Chapter 3
1056 Words
🌹 Chapter Three —— The Way I Loved Him
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Love wasn’t something Ariana Genovese believed in when she was younger.
Not the fairy tale kind, not the “once upon a time” kind. Growing up in the Genovese family, love was a weapon. Something used to bend people. Bind them. Break them.
But then came Matteo De Luca — and nothing was simple after that.
He wasn’t her father.
He wasn’t even really her stepfather, not in the way that mattered. Her mother had married him for power, not love — a strategic alliance between two mafia houses after her biological father’s death left a dangerous vacuum.
Ariana had been seventeen.
Too old to be naĂŻve. Too young to understand how deeply that man would change her.
The first time she saw him, he was silent at the end of the long oak dining table, dressed in black, with a stillness that made him frighteningly beautiful. Cold. Sharp. Unreachable.
She hated him.
And then she couldn’t stop watching him.
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Flashback – Age 17
Her mother’s laughter was shrill that night, echoing off the stone walls. The wine in her glass was too full. Ariana sat stiff in the corner, dressed in silk, lips painted red, hating every second of the performance.
Matteo sat opposite her, unmoved. Unimpressed.
Until Ariana glanced up, and caught his gaze.
Still. Studying her.
Not inappropriately — not then.
But like he saw her. Not the Genovese heir. Not the Mafia princess. Just… her.
It lasted two seconds.
But she never forgot it.
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After her mother died two years later — an “accident” no one could ever prove — Matteo didn’t speak much at the funeral. He didn’t touch her shoulder or hug her or say “I’m sorry.”
Instead, he stood behind her.
Silent. A statue. A shadow.
And yet, she remembered feeling safer in that moment than she ever had before.
He became her shield after that. Quietly. Without permission.
He didn’t coddle her. Didn’t smile. Didn’t offer grief counseling or fake comfort. He simply made sure she was never alone.
She started watching him more. Closely.
How he only drank two fingers of whiskey. How he carried a switchblade inside his suit jacket. How he never raised his voice but could clear a room with a look.
There were no warm conversations. No bedtime stories.
But then came the training.
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Flashback – Age 19
“You’re slow,” Matteo said, catching her wrist mid-swing, twisting her body against his with practiced ease.
Ariana hissed through her teeth. “I’m tired.”
“You’re dead.”
He released her and stepped back, cool and composed as ever.
They trained every morning. He taught her everything—close combat, firearms, footwork, pressure points, how to disarm a man three times her size. There were no soft edges in their sessions, only discipline and precision.
But it was in those moments—the sweat, the bruises, the eye contact that lingered too long—that something began to stir in her.
It wasn’t just admiration.
It was need.
Not for safety. But for him.
He never touched her outside training.
Never said anything inappropriate.
But there were cracks.
The way his eyes would drift lower when she was breathing hard, chest rising and falling in a sports bra. The way he always made her tea afterward and left it without a word. The way he looked at her when he thought she wasn’t watching—like she was something fragile in a world of war.
That’s when it started.
The wanting.
She didn’t fight it.
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She tried to date someone once. A guy from the Russo family.
Matteo hadn’t said a word.
He’d simply stared the man down during a meeting two days later, so cold and lethal the poor bastard started stuttering.
He broke it off a week later. “It’s not worth it,” he said. “He’s always watching.”
Ariana had smiled.
She didn’t blame Matteo. She only wanted him more.
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Flashback – Age 21
It was raining. A quiet storm.
She was curled on the couch in the villa’s library with a book. He thought she was asleep. She wasn’t.
He walked in late—blood on his shirt, jaw clenched, knuckles raw.
She said nothing.
Just watched.
He didn’t see her at first. Poured himself a drink, sat down in the corner chair, and ran a hand through his dark hair like he was unraveling.
Then he looked up. Their eyes met.
She thought he’d leave. Instead, he stayed.
They didn’t speak for hours. Just silence. The rain. The thunder. Her eyes on him. His gaze flicking to her when he thought she wasn’t watching.
It was that night she realized:
She was in love with him.
Not the way a daughter loves a father. Never that.
But the way a woman loves a man who’s both her protector and her prison.
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And then came last night.
The way he touched her like he’d break apart without her.
The way he groaned her name like it was holy.
The way he looked at her—looked at her—like she was both his curse and his salvation.
It had been everything she dreamed of.
And now?
Now he was ice.
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Back in her bedroom, Ariana stood in front of the mirror, dressed in nothing but a robe. Her reflection stared back—wild hair, bruised lips, eyes too bright.
She touched her throat where he had kissed her.
Then her mouth twisted.
He hates himself for wanting me.
But I never hated him for it. I waited for it.
She reached for her phone.
There was a message from Enzo confirming her security detail. Nothing from Matteo.
She scrolled through her own gallery.
Photos of him.
Stolen, blurry, quiet.
Matteo in the garden reading paperwork. Matteo adjusting his cufflinks before a meeting. Matteo on the balcony at sunrise, alone.
She knew every angle of his face. Every scar. Every silence.
He thought ignoring her would protect her.
But it was already too late.
Because Ariana Genovese didn’t want a prince.
She wanted the monster guarding her door.
And no matter how much Matteo tried to bury it—
She was already his.
- Writer
