TOO LATE TO HATE MY ITALIAN STEP-BROTHER

CHAPTER 2: TATTOOS AND BRUISES

The silence of the Moretti villa was loud.

Staring up at the ornate molding of the canopy bed, Maya felt the weight of the massive room pressing down on her. Back in California, the night had a soundtrack: the hum of the 405 freeway and the constant, comforting ping of her group chat. Now, the phone on her nightstand sat dark. A photo of her and Sarah at the pier—taken only two days ago—felt like a relic from another lifetime. There had been no proper goodbyes, just a whirlwind of packing and Janice’s desperate hope for a fresh start.

A sharp growl from her stomach echoed through the emptiness.

"Great," she muttered, kicking off the silk duvet. "Starving and stranded."

The formal lunch earlier had been a disaster for her appetite. Nerves and homesickness had made it impossible to swallow, especially with Julian’s stormy gaze fixed on her like she was a virus. Now, at 2:15 AM, her body was demanding a truce.

Bare feet hit the cold floor as she slipped out of bed. Dressed only in an oversized sleep shirt and tiny cotton shorts, she crept into the hallway. Moonlight filtered through the massive windows, stretching the shadows of marble statues into distorted, frozen sentinels that seemed to track her progress toward the stairs.

The kitchen was a cavern of shadows and cold steel. She was halfway to the refrigerator when a heavy, muffled thud vibrated from the side entrance.

Maya froze.

The sound of a heavy bolt sliding home was followed by a sharp, ragged hiss of breath. Instinct took over; she ducked behind the marble island just as a silhouette rounded the corner. This wasn't Alejandro’s polished, rhythmic step. These movements were jagged, fueled by a frantic, raw energy.

It was him.

Julian didn't notice her. He headed straight for the sink, his frame appearing stiff and awkward under a scuffed black leather jacket. The shoulders were scarred with white streaks, as if he’d survived a high-speed slide across asphalt. With a loud clack, he dropped a matte black helmet onto the counter and turned the faucet on full blast.

Maya watched, eyes widening, as he thrust his hands under the stream. The water swirling into the drain wasn't clear; it was pink, then a deep, sickening crimson.

She shifted to get a better view, but her knee clipped a wooden stool. The sound was microscopic, yet in the dead of night, it might as well have been a gunshot.

Julian went dead still.

The water continued to roar, but he didn't move a muscle. Slowly, his head turned. Sea-green eyes cut through the darkness, the pupils blown wide with adrenaline. He looked feral.

"I know you’re there," he rasped, his voice a jagged edge. "Come out."

Maya rose slowly, her fingers gripping the edge of the marble. "I was just getting water."

Julian leaned back against the sink, chest heaving. Up close, he was a wreck—grease smeared across his jaw, a split lip, and knuckles that were raw and angry. He radiated the scent of gasoline, cold night air, and copper.

"At two in the morning?" A short, dry laugh escaped him, devoid of humor. "You’re a terrible liar. I could hear you pacing from down the hall for four hours straight. What’s the matter? Can’t handle the quiet?"

"I didn't exactly get a chance to say goodbye to my friends properly," she countered, her voice tightening with a sudden spark of defiance. "Your father's timeline didn't leave much room for partings."

The expected sneer didn't come. Instead, Julian went silent. Those turbulent eyes fixed on her face with an unreadable intensity, tracing the frustration in her expression. The silence stretched, heavy and suffocating, until the tension became unbearable.

"What happened to your hands, Jace?" she asked, her gaze dropping to the blood still clinging to his skin. "Did you crash?"

The air in the room turned frigid. Julian straightened instantly, closing the distance between them until Maya was backed against the pantry door. He didn't touch her, but his presence was a physical weight, trapping her in place.

"What did you just call me?" he whispered.

"I... I saw the name in the letters. My mom’s files—"

"Don't," he interrupted, the word a low, vibrating warning. "Don't ever call me that. My name is Julian. To you, to this house, to everyone—that is all I am. You don't have the right to use that name. Do you understand?"

He was close enough that she could feel the heat radiating off his skin. In the dim light, his sleeve shifted, revealing the dark ink on his inner forearm: a crown of thorns wrapped around a shattered hourglass.

"Your arm..." she started, her hand lifting instinctively toward the tattoo.

"Is none of your business," he snapped, flinching away from the potential contact. "If you hear the bike roar at night, you stay in your bed. You don't see me. You don't mention me. And you never use that name again."

A floorboard creaked upstairs. Muffled voices—Janice and Alejandro—approached the kitchen. Panic flickered across Julian's face, the first crack in his predator mask.

"Hide that," he hissed, shoving the heavy helmet toward her.

"What?"

"Hide it! Now!"

He vanished through the dining room door just as the kitchen lights flickered on. Maya acted on pure adrenaline, shoving the helmet into a lower cabinet and kicking the door shut just as her mother and Alejandro stepped into the room.

"Maya?" Janice’s brow furrowed, her silk robe shimmering in the light. "Honey, what are you doing down here in the dark?"

Her heart hammered against her ribs. Near the sink, a dark smear of red was drying on the white marble. Maya grabbed a dish towel and "accidentally" dropped it, using her foot to scrub the spot away.

"I couldn't sleep," she said, her voice remarkably steady. "Just thinking about home. I wanted some water."

Alejandro scanned the room, his sharp eyes lingering briefly on the wet sink. "It takes time to adjust. The silence here is different than California."

"Is Julian asleep?" Janice asked, glancing toward the hallway. "I thought I heard someone moving."

"He should be," Alejandro replied coldly. "He returned hours ago. If he is out of bed, he is looking for trouble."

The lie felt like lead in Maya's throat. "I haven't seen him."

Alejandro nodded, seemingly satisfied. "I have a flight to Milan in the morning. Maya, explore the grounds this week. You won't be starting at Oakwood Prep until next Monday. That gives you seven days to settle in."

Relief washed over her. A week.

As the couple retreated back toward the stairs, the dining room door creaked open. Julian stepped back into the light to retrieve his helmet. He looked at the towel she was still standing on, then locked eyes with her.

"Why did you do that?" he asked softly.

"Because my mom is finally smiling," she whispered. "And I'm not going to let you ruin that for her on the first night. Not even if you're a jerk."

He stared at her for a long beat, his expression unreadable. "A week," he murmured, echoing his father's words. "You have one week of peace, Maya. Enjoy it. Because I'm going away for a few days, and when I get back... I won't be hiding in the shadows anymore."

With a sharp turn, he brushed past her, his shoulder catching hers with enough force to make her stumble. He didn't go upstairs; he headed back out the side door.

A few minutes later, the guttural roar of a bike sliced through the night. He was gone.

Maya stood alone in the dark kitchen. She’d just told her first lie for a boy who hated her. Climbing the stairs, she passed the shut door to Julian's room and reached her own, the third on the right.