The hotel room was a closet with delusions of character—cigarette burns on the carpet, a flickering lamp that hummed like a dying wasp.
Emilia's breath hitched as Luca backed her against the wall, his hands sliding up her ribs. His kiss was slow, deliberate, as if he were savoring the taste of secrets.
She fumbled with the zipper of his leather jacket, her nails catching on the metal teeth.
Amateur.
He chuckled against her mouth, the sound low and velvety. "Nervous?"
"No," she lied.
Her pulse roared in her ears, louder than the distant wail of 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—jagged, old, familiar.
Luca's thumb brushed the hollow of her throat, pulling her back. "You're thinking too much."
She wasn't.
She was drowning—in the musk of his cologne, in the reckless need to prove she wasn't her father's pawn.
Her fingers dug into his hips as she kissed him harder, chasing the numbness only rebellion could bring.
He let her lead, his hands trailing up her spine with practiced ease. Too practiced.
When his palm grazed the scar beneath her shoulder blade—the one from Vittorio's "lessons" after Paolo's funeral—she flinched.
"Wait." He stilled, his gaze sharpening. "You sure about this?"
The question hung between them, charged and dangerous. Somewhere in the hallway, a door slammed.
Emilia's eyes flicked to the nightstand where Luca's phone buzzed, screen face-down.
She drifted off into her own head.
She thought of Enzo Marchetti's sneer in the wedding dossier Vittorio had forced her to study - old and wrinkled with hands stained with her own brother's blood.
Of the cold weight of her father's ring tapping against her cheekbone when she'd dared to argue.
This wasn't her choice..to let a stranger take something she had so preciously guarded for true love. This may not be her choice but it was her revenge...her rebellion.
Let's see how the old bastard will feel about his bride being ravished by a stranger in a hotel room that smells like bile.
Emilia planned on letting it known that she wasn't a virgin. Liliana's husband had insisted on virginity maybe this old slug would want the same.
"Yes," she said, tugging Luca's shirt over his head.
For a heartbeat, his expression shifted—a flicker of hesitation, or guilt?
"Your hands are shaking," he murmured, pressing her wrist to the peeling wallpaper.
"Yours aren't."
The broken lamp buzzed above the bed. Emilia's heart raced as Luca pushed her against the wall, his mouth hot on her neck. She tugged at his pants, not quite achieving what she set out to do.
He laughed softly. "Never done this before?"
"Shut up," she breathed, He smelled like smoke and mint.
He kissed her slower this time, like he wanted to remember every second. Her back hit the mattress, springs squeaking. Somewhere outside, a car alarm screamed.
Don't think. Just feel.
His hands slid under her shirt, rough but gentle. She gasped—not from his touch, but from the shock of wanting this. Wanting control.
"Wait." He pulled back, eyes dark. "Last chance to run, Mila."
She grabbed his collar. "I'm not scared."
And so, she let him pin her wrists above her head. Let him kiss her until the room spun.
Bang!
The lamp died. They froze in the sudden dark.
"Power's out," he muttered.
"Good." She kissed him harder, tasting tequila and recklessness.
Emilia didn't care. Didn't want to care. For once, she wasn't Vittorio's daughter or Enzo's bride.
She was fire.
And Luca?
He was the match.
*
Morning light stabbed through the curtains, painting stripes across the rumpled sheets.
Emilia reached for Luca's warmth, but her fingers found only cold linen. A single red rose lay on his pillow, its thorns stripped. Taped to the stem was a note in slanted handwriting:
*Stay safe, Little Star. – L*
Little Star. The nickname Paolo had given her when she was six. Her throat tightened. Coincidence... probably.
Her phone buzzed like a trapped wasp.
Linda's texts flooded the screen:
< WHERE ARE YOU???
< Your dad's got every soldier in the city looking for you
< Call me before I DIE of stress
Emilia dressed in last night's clothes—the sequined crop top inside-out, Linda's stolen jeans smudged with hotel carpet grime.
She pocketed the rose, ignoring the ache between her thighs. My choice. My life.
The hallway reeked of bleach and stale cigarettes. A maid's cart blocked the elevator, so she took the stairs, her boots echoing too loud in the concrete stairwell. Two flights down, voices barked in Italian.
"—check every room. The Conti girl's worth 50 grand."
Dad's bounty.
Emilia froze, then bolted back upstairs, her lungs burning. She ducked into a service closet, pressing her ear to the door as heavy footsteps passed.
She sprinted down the fire escape, the metal groaning under her weight, and stumbled into an alley clogged with dumpsters. A black town idled at the curb, engine running.
The driver's window rolled down. Linda, wearing oversized sunglasses and a scowl, tossed her a baseball cap. "Get in. Now."
As they peeled onto the highway, Emilia twisted to look back. On the hotel's rooftop, a figure stood against the dawn—tall, leather jacket flapping in the wind.
Luca.
He lifted a hand, just once, before disappearing.
"Who's that?" Linda snapped.
"No one." Emilia slumped in her seat, the rose's thornless stem digging into her palm.