Gabriel POV
The voice came from behind me. "It's not working. My uncle's standards are significantly higher."
I turned.
Luca was leaning against the archway that led to the private viewing room. I hadn't even heard him come in.
He looked different. Not in a suit. Jeans, a crisp white shirt open at the collar, a denim jacket thrown over it. His hair was styled, not its usual careless mess. He looked almost put together, almost.
"Luca," I said, my pleasant-host mask snapping back into place. "I didn't know you were coming."
He pushed off the wall and walked over, his steps unhurried. He completely ignored Gwenael, his eyes fixed on me. "I was in the neighborhood. Thought I'd see what all the fuss was about." His gaze flicked over the sculpture, then back to me. "Looks like a pile of junk."
Gwenael sputtered next to me. "I beg your pardon? This is a commentary on the fragility of—"
"I don't care what it's a commentary on," Luca said, still looking at me. He finally turned his head toward Gwenael. The artist seemed to shrink three inches under the look. "The party's out there. Go comment to them."
It wasn't a suggestion. It was a dismissal, delivered with a quiet, absolute authority that left no room for argument. Gwenael, his face flushed, muttered something and scurried away toward the safety of the crowd.
We were left alone by the giant, glittering helix.
"What was that?" I asked, keeping my voice low.
"What was what?" He picked up the champagne flute I'd left on a nearby pedestal, the one I'd been sipping from. He took a drink. "Saving you from a bad proposition. You're welcome."
"I was handling it."
"Looked like you were about to die of cringe," he said, a faint, real smile touching his mouth. He handed the glass back to me. "You shouldn't let people talk to you like that."
"It's called being a gallery owner. It's part of the job."
"Your job is moving money. Not being some French guy's 'perfect muse.'" He said the last two words in a mocking, lilting tone. His eyes traveled over me.
A spark of irritation flared in my chest. "Luca, don't do that again," I said, my voice low and even. "Not in my space. That kind of display can fire back in ways you don't understand. This," I gestured around the gallery, "runs on delicate egos and subtlety. You just smashed through it like a bull."
He didn't say anything. He just took a step closer, closing the distance.
"So," he said, his voice dropping to a near-whisper, a parody of intimacy. "If he had propositioned you... if he'd looked at you with those hungry eyes and asked you to go to his hotel room, you would have said yes or no?"
"What kind of a question is that?"
"A simple one."
"My private life isn't your concern."
"Everything about you is my concern," he said, the words flat, absolute. "You're family. We protect our assets."
"I am not an asset."
"Aren't you?" He finally looked away from me, his gaze scanning the room. "So answer the question, Zio. If he'd asked to fuck you, what would you have said?"
Heat rushed to my face, a mix of anger and something else I refused to name.
"It wouldn't have happened."
"But if it did."
"It wouldn't," I bit out. "Because my job, which you so elegantly summarized, has nothing to do with who I sleep with. And you have no business—"
"My business," he interrupted, his eyes snapping back to mine, "is whatever I decide it is. So, do you have a problem with a man being interested in you... or with the fact that a man is interested in you?"
What the hell? What the hell is he asking?
"That's enough." The words came out colder than I intended. "My personal life is off-limits. To you, and to everyone. This conversation is over. Go back to whatever you were doing, Luca."
For a long moment, he just stared at me, his expression unreadable. The playful mockery was gone, replaced by something darker, more intense. Then, as if a switch had been flipped, a slow, insolent smile spread across his face. It didn't reach his eyes.
"Whatever you say, Uncle," he murmured, the title a deliberate, lingering provocation. He took a step back, giving a slight, mocking nod. "Don't work too late. The city gets dangerous after dark."
He turned and walked away, melting into the crowd.
I stood there, my heart beating an unsteady rhythm against my ribs.
I looked down at the champagne flute in my hand, the one he'd drunk from. With a sudden, sharp movement, I placed it on a passing server's tray.
"Get me a whiskey," I said to no one in particular, my voice sounding strange to my own ears. "Neat."
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Luca POV
There's one advantage to having a traditional father. Once a week, on Saturday night, we all have to sit down for dinner. The main family. Mandatory attendance. And that means my boring, stuck-up step-uncle has to show his face, too. It's kind of funny because dad turned him to stranger but uncle still has to these family dinners. Dad sure knows how to humiliate someone.
