Kidnapped by The Mafia Prince

Chapter 5: Il Refugio’s Secret Sauce

~~~~ Present ~~~~~~

Ivy~

Get a grip, Ivy.

But I couldn’t. Not when every inch of my skin still burned with the memory of him. Not when my chest tightened at the thought of his hands, his mouth, his everything.

Last night wasn’t just s*x—it was the kind of earth-shattering, toe-curling, mind-erasing moment that I didn’t think existed outside of steamy novels with bad covers. And Caleb? He wasn’t just a man. He was a force. A storm that tore through everything I thought I knew about myself, leaving me trembling, breathless, and utterly wrecked.

So why did I run?

Was it fear? Fear of the control Caleb could have over me, a control so complete and consuming it made Nathaniel’s pale in comparison? Nathaniel’s control had been calculated, sharp, and cruel. Caleb’s was different. It wasn’t something he took—it was something I wanted to give. And that was far more terrifying.

Or was it pride? Pride that kept me from giving in so completely to a man who could make me beg with a single word? The idea of handing him that kind of power made my chest tighten.

I sighed, staring at the cracked ceiling as if it might provide some kind of divine clarity. It didn’t.

Instead, my mind wandered—back to the gambling room, back to the moment Caleb’s stormy gray eyes locked onto mine and silently told me I was his. And I had been, hadn’t I? For that night, at least, I was his. Completely.

I closed my eyes, the memory rushing in like a tidal wave.

What if I hadn’t run? What if, instead of hiding like a coward, I’d stayed? Would I be with him now, tangled in his sheets, his voice a low growl in my ear? Would his hands still be on me, gripping me like I was the only thing keeping him grounded?

But I did run.

The moment Caleb turned to grab his clothes, his phone in hand as he made arrangements for a ferry, I bolted. I ran like a dumbass, barely dressed, slipping through the back hallway like I was escaping a crime scene.

And now here I was. Alone. Hungover. Sleepless. And still thinking about him.

This is ridiculous. You’re ridiculous.

Because the truth was, Caleb De Luca wasn’t just the kind of man who could ruin me. He was the kind of man I’d let ruin me. And that scared me more than anything.

~

The morning came far too soon, dragging me out of a restless sleep that barely lasted an hour. My head pounded in protest, and my limbs felt heavy, like they’d been weighed down by the memories of the night before. Groggy, sleepless, and still caught in the haze of too much whiskey and not enough self-control, I dragged myself downstairs.

The cozy charm of Villa Serena felt almost mocking in the morning light. The warm tones of the reception area and the faint scent of freshly baked bread wafting through the air didn’t do much to brighten my mood. I shuffled toward the desk, still rubbing the sleep from my eyes, when I spotted him.

Dante was leaning casually against the counter, scrolling through his phone, a half-empty espresso cup sitting on the counter beside him. He looked fresh and annoyingly cheerful, like he hadn’t just spent the previous night helping me escape from one of the most chaotic moments of my life.

“How long have you been waiting?” I asked, my voice raspy from exhaustion.

Dante glanced up, a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth.

“Long enough to wonder if you were still alive.”

“You could’ve texted me,” I muttered, suddenly feeling guilty for keeping him waiting.

Dante scoffed.

“With what, Ivy? Smoke signals? A message in a bottle? Hate to break it to you. You yeeted your phone into the ocean, remember?”

I groaned, dragging a hand down my face as the memory hit me.

“Right. My bad.”

He chuckled, clearly amused by my misery.

“Don’t worry, cara mia. Next time, I’ll bring a carrier pigeon.”

Before I could come up with a half-decent retort, a soft voice interrupted us.

Lucia greeted with a soft, inviting smile that felt more like a warm blanket than a morning greeting. She slid a steaming cup of coffee across the counter toward me, her tone light but kind.

“You look like you could use a little magic.”

I blinked at her, clutching the cup like it was a lifeline.

“Does your coffee come with spells? Because I need more than caffeine right now.”

Lucia let out a soft laugh, leaning slightly over the counter as if sharing a secret.

“Better than spells. The food at Il Rifugio fixes everything. Rough nights, hangovers, bad days—whatever you’ve got, it can handle it.”

I raised an eyebrow, her confidence catching me off guard.

“Everything?”

“Everything,” she said, her smile widening into something almost mischievous. “I’m serious. A plate of pasta, and you’ll feel human again. You’ll even forgive the universe for being so cruel to you this morning.”

That earned a weak laugh from me, the corner of my lips twitching.

“Alright, you’ve sold me.”

~

Reluctantly, I followed Dante out of the reception area. A connecting doorway led straight into the restaurant, where the warm, rich aroma of fresh bread, simmering sauces, and roasted garlic enveloped us like a hug.

Il Rifugio wasn’t just a restaurant; it was an experience. The kind of place that made you pause as soon as you walked in, overwhelmed by the sheer perfection of it all. but I was too tired and too hungover to properly appreciate it.

I followed Dante to a table near the window, slumping into the chair as the tantalizing aroma of fresh bread and simmering sauce surrounded me. The coffee Lucia handed me earlier was starting to work its magic, but it wasn’t enough to drown out the buzzing in my head—or the thoughts of him.

I barely glanced at the menu before ordering something simple—a pasta, light and comforting. Dante made a few jokes to lighten the mood, but I wasn’t paying attention. My head was pounding, and my body still felt like it had been dragged through a storm.

The waiter returned with the plates, setting mine down in front of me. I stared at the bright red sauce pooling around the pasta, the pungent scent of tomatoes and basil wafting toward me like an insult. My appetite vanished instantly. I had been expecting creamy white sauce—something simple and inoffensive, not… this.

Dante was halfway through complimenting the white wine when I waved the waiter back over.

“I’m sorry. There must be a mistake. I don’t eat red sauce.”

The waiter hesitated, nervously glancing toward the kitchen.

“Uh… I’ll… I’ll let the chef know.”

As he scurried off, Dante sighed, looking amused.

“You’re really not going to eat it? Red sauce is Italy’s pride and joy.”

“Good for Italy,” I shot back. “But I’m not in the mood to drown my pasta in a pool of tomatoes.”

I waited for my plate to return corrected—white sauce. Something neutral. Something safe.

Instead, I got him.

My brain short-circuited. My stomach clenched so hard I almost mistook it for actual hunger.

No. No, no, no.

This had to be some kind of cosmic joke. A cruel trick. A hallucination brought on by a hangover and my tragic life choices. Because there was no way—no way—Caleb De Luca was standing in front of me, carrying my plate of pasta like he belonged here.

Except he did belong here.

He stood effortlessly in control, dressed in a crisp white chef’s jacket with the sleeves pushed up, exposing the tattoos that curled over his forearms like art inked into marble. The entire restaurant seemed to orbit around him—staff moving with silent efficiency under his watch, patrons sneaking glances without daring to stare too long.

Like he owned the damn place.

Because of course, he did.

He carried the same plate of pasta in his hands, his gait lazy and confident, as if he had all the time in the world.

I barely had time to process before a plate was set in front of me. Not just any plate—the plate. The one I had sent back only moments ago.

And carrying it, standing right behind me, was none other than Caleb himself.

His presence curled around me like smoke, his body close enough that I could feel the warmth radiating from him. One hand brushed the back of my chair as he leaned in slightly, the other placing the dish in front of me with deliberate, unhurried care.

A featherlight touch—his fingers grazing my shoulder, the barest whisper of contact, just enough to make my pulse stutter.

My breath hitched before I could stop it.

"You don’t like red sauce? Shame," he murmured, his voice low, smooth, dangerous. "You strike me as someone who appreciates a little spice.”