An uneasy Table
979 Words
The breakfast table glittered with silver and glass, a battlefield disguised in crystal chandeliers and porcelain plates. The Romano villa’s dining hall was all marble and mirrors, sunlight bouncing off polished surfaces as though trying to chase the shadows away.
She sat stiffly beside her father, hands folded in her lap, every movement rehearsed. Across the long table, Matteo Romano lounged in his chair as though the world bored him. He didn’t speak, didn’t smile, but those storm-gray eyes tracked everything, the twitch of a servant’s hand, the cough of his father, the way her own fingers tightened around her napkin.
The silence stretched until it became unbearable. Finally, Marco broke it, smirking from two seats down. “So this is peace, eh? It doesn’t look much different from war. Just better wine.”
Her father shot him a warning glare, but the damage was done.
Matteo’s mouth curved not into a smile, but into something sharper. “Wine and war taste the same. The difference is who gets to drink.”
Her pulse quickened. The air was thick with unsaid threats, and yet beneath it ran another current, subtle but undeniable. His gaze kept finding hers, flicking away only when she met it head-on.
Food was served with platters of fresh bread, cured meats, fruit glistening like jewels. The aroma should have been comforting, but her appetite was gone.
She reached for a glass of water just as Matteo did the same. Their hands brushed against the same stem.
Her heart jolted. His hand was warm, rougher than she expected. For the briefest second, neither moved. Then she withdrew, chin lifting. “Thirsty?” she said sweetly.
His eyes darkened. “Depends on what’s being offered.”
Her stomach flipped, heat rising to her cheeks. She hated herself for the reaction, hated him for noticing it.
“So,” she said quickly, slicing into the silence, “tell me, Romano. "Do you always glare at your guests like you’re choosing where to bury them?”
Marco snorted, choking on his wine. Adrian gave her a sharp look, silently urging caution, but she ignored it.
Matteo leaned forward slightly, elbows on the table, his gaze locking with hers. “Do you always speak like you’re begging to be silenced?”
The words stole her breath. Around them, forks paused, tension coiling tighter than a trigger spring.
But instead of backing down, she smiled slowly, deliberately. “Maybe I’m waiting for someone brave enough to try.”
For the first time, something flickered in his storm-gray eyes amusement, dangerous and fleeting.
The rest of breakfast was a blur of negotiations spoken in half-truths. Her father and Matteo’s father talked of shipping routes and profits, of dividing streets like kings dividing kingdoms. She barely heard a word. Her focus was drawn, again and again, to the man across the table.
Matteo sat like a coiled spring, every muscle taut. He looked like a man forced into chains, even as he wore them with ruthless grace.
When their gazes collided again, she expected more ice, more disdain. Instead, she saw something rawer, something he didn’t want anyone to see.
Resentment. Restraint. Desire.
A servant leaned in to refill her glass, breaking the moment. She exhaled slowly, pulse hammering.
This was dangerous. He was dangerous. And yet, for the first time in her life, danger didn’t feel like a cage.
It felt like fire.
Breakfast ended with the scrape of chairs and the rustle of silk. Servants cleared plates, and the Dons retreated to the study for more closed-door talks. She lingered in the hall, trying to catch her breath, when the air shifted.
He was there. Matteo Romano.
Leaning against the marble pillar like he owned the shadows, arms crossed, expression unreadable. The storm-gray eyes found her instantly.
“You’re bold,” he said, his voice low and cutting. Or stupid. Talking back to me in front of both families? Do you enjoy playing with fire?”
She straightened, meeting his gaze. “Better than sitting quietly, pretending to be a pawn.”
Something flickered across his face, anger, maybe, but laced with something else. Something heavier.
He stepped closer, slow, deliberate. Each movement carried a weight that pressed against her lungs.
“You think you’re not a pawn?” His breath was warm, his presence overwhelming. You’re here because your father put you here. Dressed you up and sat you at my table like an offering.”
Her pulse thundered, but she refused to look away. “Then maybe the offering bites.”
For a heartbeat, silence. Then, his lips curved. Not a smile. A dangerous, dangerous smirk.
“Careful, Bella. Bites can draw blood.”
Her throat tightened. His voice slid over her like velvet and knives.
And before she could form a reply, footsteps echoed down the corridor. He stepped back, smoothly as if nothing had happened, leaving her flushed and furious.
Matteo closed the study door behind him, leaning back against the wood. His heart was still pounding. Damn her.
He should have shut her down. Should have reminded her of her place, of the reality they both lived under. But instead, he’d let her get under his skin.
Her fire burned hotter than he expected. And the worst part? It made something inside him stir something he thought he’d buried long ago.
He dragged a hand through his hair, jaw clenched.
She’s the enemy.
She’s a DeLuca.
She’s trouble.
And yet he could still hear her voice, taunting him: then maybe the offering bites.
A knock pulled him from his thoughts. His father’s advisor, Niccolo, entered quietly. “She’s dangerous,” Niccolo said simply, as though reading Matteo’s mind. “Watch her.”
Matteo gave a sharp nod, though his chest tightened with something more complicated than suspicion.
Dangerous, yes.
But danger had never looked so tempting.
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