Old flames, new sins

​The champagne was flat, much like the conversation Bella had been enduring for the last forty minutes. ​She stood near a fluted marble column, swirling the pale, expensive liquid in her glass and wondering which of the bridesmaids she’d have to strangle first if they mentioned "destiny" one more time. To a political journalist who spent her days dissecting the rotting carcasses of legislative bills, a wedding wasn't a celebration of love. It was a high-stakes networking event wrapped in white lace and hypocrisy. ​She took a drag of a cigarette she wasn’t supposed to be lighting on the terrace. The smoke bit at her lungs—a welcome distraction from the humidity of a Hudson Valley evening. She needed something stronger than this vinegar. She needed to leave. ​And then, the air in the room changed. ​It wasn't a sound. It was a shift in pressure. Bella felt a jolt of heat slam into her lower belly before she even saw him. A visceral, somatic memory of hands on her skin under a Mediterranean moon five years ago. ​She turned her head. ​He was standing at the edge of the bar. Pietro. The boy from the Amalfi Coast was dead. In his place stood a man forged in the cold, ruthless furnace of Manhattan litigation. He was wearing a tuxedo that looked like armor, his jawline sharp enough to draw blood. ​His eyes—piercing, obsidian Sicilian eyes—found hers across the sea of tuxedos. He didn't smile. He didn't blink. He looked at her like a man recognizing a debt he had no intention of paying. ​Bella didn't give him the satisfaction of a second glance. She turned on her heel, her plum-colored silk gown snapping against her ankles, and headed for the only place she knew would be empty. ​The cellar. ​The service staircase was dim, the air turning damp and cool as she descended. She could hear her own heart hammering against her ribs, a frantic rhythm that pissed her off. She reached the bottom, the labyrinth of wine racks stretching out in the shadows. ​"You always did have a knack for finding the dark corners, Bella." ​The voice came from the shadows to her left. Low. Rich. That trace of a Sicilian accent he hadn’t managed to polish away. ​Bella stopped. She didn't turn. "And you always had a knack for following things that don't belong to you, Pietro." ​"Five years," he said, his footsteps heavy on the stone floor as he closed the distance. He didn't stop until he was inches from her back. She could feel the heat radiating from his chest. "You look... harder. Like you’ve spent every day since Amalfi building a cage." ​"It's called a career," she snapped, finally turning to face him. He had his jacket off, sleeves rolled up to reveal forearms corded with muscle. "What happened to the rule, Pietro? Never twice. Especially if the first time was perfect. You said it was the only way to avoid disappointment." ​"I lied," he murmured. His hand came up, his thumb grazing her lower lip with a pressure that was borderline painful. "Or maybe I just haven't found anything since that wasn't a disappointment." ​"I'm not a souvenir from your summer vacation," she whispered, even as her body leaned into his. ​"No. You're a ghost. And I'm tired of being haunted." ​He slammed his mouth onto hers. ​It wasn't a reunion; it was a collision. It tasted of scotch, resentment, and five years of starvation. Bella met him bite for bite, her nails digging into his shoulders through his custom shirt. He backed her into a rack of 1945 Bordeaux, the glass bottles rattling as her spine hit the wood. ​His hands were everywhere—fisting her hair, bruising her waist, yanking the silk of her dress up until the cool cellar air hit her thighs. ​"Pietro—" She gasped into the kiss. ​"Shut up," he commanded. ​He reached down, hooking his fingers into the lace of her panties. He didn't slide them off. He ripped them. The sound of the fabric tearing was a gunshot in the silence of the vault. ​"I don't have time for this," he growled against her neck, his teeth grazing her pulse point. "I have a trial starting on Monday. I have a life that doesn't include you." ​"Then finish it," Bella hissed, her legs wrapping around his waist, her heels scraping the stone wall behind him. "Do what you came here to do and go back to your life." ​He entered her with a blunt, heavy thrust that stole the breath from her lungs. It was deep, territorial, and utterly devoid of tenderness. It was exactly what she needed. She didn't want poetry. She wanted the friction. She wanted to feel the weight of him erasing every mediocre man she’d used to try and forget his name. ​The rhythm was frantic, desperate. Every shove made the wine racks groan. Her head hit the wood, her eyes fluttering shut as the sensations overwhelmed her. It was raw, filthy, and honest in a way nothing in their Manhattan lives ever was. ​When he finished, he didn't hold her. He let her feet slide back to the floor. ​They stood in the dark, breathing hard, the smell of s*x and aged oak thick between them. Bella adjusted her dress, her hands trembling slightly. ​Pietro leaned back against the opposite rack, lighting a cigarette. The cherry glow illuminated the hard planes of his face. He looked at the torn lace on the floor, then up at her. ​"We aren't doing the 'long-lost lovers' routine, Bella," he said, his voice back to its professional, icy tone. "I don't want your phone number. I don't want to know your middle name. I don't want to take you to dinner." ​Bella smoothed her hair, her eyes narrowing. "Good. Because I’d rather have a root canal than listen to you talk about your feelings." ​"But," he stepped forward, blowing a cloud of smoke over her head. "I want this. Again. When I want it." ​"A contract?" she mocked. "How very lawyer of you." ​"A set of rules," he corrected. "One: No emotions. Two: No public displays. Three: No sleeping over. You come, we finish, you leave." ​Bella stepped into his space, snatching the cigarette from his fingers and taking a long drag. She let the smoke out slowly, right into his face. ​"Rule four," she added, her voice a low purr. "I call the shots as often as you do. And rule five: If either of us catches a single feeling, we walk. No explanations. No goodbyes." ​Pietro looked at her, a slow, predatory smirk spreading across his lips. "Deal." ​"Deal." ​She dropped the cigarette and crushed it under the red sole of her heel. "Now get out of here first. I’m not walking out of a cellar with a man who looks like he just committed a crime." ​Pietro picked up his jacket, slinging it over his shoulder. He paused at the door, glancing back at her. "I did commit a crime, Bella. I just haven't decided if I'm the victim or the perpetrator yet." ​He vanished into the shadows, leaving her alone with the scent of him and the ruins of her underwear.