Valentina didn't expect to see Lorenzo again that evening. After all, men like him didn't simply linger they struck, they disappeared, they watched from the dark.
But that was the thing about predators: they never left the prey alone for too long.
The Montessi vineyard stretched across the hills like a velvet tapestry under the sinking sun. The rows of vines were heavy with ripening grapes, swollen from the summer heat. Crickets sang their lullaby, cicadas added rhythm, and the wind whispered secrets only old vines could keep.
She stepped barefoot through the rows in her champagne silk slip, the hem brushing her thighs. Her nails still carried red crescent moons from her earlier fury, and her hair was loose a wild, honeyed halo around her face. In one hand was a glass of her father's forbidden vintage Chianti, stolen from the cellar, still cool against her fingertips.
This was her rebellion. Her escape. Her tiny defiance in a world ruled by men who made decisions in rooms she was never invited into.
And she drank.
Deep, red, bitter like regret.
Until
"You're not supposed to be here."
The voice low, rough, unmistakably male wrapped around her like smoke.
Valentina didn't turn right away. Instead, she let the wine rest on her tongue and swallowed slowly.
"Neither are you," she said evenly, lifting her gaze to the dying sun. "Unless they've made you the grape patrol now."
Lorenzo stepped into view like a shadow parting from the earth.
No suit tonight.
Instead, he wore a fitted black henley, sleeves pushed up, veins prominent along his tanned forearms. His jaw was dusted in stubble, his dark hair messier than she'd ever seen it. There was a scar at the base of his throat that peeked from beneath the collar a story she hadn't been told.
His eyes were volcanic. Quiet, molten, waiting.
"You're reckless," he said.
"No," she corrected. "I'm bored."
She took another sip. Slowly. Taunting him.
He didn't move. But something in him shifted like a predator crouching just a little lower before the pounce.
"You've been following me."
He didn't deny it.
"Since when?" she pressed.
"Since the night you kissed me in the chapel."
Valentina's lips curved.
"I thought you forgot."
"I never forget a sin."
She took a step forward.
"You think kissing you was a sin?" she asked, voice like silk stretched over a blade.
"I think you're dangerous," he replied. "And I don't play games I can't win."
She reached up, gently trailing a finger down the edge of his scar.
"You look like you've lost games before."
In a blink, he caught her wrist. The wineglass fell to the soil, spilling dark red liquid onto the earth like blood offered to the vines.
The silence after the crash was deafening.
His grip was strong not enough to hurt her, but enough to remind her who he was.
A man forged in blood and secrets.
A soldier bound by vows he hadn't written.
"If I touch you the way I want to," he said, voice low, trembling at the edge of restraint, "there won't be any going back. You'll be ruined. By me. And by everything that follows."
Valentina's breath caught.
"Then don't just touch me," she whispered. "Claim me."
His eyes burned into hers.
Not lust.
Not even hunger.
Possession.
But he didn't kiss her.
Not yet.
He leaned in, until his lips grazed the shell of her ear, and murmured in hushed Italian, "Attenta, bambina. Una volta che il lupo ti morde, appartieni al branco."
(Careful, little girl. Once the wolf bites you, you belong to the pack.)
Then, just as suddenly, he was gone.
Vanished between the vines, leaving nothing behind but wine in the dirt, the memory of heat between her thighs, and the taste of danger on her tongue.
And for the first time in her life, Valentina knew She wasn't just playing with fire.
She had struck a match and invited the inferno.