CHAPTER ONE: THE BREAKUP
1337 Words
(Marina)
“How could you do this to me, Damiano?”
My voice cracked as tears streamed down my face, hot and relentless, while every pair of eyes in the room turned toward us in stunned silence.
“Marina, please,” he said quickly, lifting his hands in surrender. “I can explain. It’s not what it looks like, I swear.”
He reached for me, but I jerked away before his fingers could touch my skin.
I glared at him through blurred vision, my chest heaving with rage and humiliation.
“Don’t touch me with those filthy hands.”
For a second, something dangerous flashed in his eyes—something ugly and violent—but he swallowed it just as fast, replacing it with a mocking smile that made my stomach twist.
“Oh, come on, Marina,” he said with a shrug. “You can’t even satisfy me in bed. You can’t blame me for finding it somewhere else. I’m a man.”
The world stopped.
The music. The chatter. The clinking of glasses. Everything.
It all vanished beneath the sound of my own heartbeat pounding in my ears.
Did he really just say that?
In front of everyone?
My throat tightened painfully. Heat rushed to my face—not desire this time, but pure humiliation. I had given him everything. My time. My loyalty. My love. I had bent over backwards trying to be enough for him, and this was what he chose to do? Strip me bare in front of a room full of strangers and call it honesty?
My legs trembled beneath me, but I refused to fall.
I lifted my chin, even as my heart shattered in my chest, and looked at him with every ounce of disgust I could summon.
Then I turned and walked away.
I could feel their stares burning into my back, hear the whispers beginning to rise behind me, but I didn’t stop. If I stayed one more second, I would break apart right there in front of them.
I made it to my car on autopilot and drove straight to Noir’s Club House—the most elite club in all of Italy, and one of the most exclusive in Europe.
A place built on wealth, sin, and power.
A place owned by Giovanni Ricci.
The devil himself.
By the time I stepped inside, I was barely holding myself together. My mascara was ruined, my dignity was hanging by a thread, and my heart felt like it had been fed through a shredder.
I slid into one of the velvet chairs at the bar and motioned for a waiter.
“Get me something strong.”
He nodded once and disappeared.
A few moments later, he returned with a drink in a crystal glass. I snatched it from his hand and swallowed it in one burning gulp.
The alcohol scorched my throat and settled in my stomach like liquid fire.
“Another.”
The waiter hesitated for half a second, then hurried away.
I pressed a hand to my forehead, squeezing my eyes shut as anger and heartbreak tangled inside me like poison. How could Damiano do this to me? Three years. Three whole years, and he threw it away like it meant nothing.
My best friends hated him.
My father despised him.
They all warned me, and I had ignored every single one of them because I thought love meant loyalty. I thought if I loved hard enough, he would love me the same way.
What a fool.
I was getting impatient by the time the waiter returned. He held out another drink, but this time he wouldn’t meet my eyes.
“Here, ma’am.”
I took it, frowning slightly as he backed away so quickly it was almost comical, as if staying near me for too long would get him killed.
Too drunk and too miserable to care, I lifted the glass to my lips.
A deep voice stopped me.
“You’ve had enough, piccola rosa.”
My fingers froze around the glass.
Slowly, I looked up.
And forgot how to breathe.
Giovanni Ricci stood before me like temptation carved into flesh and dressed in power.
Dark hair. Sharp cheekbones. A tailored black suit that looked criminally expensive. A cigarette between elegant fingers. His face was calm, unreadable, but there was something in his gaze—something cold, commanding, devastatingly male—that made the air around me feel thinner.
He wasn’t just handsome.
He was dangerous.
The kind of man mothers warned their daughters about.
The kind of man women ruined themselves for.
“The almighty Mr. Ricci,” I whispered, my voice embarrassingly soft.
He said nothing. He only watched me.
And under that stare, my pulse went wild.
Maybe it was the alcohol.
Maybe it was heartbreak.
Maybe it was the fact that Giovanni Ricci looked like every sinful fantasy a woman should have the good sense to run from.
But all I could think about was how badly I wanted him to touch me.
My body felt warm—too warm. My skin was buzzing, my head light, my thoughts reckless and slippery.
“f**k me,” I breathed, staring up at him. “Please.”
One dark brow lifted.
For one stretched-out second, he simply looked at me, as if deciding whether I was serious or just another drunk woman making a mistake she’d regret by morning.
Then his mouth curved into a slow, wicked smile.
“Pleasure’s all mine, piccola rosa.”
⸻
I woke up to pain.
Not unbearable pain, but the heavy, delicious ache of a body that had been thoroughly ruined the night before.
My head throbbed. My limbs felt weak. My mouth was dry.
I frowned and forced my eyes open.
The room around me was unfamiliar—far too luxurious to be mine. Dark walls. Silk sheets. Floor-to-ceiling windows. Masculine. Expensive. Intimidating.
My heart skipped.
This wasn’t my room.
I sat up too quickly and winced as my body protested. Memories flickered in broken pieces—Damiano, the club, alcohol, a dark stare, a sinful smile, hands on my skin—
Oh God.
Panic shot through me.
I reached across the bed, searching blindly for my phone, but instead of smooth sheets, my fingers brushed against something hard and warm.
I froze.
Very, very slowly, I looked down.
And nearly died.
Giovanni Ricci was lying beside me, shirtless, utterly unbothered, watching me with a lazy smirk on his mouth while my hand rested dangerously close to—
I yanked it back so fast I almost fell off the bed.
“Ah!”
A scream tore out of me before I could stop it.
He didn’t even flinch.
Instead, he looked infuriatingly amused.
“What are you doing in my bed?” I blurted out, clutching the sheet to my chest as if it could somehow erase the fact that we were both very, very naked.
His smirk deepened.
“Good morning to you too, piccola rosa.”
I stared at him, horrified.
He leaned back against the headboard like a king on his throne, completely at ease, all broad shoulders, tattooed power, and devastating male arrogance.
“That’s not what you were saying last night.”
My mouth fell open.
What?
My gaze dropped to the sheets, to the bare skin of my shoulders, to the marks scattered over my body like evidence of a crime.
Reality slammed into me so hard it left me dizzy.
I hadn’t gone home last night.
I had slept with Giovanni Ricci.
Not just slept with him.
No.
Judging by the ache between my thighs and the satisfied look on his face, I had done a lot more than sleep.
Oh my God.
“And,” he added, nodding toward the nightstand, “you might want to answer your phone. It’s been buzzing nonstop.”
Still in shock, I grabbed it with trembling fingers.
The screen lit up.
And my blood turned to ice.
No.
No, no, no.
- Writer
