THE TASTE OF HIS HEAT

MORNING AFTER

Sunlight sliced through the heavy silk curtains, spilling across the sprawling suite in Palermo's most exclusive hotel. Bianca Romano stirred, her body sinking into a sea of crisp white sheets, the kind too soft to belong to her world. Her eyelids fluttered open, confusion knitting her brow as she registered the unfamiliar expanse of luxury-vaulted ceilings, gold-trimmed furniture, a chandelier glinting like a frozen star. The air was cool, scented with cedar and something faintly masculine, and then it hit her: the club, the dance, the man.

Panic surged, a cold wave crashing through her. She sat up, her dark hair tumbling over her shoulders, her hazel eyes wide with dread. Memories of the night flooded back-Club Stella, Natalie's laughter, the stranger's gray eyes locking onto hers. His touch, magnetic and commanding, pulling her into a whirlwind of raw passion. Bianca pressed a hand to her mouth, her heart hammering. How could she have done this again? A one-night stand, reckless and impulsive, echoing a mistake from eight years ago that had shattered her life.

She glanced at the bed, her breath catching. He was there, still asleep, his chiseled features softened in the morning light. Vincenzo Li Fonti, though she didn't know his name, lay on his side, one arm draped across the sheets, his dark hair mussed, his bare chest rising with steady breaths. He was devastatingly handsome, a Greek god carved from marble, but to Bianca, he was danger-a reminder of her vulnerability, her lapse in control.

Her red dress lay crumpled on the floor, a scarlet accusation. She slipped from the bed, her movements silent, her bare feet sinking into the plush carpet. Her hands trembled as she gathered her clothes, dressing with the urgency of a thief. The locket at her throat, her constant anchor, brushed her skin, grounding her. She couldn't afford this mistake, not again. Not when her life was already a fragile balance of work, rent, and the ghost of a loss she carried every day.

She cast one last glance at him, her heart twisting. He was a stranger, yet something in his presence tugged at her, a fleeting familiarity she couldn't place. She shook her head, banishing the thought. This was a lapse, nothing more. She grabbed her heels, too rushed to put them on, and padded to the door. Her hand hovered over the handle, her breath held, praying he wouldn't wake. The lock clicked softly, and she slipped out, the door closing with a whisper.

The hallway was a blur of opulence-marble floors, gilded mirrors-but Bianca barely noticed, her bare feet slapping against the cold stone. She darted to the elevator, her pulse racing as if pursued. The doors slid open, and she stepped inside, clutching her heels like a lifeline. As the elevator descended, she leaned against the wall, her reflection in the mirrored panel a stranger's-disheveled, flushed, haunted. "Never again," she whispered, a vow to herself.

Outside, Palermo stirred under a hazy dawn, its streets quiet save for the hum of early vendors. Bianca slipped on her heels, wincing at the ache in her body, a reminder of the night's intensity. She hailed a cab, her meager savings protesting, but she couldn't face the walk home. As the car wove through the city, she stared out the window, her fingers tracing the locket, her mind a storm of regret and resolve. Natalie would ask questions, but Bianca would bury this night, lock it away like the pain she carried. She had to.

In the suite above, Vincenzo stirred, the faint click of the door pulling him from sleep. His gray eyes opened, scanning the empty bed beside him. The sheets were cool, her warmth gone, leaving only a faint trace of jasmine on the pillow. He sat up, his jaw tightening, a rare flicker of surprise crossing his face. Women didn't leave Vincenzo Li Fonti. They clung, dazzled by his wealth, his status, professing love or scheming for more. But she-she'd vanished, silent as a shadow.

He rose, his movements fluid despite the tension coiling in his chest. Naked, he crossed to the window, the city sprawling below like a chessboard he'd mastered. Palermo was a brief stop,but last night had shifted something. Her face-stunning, unforgettable-flashed in his mind. Dark hair, hazel eyes, a fire that had matched his own. She'd surrendered to him, yet held a strength that intrigued him, a puzzle he couldn't resist solving.

He returned to the bed, his fingers brushing the pillow where her scent lingered. Most women would have left a note, a number, a calculated bid for his attention. She'd left nothing but absence, and that absence gnawed at him. Vincenzo Li Fonti didn't lose what he wanted, and he wanted her-more of her fire, her defiance, her mystery.

He pulled on a robe, the silk cool against his skin, and retrieved his phone from the nightstand. The screen glowed as he dialed Damiano whose loyalty was as unyielding as his mind was sharp. Damiano answered on the first ring, his voice crisp despite the early hour.

"Sir?"

"Find her," Vincenzo said, his tone low, almost a growl. "The woman from last night. Club Stella. Red dress, dark hair. She left the suite an hour ago."

A pause, brief but telling. Damiano's curiosity was palpable, though he'd never voice it. "Any name?"

"No." Vincenzo's eyes flicked to the pillow, her scent a ghost. "But I saw her face. Beautiful. Unforgettable. Start with the club's cameras."

"Understood." Damiano's efficiency was a machine, already clicking into motion. "I'll have answers by noon."

Vincenzo ended the call, setting the phone down with deliberate care. He returned to the window, his reflection a hard line against the dawn. The city woke, indifferent to the storm brewing in his chest. He was a man of control, his life a fortress of power and solitude, yet she'd slipped through his grasp, a challenge he couldn't ignore.

He dressed, his movements precise-tailored shirt, cufflinks glinting, the silver one a relic he touched without thought. Alessio waited in Milan, his warmth a constant, but this woman had stirred something else, a hunger Vincenzo hadn't felt in years. Not since another night, another city, another ghost he'd buried. He pushed the thought away, his face hardening.

Damiano would find her. He always did. And when he did, Vincenzo would unravel her mystery, claim what had slipped away. For now, Palermo called, its streets hiding the woman who'd dared to leave the king of Milan behind.