The green silk held her like a second skin, every breath a reminder of its grip. At the top of the grand staircase, the house waited in silence below, the chandelier throwing light across marble steps that seemed to stretch forever.
Luca stood at the bottom, a pillar of black and silver, his gray eyes fixed on her ascent. His stillness was absolute—a predator who didn't need to move. Matteo was a shadow at his shoulder, sun-streaked hair catching the light, his rolled sleeves exposing forearms that didn't match the formality of the evening.
She placed one hand on the polished railing and stepped down. The dress whispered against her thighs. One step. Another. The click of her heels echoed in the vast space. She felt the weight of both their gazes—Luca's cold and measuring, Matteo's warm and hungry.
When she reached the bottom, Luca's hand found her waist. His fingers splayed across her hip, pulling her flush against his side. His thumb pressed hard against her collarbone, digging into the exact spot where Matteo's breath had lingered the night before. A brand. A reminder.
"You'll sit beside me," he said, his voice a blade wrapped in silk, pitched for her ears alone. His thumb pressed deeper. "You will not look at him."
His hand stayed on her as he guided her into the dining room. He pulled out her chair, his fingers grazing the small of her back before he took the seat beside her. The chair was too close to his—she could feel the heat of his body through the green silk.
The first course arrived. Luca's hand found her bare knee under the tablecloth. His thumb traced a slow, deliberate circle on her inner thigh, a conversation the servants couldn't see. She kept her hands in her lap, her nails pressing into her palms.
"Growth in the south is solid," Matteo said, his voice low and steady. His gaze flicked to her, then away. "And the house—is it to your liking, Mrs. Moretti?" The question was innocent. The weight behind it was not.
She felt Luca's thumb pause. A test. She kept her eyes on the tablecloth. "It's beautiful," she said, her voice thin. She didn't look up. Luca's thumb resumed its circle, a small reward against her skin.
She took a sip of wine to steady herself. Deep red. When she set the glass down, Matteo was still watching. Not her face. Her throat. The exact place where Luca's hand had been. Where his thumb still pressed. A muscle feathered in his jaw.
Luca leaned toward her, his breath warm against her ear. "Good girl," he murmured, his hand sliding higher, pressing against the heat of her through the silk. She sucked in a breath, her thighs pressing together beneath the tablecloth. Across the table, Matteo's knuckles went white on his glass. He knew. He knew exactly what Luca's hand was doing.
The chandelier light scattered across the table. Luca's thumb moved in a slow, patient circle. Matteo's eyes stayed on her throat, dark and burning. And she sat perfectly still, caught between them, the meal just beginning.