The storm began just after midnight.
Rain hammered against the glass walls of the penthouse with relentless force, turning the city beyond into a blur of silver lights and shadows. Thunder rolled across Milan like the growl of something ancient and restless, shaking the windows hard enough to make me wonder whether the storm intended to tear the entire sky apart.
I lay awake in Matteo’s bed, staring at the ceiling.
Sleep had become impossible sometime around midnight.
Perhaps it was the storm.
Or perhaps it was the man beside me.
Matteo lay on his back, one arm beneath his head, his breathing slow and even in the darkness. Moonlight slipped between the curtains in pale streaks, tracing the sharp lines of his face and the broad planes of his bare chest.
He looked peaceful.
Which fel
