Forbidden Never Felt This Good

~ 10

0010

~ Aria ~

The gallery was all white walls and dramatic lighting, abstract paintings. I stood in front of a piece that looked like someone had sneezed paint onto canvas, nursing champagne and wondering how soon I could leave.

At least the champagne was good.

"Hideous, isn't it?" a warm voice said beside me.

I turned to find a man smiling at me with genuine amusement. Lorenzo Valente, I presumed. He was nothing like Alessio — where the politician's son had been bland and forgettable, this man commanded attention. Tall, olive-skinned, with dark eyes that held genuine intelligence and humor. His suit was perfectly tailored, his confidence effortless.

He was, objectively, extremely attractive.

"I was trying to find something diplomatic to say," I admitted.

"Don't bother. The artist is a hack who's sleeping with the gallery owner." Lorenzo's smile widened, revealing perfect white teeth. "I'm only here because I owe your father."

"At least you're honest about it."

"Always." He held out his hand. "Lorenzo Valente. Tech entrepreneur, art skeptic, and tonight's suitor."

I couldn't help but smile at his self-deprecation. I shook his hand, noting that his grip was firm, warm, confident. "Aria Santoro. Though you know that already."

"I do. Though I have to say,." His eyes traveled over me appreciatively—not leering, just genuinely appreciative. "That dress is stunning."

I'd chosen navy blue tonight, more conservative than the red that had driven Luca to distraction. High neckline, long sleeves, but the back was completely bare and the fabric clung to every curve. Elegant armor designed to look demure from the front and absolutely not from behind.

"Thank you."

Across the room, Luca stood with his back to the wall, watching with predatory stillness. He'd been tense since I'd walked out in this dress, his jaw tight, eyes dark and stormy. He'd looked at me like he wanted to strip it off with his teeth, bend me over the nearest surface, and remind me who I belonged to.

"Shall we look at the rest of the collection?" Lorenzo offered his arm with old-world courtesy. "I promise to tell you which pieces are actually worth the asking price and which ones are money laundering schemes disguised as art."

I took his arm, letting him guide me through the gallery with an ease that suggested he did this often. Unlike Alessio, Lorenzo actually listened when I spoke, asked intelligent questions about the hotel business, shared genuinely interesting insights about his own company — a tech firm specializing in logistics software.

"We've actually been considering approaching your hotels," he said as we paused in front of a particularly garish piece that looked like a child's finger painting enlarged to absurd proportions. His hand settled naturally on my lower back. "Our software could optimize your booking systems, reduce overhead costs by fifteen to twenty percent. The AI integration alone would…"

"I'd be interested in hearing more." I was acutely aware of his hand, warm through the thin fabric of my dress. More aware of Luca's eyes burning into us from across the room. I could feel his stare like a physical weight.

"Excellent. We could set up a meeting next week. I'd love to show you what we've built. Maybe over dinner? Somewhere that actually serves food meant to be eaten, not photographed?"

I laughed despite myself. "That sounds perfect."

"This one is actually quite good," a voice interrupted our conversation. A woman in her sixties, dripping in diamonds and reeking of old money, had sidled up to us. Her eyes were bright with too much champagne and cultural enthusiasm. "The use of negative space is quite profound. You see how the artist has created tension between the void and the form?"

I suppressed a smile as the woman launched into an earnest, rambling explanation of the painting's deeper meaning, complete with hand gestures and references to post-modernist theory. Lorenzo caught my eye, and I saw my own amusement reflected there, along with something else—a shared understanding of the absurdity of our world.

When the woman finally moved on, presumably to enlighten other gallery patrons, Lorenzo leaned close, his lips nearly brushing my ear. The intimacy of the gesture sent a shiver down my spine, though not for the reasons he probably thought.

"I think she was flirting with me," he murmured, his breath warm against my neck.

I laughed, genuine and surprised. "I think you're right."

His hand squeezed my waist gently, and I felt him move even closer, eliminating the polite distance we'd maintained. "Should I be flattered or terrified?"

"Both, probably."

I glanced toward Luca. His expression was thunderous, a storm barely contained beneath that controlled exterior. His hands were clenched at his sides so tightly I could see the white of his knuckles even from across the room. I could practically see the leash on his control fraying, thread by thread.

"Tell me," Lorenzo said, his hand sliding slightly lower on my back, fingers splaying possessively across the bare skin exposed by the dress's low cut, "is the intimidating man by the door going to kill me tonight?"

"Possibly. He takes his job very seriously."

"I can see that. He's been glaring at me since we shook hands." Lorenzo's voice was amused, confident, completely unaware of the danger he was courting. "Is he always this protective?"

"He's very dedicated to my father's wishes."

"Hmm." Lorenzo's thumb traced idle patterns on my back, casual and intimate, the kind of touch that suggested familiarity we didn't have. "And are you and he...?"

The question hung in the air. I could see the calculation in Lorenzo's eyes—assessing whether I was available, whether he had a real chance, whether this was worth pursuing beyond my father's matchmaking.

"No," I lied smoothly, the word tasting bitter on my tongue.

"Good." His smile was confident, knowing, predatory in its own polished way. "Because I'd very much like to see you again, Aria. Without an audience. Without the pretense of arranged dates. Just two people who might actually enjoy each other's company."

He was standing too close now, his chest nearly touching mine, his other hand coming up to rest on my waist. Both hands on me now, warm and firm and completely inappropriate for a first meeting. It was smooth, practiced—the move of a man who knew how to seduce women, who'd done this dance a hundred times before.

And it was exactly the wrong thing to do.

I saw the exact moment Luca's control shattered.

One second he was across the room, a silent sentinel. The next, he was moving with lethal purpose, cutting through the scattered gallery patrons like a shark through water. His face was a mask of barely contained violence, and I felt my heart rate spike with a mixture of anticipation and alarm.

This was going to be bad.

Before Lorenzo could react, before I could even think to step back, Luca's hand clamped around Lorenzo's wrist like a vice, removing it from my waist with barely controlled violence. I saw Lorenzo's face contort slightly—pain flashing across his features before he masked it with confusion.

"That's enough," Luca said, his voice deadly quiet but carrying across the gallery with perfect clarity.

The conversations around us died. People turned to stare. I felt heat flood my face—embarrassment, anger, and something darker that felt disturbingly like satisfaction.

Lorenzo's eyebrows rose, his confidence finally showing cracks. "Excuse me?"

"I said that's enough." Luca stepped between us, his body a wall of muscle and threat between Lorenzo and me. His shoulders were so broad I couldn't see Lorenzo anymore, just the expensive fabric of Luca's suit jacket and the tension radiating from every line of his body. "Keep your hands to yourself."

"I don't take orders from security." Lorenzo's voice held an edge now, his male pride apparently overriding his sense of self-preservation. "I was simply—"

"You do from me." Luca was taller by two inches, broader through the shoulders, and radiating the kind of violence that made survival instincts scream warnings. "Touch her again and I'll break every finger on your hand. And that's me being generous."

"Luca," I hissed, mortified as more people turned to watch our little drama unfold. I could see phones coming out, people recording, the gallery owner looking panicked. This was going to be all over social media within the hour. "People are staring."

"We're leaving," Luca said, finally turning to look at me. The possessive fury in his eyes made my breath catch.