His Queen,Their War

Chapter Three

I remember dozing off but I woke up already dressed, which was unsettling for at least three reasons,

One, I didn’t remember putting these clothes on.

Two, my jeans were wrinkled like they’d been through a hostage situation.

Three, my shirt was on backward, and no one had bothered to fix it. I need help.

The suitcase by the door told me this wasn’t a dream. My parents hadn’t changed their minds overnight. I was still being shipped off like a suspicious package to “straighten out my life.”

And outside? The jet was ready.

Yeah. A jet. Because apparently when my parents exile me to another country, they prefer it be done in style. I quickly applied my lip gloss and did my hair. I'm not ready for mom's early morning Italian curses.

Mom was already waiting by the steps, her posture as stiff as the starch in her blouse. Dad stood beside her, hands in his pockets, looking like a man who’d already had his morning espresso and a side of disappointment.

“Remember,” Mom started, doing that thing where she spoke half in Italian, half in English, like she was trying to give me a bilingual scolding. “In Italia, you must comportarti bene. No late nights, no ragazzi…no man should come into your life…”

I squinted at her. “English, Mom. I’m not done learning Italian. I still think baci means pasta.”

Her eyes widened. “It means kisses! Dio mio, Alessia, you…”

“Exactly,” I said, cutting her off. “Do you really want me accidentally telling my future husband I’m craving carbs instead of affection?”

That earned me a faint slap on the cheek. Not hard, just the Italian version of Behave, or else!!!

“Alessia,” she said slowly, “do not make me come to Italia to bring you home myself.”

I rubbed my cheek and gave her my sweetest smile. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”

Dad gave me one of his one-nod verdicts,conversation over,so I rolled my suitcase up the steps and into the jet.

Goodbye to these two who caged me…let's hope Matteo won't do the same.

**********

The inside was all polished white leather, shining surfaces, and a basket of snacks that looked like they’d been arranged by a food stylist. I sat down, buckled in, and decided to make the best of my in-flight champagne privileges. If I was going to be forced into an arranged-marriage life in Italy, I might as well start it with a buzz.

Mom and Dad really up their game. I guess they felt I would run away if I had taken a flight.

Hours blurred together,naps, champagne, daydreams about faking my own disappearance. The pilot’s smooth Italian accent finally came through the intercom: “Signorina, we are landing in Sicily.”

*********

The moment I stepped out of the jet, the air hit me.

It wasn’t just air,it was Italy.

Warm and full, like it had weight to it. I breathed it in, and the scent was layered: coffee from somewhere nearby, salt from the sea, something floral drifting in from who-knows-where. Even the breeze felt different,like it had traveled through olive trees and old stone before finding me.

The sun was brighter here, but softer somehow, not the harsh kind that makes you squint but the kind that pours over you like rain. The light bounced off terracotta rooftops in the distance, each one stacked and layered like a painting.

For a moment, I forgot why I was here.

I forgot about Marco, about my parents’ ultimatum, about the faint slap still lingering on my cheek. I just… existed. Feet on warm ground, eyes on a skyline that felt impossibly old and impossibly alive.

Men in dark suits,stepped forward to collect my luggage, moving with quiet efficiency. They carried everything toward the terminal without a word.

That’s when I saw him.

My stepbrother.

Leaning against a sleek black car like he’d been waiting his whole life for me to arrive. Sunglasses on, hair perfect, smile effortless. Are those men his?

He didn’t move right away,just watched me approach like I was the punchline to a joke only he knew. Then he closed the distance between us and pulled me into a hug so tight it felt like gravity was working overtime.

“Finalmente,” he said, his voice low and warm.

Then came the forehead kiss.

Lingering. Slow. The kind of forehead kiss you could argue was completely innocent… or not.

When he pulled back, I laughed a little too quickly. “Wow. Someone missed me.”

“Of course,” he said simply, his eyes never leaving mine.

How cute.

**********

We started toward the airport entrance. He said he needed to grab something before we left, so I waited near a column, scrolling aimlessly through my phone to avoid thinking about… well, everything.

And then I walked straight into a wall of muscle.

Except it wasn’t a wall,it was a man.

Tall, broad, dressed in black with a jawline sharp enough to file nails. His hands were big and steady as they caught my arms to keep me from falling. He pulled me back up.

Before I could apologize, he leaned down, his mouth close to my ear, and whispered in smooth, deliberate Italian, "Benvenuta in Italia, futura sposa."

I froze.

I get the fact that I don't understand Italian assent that much…but I understood what he said.

By the time I found my voice, he was already walking away, disappearing into the crowd like nothing had happened.

When Matteo returned a minute later, I was still standing there, pulse racing.

“You okay?” he asked, tilting his head.

“Yeah,” I lied. “Just… taking it all in.”

But in my head, all I could hear was that deep voice, those three words.

Welcome to Italy.

Is this how they welcome people around here?