Porcelain & Fire

Between the Flame & the Shadow

Alessia

The sunlight streaming through my curtains is obnoxiously cheerful. I groan, dragging the pillow over my head like it might smother out the day. No such luck. Morning in this house always tastes the same—stale, predictable, suffocating.

I kick free of the sheets and pad barefoot across the cold marble floor, tugging on a silk robe as I go. My reflection in the mirror catches me mid-yawn—hair a mess, eyeliner smudged from last night. Perfect. Just the look my father would love to parade in front of his soldiers.

By the time I make it downstairs, the smell of espresso and eggs greets me. So does he.

Matteo.

He’s already there, posted by the dining room wall like a shadow carved out of stone. Not leaning, not fidgeting—just standing, watchful, arms folded behind his back. His eyes flick toward me the second I enter, sharp and unyielding, before he turns his attention forward again.

Of course he’s here. Of course he beat me to breakfast.

“Good morning, signorina,” one of the staff murmurs, setting a plate at my usual spot. I murmur something back, though my attention isn’t on the food.

It’s on him.

I slide into the chair across from my father, twirling the fork between my fingers. Matteo doesn’t speak, doesn’t blink, doesn’t so much as twitch. But I can feel it—his eyes, heavy as chains even when they’re not directly on me.

I spear a piece of toast, chew deliberately slow, then glance his way. “Do you ever sleep, Bianchi, or do you stand there all night just glaring at my door for fun?”

His gaze cuts to me, cool and unreadable. “I don’t sleep on duty.”

My lips curl. “So you do admit you’re a stalker. Glad we cleared that up.”

My father exhales, the sound a blade against the table’s silence. “Alessia.” His warning tone. The one that means behave.

I flash him my sweetest smile. “What? We’re just chatting.”

But Matteo’s eyes never leave mine now, and something about the way he holds my stare makes the toast stick in my throat. He doesn’t look away, doesn’t flinch, doesn’t give me the satisfaction of irritation.

It’s unnerving.

So I smirk, setting my fork down with a clatter. “Careful, Papà. If your guard keeps glaring at me like that, I might think he’s obsessed.”

Finally—finally—I think I catch the faintest flicker at the corner of his mouth, like he might smirk back. But it’s gone before I can be sure, replaced by that infuriating blank control.

My father mutters something under his breath and signals the staff to clear the table. Breakfast over. Show dismissed.

But as I rise and smooth down my robe, I throw Matteo one last smile, sweet and poisonous. “Hope you enjoyed watching me eat. Same time tomorrow?”

He doesn’t answer. Just watches me leave.

And I hate—absolutely hate—that I can still feel his gaze long after I’ve turned the corner.

---

By noon, the silence of the house is already gnawing at me.

Silence and shadows. His shadows.

No matter where I go, Matteo’s there.

I linger in the library with a book I don’t read—he’s stationed by the door.

I pace the hallway, trailing my fingers along the banister—he follows at a distance, silent as a ghost.

I flop dramatically across the sitting room sofa and sigh until the walls could collapse from boredom—he doesn’t so much as blink.

Predictable. Or maybe that’s just me.

Fine. If he thinks last night was my final move, he’s out of his mind.

I toss the book aside and stretch, catching his eyes on me before he flicks them away. Not fast enough, though.

Good.

“Tell me something, Bianchi,” I say, crossing one leg over the other. “Do they teach you in bodyguard school how to look menacing while standing perfectly still, or is that just raw talent?”

“Neither,” he says evenly. “It’s discipline.”

“Ah.” I tilt my head, pretending to consider this. “So… boring.”

Nothing. Not even the twitch of his jaw.

Infuriating.

I lean back, studying him with narrowed eyes. He’s changed something. It’s subtle, but I see it. The way he positions himself by the window now, not just the door. The way his gaze flicks toward the garden every so often. He’s blocking the exits.

My lips curl. “You had your men stationed outside, didn’t you?”

That earns me silence, which is as good as a confession.

I grin, slow and dangerous. “You’re learning.”

“I told you,” he says, tone like steel. “I won’t make the same mistake twice.”

“Bold of you to assume I only make the same mistake once.”

For a moment, our gazes lock across the room, heat sparking in the space between us. Neither of us moves. Neither of us blinks. The air is thick enough to choke on.

Then I rise, deliberately casual, smoothing my skirt as if this isn’t another test.

“I think I’ll go for a walk in the garden,” I announce. “Breathe a little fresh air. Don’t worry, I won’t vanish.”

I take three slow steps toward the door. His voice cuts through the quiet, calm but edged like a blade.

“You won’t make it past the hedges.”

I freeze, heartbeat spiking. Not because he’s wrong, but because I know—know—that he’s already thought three moves ahead of me.

When I glance back, he’s watching me with that maddening calm, as if daring me to try.

And God help me, I want to.

I smile sweetly, like his words haven’t rattled me in the slightest. “The hedges, hm? You make it sound like I’m a puppy in a playpen.”

He doesn’t rise to it. Just stands there, watchful. Waiting.

All the more reason to move.

I slip through the doorway, my heels clicking against the marble floor, and head toward the garden doors. The air is warm when I step outside, carrying the faint scent of roses from my father’s prized beds. Sunlight glitters across the fountain, birds flit through the hedges, and for one delicious moment, I breathe.

Free.

I glance back over my shoulder. Matteo’s shadow fills the doorway, dark against the bright day. He doesn’t follow. Doesn’t need to.

Fine. Let’s see.

I stroll down the stone path, past the fountain, toward the tall hedges that mark the garden’s edge. I’ve slipped out through them dozens of times—there’s a narrow opening that leads straight into the orchard, and from there, it’s a clear run to the road. Easy.