My uncle never, ever makes a move that would put him under Dad's suspicion. And honestly? I fucking hate it. I don't just want to see it; I need to. I need to see Gabriel crack. I need him to do something out of character. Just once.
He always has to be so goddamn composed. So fucking collected. He thinks he's hiding his hatred, but it's written all over him. The way his jaw ticks when someone says 'Scarfoni' too loud. The way his eyes go dead and hollow when Dad pushes him a little too hard at a meeting. I know that look. It's the look that means he's imagining putting a bullet in my father's brain. But he never acts on it. He just swallows it down with his good boy act.
Seriously, I wish he'd just give in to the impulse. I just want to watch. I want to see the expression on my father's face when he finally realizes the dog he's kept on a choke chain is actually a wolf. And that chain is only around its neck because the wolf, for some pathetic reason, doesn't feel like biting yet.
I walked into the dining room. Dad was already at the head of the table, of course. To his right sat Lyla Rosnin, his latest girlfriend. She's a socialite. I've already had a taste. And no, she doesn't taste good. She only looks decent in photographs. Which is kind of insult because she has this similarity in appearance with uncle. All my dad's girlfriends had. Weird.
To Dad's left sat Uncle Antonio. My father's actual, blood brother. Five years younger and completely fucking useless. He, his wife, and their brood have one purpose in life: to create problems for Dad through sheer, breathtaking stupidity. Antonio could be sent to buy milk and he'd come back having started a war with the dairy farmer. His wife is perpetually pregnant. I don't think I've ever seen her not carrying a kid. They already have five. I don't remember their names, and thank Christ they aren't here tonight, or my patience would've been gone before the first course.
Then my eyes finally landed on him.
Gabriel. Sitting there in silence. Fuck, he looks so innocent. Not like his mind is racing a mile a minute, planning his escape route from this circus.
"You're late."
My father's voice cut through the room the second I stepped in.
"Sorry, Dad. Got held up with work," I said, my tone flat. I didn't wait for a servant. I yanked out the chair directly across from Gabriel and dropped into it, the legs scraping loud against the marble floor.
My father's eyes narrowed. "I know you're young, but you should be more careful with your time."
I smirked, leaning back. "Oh, relax, Dad. I won't make you a grandfather before you walk me down the aisle."
Dad hated that, me answering back. He hated the reminder that he couldn't control every single thing that came out of my mouth. His jaw tightened, a muscle ticking. Instead of pushing it, he did what he always does. He shifted his focus to the easier target. The one he knew wouldn't snap back.
"Gabriel," he said, his voice smoothing into that false, genial tone he uses for business. "The numbers from the Genoa shipment. The port authority fees seemed inflated. Explain it to me."
My eyes drifted to Lyla, seated to Dad's right. She was watching me, her gaze heavy-lidded. She ran a red-painted nail slowly along the stem of her wine glass, then let her eyes drop meaningfully to my mouth. An invitation. After dinner, it said. Your father will be busy.
I felt nothing. Just a hollow boredom. I ignored her completely and let my focus settle back on the only interesting thing in the room.
Gabriel.
He was wearing a sea-green button-down. The top two buttons were undone. The color made his skin look warmer. His face was angled toward my father, the picture of attentive deference.
I picked up my wine glass, swirling the dark liquid as I studied him.
His blonde hair, swept back neatly. I wanted to fist my hand in it, pull his head back, ruin that perfect style. I wanted to see those brown eyes swimming with unshed tears. Tears of pleasure, of overwhelm. I wanted to put them there.
His lips. He was answering my father now, and his tongue darted out to wet his lower lip. A quick, unconscious gesture.
A jolt of heat, sharp and undeniable, went straight through me. Fuck.
I wanted to taste his mouth. I wanted to bite that lip until he gasped. I wanted his mouth open and slack around my cock, those composed, articulate words reduced to helpless, wet sounds.
My gaze traveled down, over the sharp line of his jaw. A small, dark mole sat just below it. A little lower, another one, a perfect imperfection on the column of his pale throat.
I wanted to press my thumb against it. I wanted to feel his pulse hammering under my hand. I wanted to wrap my fingers around that delicate neck, not to hurt him, but to feel him, the vibration of his voice, the catch of his breath. I wanted to leave marks on that pale skin, bruises that would bloom like dark violets.