growling. Maybe a possessive hand on the small of her back to scare off imaginary threats—like her own brother.”
The fresh bottle arrived. Matteo poured generously.
“To Lorenzo Moretti,” he toasted, raising his glass. “May he discover emotions are messier than bloodstains, harder to clean, and twice as addictive.”
Rafael clinked his glass, eyes dancing. “And may he finally admit that some wars are worth losing.”
Matteo smirked. “He won’t lose. He’ll just surrender in the most dramatic, Moretti way possible. Probably involving a blackout, a private jet, and a vow to burn the world down if anyone ever hurts her again.”
“Romantic.”
“Terrifying,” Matteo corrected. “But for her? Exactly what she’s been waiting for.”
They drank, the whiskey warm and smooth, the bar noise a comfortable roar around them.
Matteo checked his watch. “Ten-thirty. If he’s going tonight, he’ll circle her block twice first. Once to punish himself, once to make sure no one’s watching.”
Rafael grinned. “You’ve got him dialed.”
“Of course. I taught him half his bad habits.” Matteo leaned forward, voice dropping conspiratorially. “Now we wait. And when he comes crawling back—either victorious and insufferable or defeated and murderous—we’ll be ready.”
“With more whiskey?”
“With more whiskey,” Matteo confirmed. “And popcorn.”
They clinked glasses again, settled deeper into the booth, and let the night stretch out in front of them—two wolves watching the alpha walk straight into the one trap he’d never seen coming.
Love.
And they wouldn’t miss a single second of the explosion.
Lorenzo didn’t go to her.
He drove the Aston through the city like a bullet looking for a target, windows down, winter air slicing across his skin, but no speed was fast enough to outrun the images looping in his head. He circled her block only once—slow, deliberate, headlights off—watching the warm glow spill from the windows of Bloom & Thorn long after closing. The shop was dark now, but the floor above, her apartment, had lights on. Soft. Golden. Intimate.
He imagined the brother—Luca—inside with her. Laughing over wine. Brushing her hair back like he had in the shop. Touching her in ways only family could get away with, but to Lorenzo’s poisoned mind, every gesture looked proprietary. Every smile she gave the man felt stolen.
He punched the steering wheel hard enough to bruise his knuckles and turned toward home.
The penthouse was too quiet when he stepped inside—marble floors echoing under his shoes, city lights glittering coldly through the floor-to-ceiling windows like a thousand indifferent eyes. He shrugged off his coat, let it fall where it landed, and poured himself three fingers of Barolo from the decanter on the bar. No glass. Straight from the bottle tonight.
He drank standing at the window, staring down at the city he owned pieces of, the empire built on ruthlessness and control. None of it meant anything right now.
Because somewhere across town, Lily Valenti was living a life that didn’t include him.
And another man—brother or not, the jealousy didn’t care—was breathing the same air as her. Eating at her table. Hearing her laugh without restraint. Seeing her in whatever soft thing she wore when she was home and relaxed. Maybe an oversized sweater slipping off one shoulder. Maybe nothing at all after a shower, hair damp, skin flushed, padding barefoot across her floors.
The bottle paused halfway to his mouth.
He could picture it too vividly: water droplets clinging to the curve of her throat, sliding down between her breasts, disappearing beneath the towel she’d barely wrapped around herself. She’d smell like something clean and warm—jasmine, maybe, or the faint crushed-green scent of stems that always clung to her skin. She’d hum under her breath, lost in her own world, unaware of how devastatingly beautiful she was when unguarded.
And Luca—tall, handsome, safe—got to witness that.
Even if it was innocent.
Even if it was familial.
Lorenzo’s grip on the bottle tightened until the glass groaned.
He hated the jealousy. Hated how it slithered through his veins like venom, hot and corrosive. He was Lorenzo Moretti—men feared him, women wanted him, empires bent to his will. He did not lose control. He did not burn for anyone.
But Lily had slipped under his skin on that island like a splinter of glass—sharp, invisible, impossible to dig out. Every memory of her was a fresh cut.
The way she’d looked at him that last night on the beach, eyes daring him to close the distance.
The way her breath had stuttered when his hand had settled at the base of her spine, thumb brushing bare skin just above the silk of her dress.
The way she’d whispered his name—half warning, half plea—when he’d leaned in close enough to taste her on the air between them.
He’d stopped himself then.
He’d walked away.
And now another man reaped the warmth he’d denied himself.
He set the bottle down hard, red wine sloshing over the rim, staining the white marble like blood.
His reflection stared back from the dark glass—eyes too wild, jaw locked, shirt unbuttoned at the throat, revealing the ink that mapped his history of violence across his chest. He looked like what he was: dangerous, controlled, untouchable.
Except he wasn’t untouchable.
Not anymore.
He stripped off his shirt as he walked toward the bedroom, letting it fall with the coat. The master suite was all shadows and sharp lines—king bed dominating the space, black silk sheets already turned down by the housekeeper who knew better than to linger when he was in this mood.
He didn’t turn on the lights.
He dropped onto the edge of the bed, elbows on his knees, head in his hands.
And let the torment have him.
He imagined her in her own bed right now—soft lamplight, maybe a book open on her lap, legs tucked beneath her. That dark hair loose, spilling over her shoulders, brushing the tops of her breasts. She’d be wearing something thin. Something that would slide off her skin with one tug. He could see himself there—kneeling between her thighs, mouth tracing the path from her ankle to the soft inside of her knee, higher, tasting every inch he’d denied himself for months.
He’d take his time.
He’d make her tremble.
He’d make her say his name like a prayer before he gave her what she needed.
His body reacted instantly—heat surging low, cock thickening against the confines of his trousers. He didn’t touch himself. Not yet. He let the ache build, let it punish him the way he deserved.
Because the truth was worse than the fantasy.
She might be thinking of someone else.
She might be touching herself right now, remembering another man’s hands.
Or worse—no one at all. Just living peacefully, happily, without the weight of him in her life.
The thought was unbearable.
He stood abruptly, paced to the window again, palms pressed to the cold glass.
He wanted to ruin her peace.
Wanted to show up at her door, push inside without a word, back her against the nearest wall and kiss her until she forgot every other name but his. Wanted to strip her slowly, worship every inch of skin he’d dreamed about, mark her with his mouth, his teeth, his hands, until she wore the evidence of him for days.
Wanted to sink into her so deep she felt him for a week.
Wanted to hear her beg.
Wanted to give her everything—pleasure, protection, possession—and take everything in return.
But he couldn’t.
Because he was poison.
Because men like him didn’t get soft things without breaking them.
Because if he let himself have her, he’d never let her go.
And she deserved better than a cage, even a gilded one.
He laughed then—low, bitter, the sound scraping his throat raw.
Matteo was right.
He was lying to himself.
This wasn’t about protecting her.
This was about fear.
Fear that once he touched her, he’d be lost.
Fear that she’d see all of him—the blood, the darkness, the things he’d done—and walk away anyway.
Fear that she wouldn’t.
He sank back onto the bed, head tipped back, eyes closed.
The torment stretched on, slow and relentless.
Jealousy.
Longing.
Self-loathing.
Desire so sharp it felt like a blade between his ribs.
He didn’t sleep.
He didn’t touch himself to ease the ache.
He just lay there in the dark, burning alive from the inside out.
Waiting for morning.
Waiting for the moment the jealousy finally outweighed the fear.
Because when it did—and it would—he’d go to her.
And God help anyone who tried to stand in his way.
Even himself.