Except—

Movement.

Subtle, just at the corner of my eye. A glint of metal, a shift of black fabric. Then another, farther along the hedge.

My steps slow.

There are men stationed here. His men.

I keep walking, feigning nonchalance, but my chest burns hot with irritation. He did block the exits. Every last one.

One of the guards meets my eyes. He doesn’t say a word, but the message is clear: try it, and I’ll stop you.

I halt in front of the hedge, staring at the gap I’ve used a hundred times. It’s right there. My escape route. But now it’s guarded like a prison gate.

Behind me, I hear the steady crunch of boots on gravel. Matteo.

I don’t turn until his shadow falls across mine. When I do, he’s there—calm, composed, arms folded loosely across his chest.

“I warned you,” he says simply.

God, the infuriating calm of him. No gloating, no smug grin, just control. Like I’m a pawn he’s already placed back in the box.

I lift my chin, forcing my smirk into place. “Enjoy this little victory, Bianchi. Because one day, you’ll blink. And when you do…” My smile sharpens. “I’ll be gone before you even realize it.”

For the briefest second, his eyes flicker—not with doubt, not with fear, but with something that feels dangerously like amusement.

Then he turns, heading back toward the house without a word.

And I—furious, restless, caged—follow, heat prickling under my skin the entire way.

---

The courtyard is quiet, the fountain bubbling softly, cicadas singing in the trees. I know he’s waiting before I even see him.

Luca.

He leans against the gatepost, cigarette glowing faint in the shade, uniform jacket unbuttoned like he doesn’t give a damn about appearances. His hair falls carelessly across his forehead, golden-brown strands catching the last of the sun. Youth clings to him, sharp and effortless, his tan skin stretched over a jaw still more boy than man, but his grin—lazy, cocky, dangerous—belongs to someone who knows exactly what he’s doing.

“Well, well,” he drawls, exhaling smoke. “Princess sneaks out again. If your watchdog knew half the things you let me do to you out here, he’d blow a fuse.”

Heat sparks through me, sharp and dangerous. I should be afraid of being caught. Instead, I smile like a devil. “Matteo’s too busy staring at shadows to notice what’s right under his nose.”

Luca chuckles, deep and amused. “Good. Let him keep staring. Makes it easier for me to get my hands on you.” His eyes trail over me, bold, unapologetic. “And tomorrow night, I plan on having you for more than five stolen minutes.”

My pulse jumps. “Oh?”

He leans closer, voice dropping smooth and conspiratorial against my ear. “I’ll make a distraction. Lights out, alarms, something loud enough to send your guard dog running. Just long enough for us to slip out. No rush. No one watching. Just you and me, as long as we want.”

The thrill floods me at once—sharp, intoxicating. We’ve been reckless already, months of hurried s*x in dark corners, quick gasps pressed against stone walls. But this… this is different. Hours. Freedom. A whole night.

“You’re insane,” I whisper, though my grin betrays me. “You’ll get us both killed.”

“Maybe,” Luca says with a wicked smirk. “But tell me you don’t want it. Tell me you don’t lie in that big empty bed craving me.” His hand brushes mine, fleeting but electric. “Tomorrow night, bella. I’ll open the door. All you have to do is walk through it.”

From the house, a door creaks. My blood jolts. Matteo.

I step back quickly, face snapping into innocence. “Back to your post before someone notices.”

Luca just chuckles, flicking his cigarette away. “Don’t worry, princess. Tomorrow night, I’ll give you the kind of freedom he’ll never let you taste.”

I glide back into the house, heart hammering, every inch of me alive.

Tomorrow night, Luca will set the fire.

And I’ll be the one walking through it.

---

I slip back into the house with my robe clutched tight around me, forcing my steps to stay calm, measured. Walk, don’t run. Glide, don’t stumble. If anyone sees me, it has to look like I’ve just stepped out for air.

But my skin is still buzzing, my breath ragged, and I know I don’t look like air was all I went out for.

Because it wasn’t.

Luca’s taste is still on my lips, his hands still on my skin, the echo of him still pulsing low in my body. Weeks of this—slipping into the courtyard when the house is quiet, letting him pin me against cold stone, biting back laughter and moans like we’re teenagers sneaking out of a dormitory instead of a mafia princess and one of her father’s guards.

Every time I tell myself it’s the last time. Every time I swear I won’t risk it again.

And every time, I go back.

Because it isn’t just about Luca. It’s about the rush. The rebellion. The knowledge that I’m doing the one thing my father would slit his throat for—and that Matteo, perfect, unshakable Matteo, hasn’t noticed.

At least, I don’t think he has.

I climb the stairs, heartbeat quick and wild, the ghost of Luca’s grin burned into my mind. He doesn’t look at me like property. Doesn’t speak to me like I’m porcelain. He touches me like I’m fire and he’s happy to burn.

And God, I like watching him burn.

When I reach my room, I shut the door with a soft click and collapse back onto the bed, staring at the ceiling with a grin stretching my lips. Tomorrow night, Luca said. His night off. A distraction. Hours that belong only to me.

Hours where I’m not a pawn. Not a prisoner. Not my father’s “belonging.”

Hours where I’m his.

The thought coils hot and electric, but as I press the pillow against my chest, another weight presses in too—one I can’t laugh away.

Matteo.

Unshakable, unyielding Matteo, who watches me like I’m a storm he already sees forming. Who never blinks. Who never bends.

He thinks he’s locked every door, every window, every exit.

But tomorrow night, I’ll prove him wrong.

Because while he’s watching the shadows—

I’ll be the flame.