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Embarrassed and flustered, but more than that—an aching confusion at being so thoroughly seen, so genuinely valued.

I was used to being dismissed, put down by my ex, nagged by my mother. I'd been ready for difficulties. I'd never learned how to handle this kind of blazing, unconditional affirmation.

To hide my racing heart, I bit my lip and grabbed my glass, gulping down wine as I scrambled to change topics.

"Don't... don't just talk about me." I coughed, trying to steady my voice, meeting his eyes. "What about you, Marcelo? Besides the arranged marriage at seventeen and a grown daughter, I really don't know anything about the real you."

Marcelo watched my flushed ears, lips curving in the faintest arc.

"The real me?" He set down his wine glass. It made a dull sound against the linen. "Pretty boring story."

A pine log cracked sharply in the oven, sparks jumping behind the iron grate, carving his profile into light and shadow.

"My childhood wasn't happy." He said. "My parents' marriage was a transaction. I was raised as the family heir from day one. Starting at eight, while other kids were kicking balls on the grass, my afternoons were shooting ranges, fight training, ledgers. In the old Palermo estate, weakness and tears got bones broken. First lesson my father taught me—in this world, any kind of mercy becomes the knife in your own heart."

His tone stayed level and cold, like he was reading someone else's file. No self-pity, just the icy facts that had forged his iron fist.

"At twenty, I took over the overseas operations. Nobody respected me. The old guard... the board members sabotaged me behind the scenes. The unions and rival families held up my shipments at the Long Island docks. Give them an inch, they'll tear off a pound of flesh. So I had to be harder than all of them. That ridiculous arranged marriage at seventeen was the same—a chain the old generation forced on me. During the worst years, to keep my daughter from becoming a target, I sent her to Switzerland. Only saw her two or three times a year. To outsiders, I'm a cold-blooded monster. But in this position, I have to make sure nobody can take anything from me."

My grip on the glass tightened, knuckles white, eyes stinging.

"For a long time, my world was just calculation, suspicion, putting on shows. Everyone in business wears a mask." He looked up, those deep gray-green eyes locking onto mine with scorching focus in the wavering candlelight. "Until I met you, Ruby."

My breath caught in my throat.

"You reminded me of things I thought I'd lost." His voice slowed, each word carving itself into my heart. "Reality. Warmth. The courage to face everything head-on. You don't try to please me because of my position. You don't grovel out of fear. You're just you—Ruby Caldwell. A woman who fights for her dreams, stands up for strangers, loves and hates with everything she has."

The air filled with fermenting grapes and charred wood.

Something hot and painful crashed around in my chest, ready to spill out of my throat.

I opened my mouth to break this strange atmosphere, but my throat felt stuffed with bubbles. Finally, pressing my burning cheeks, I stood.

"Sorry, I need to use the restroom."

Marcelo didn't immediately move his chair.

His long legs stretched out casually as he angled slightly to the side, one hand resting on the chair back, his tall frame blocking most of the aisle. He tilted his chin up slightly. The quiet in his gray-green eyes had vanished, replaced by the gleam of a predator spotting prey in the dim candlelight. His gaze traveled almost brazenly from my flushed earlobe down to my heaving chest.

"End of the hall, turn left, little rose." His voice dropped to a rough rasp, lips curving in a wicked, teasing arc. "Don't stay in there too long. Trust me, you don't want me coming to find you in the bathroom."

The blatant flirting made my barely-settled nerves explode again.

"I'm not running away!"

I glared at him, face hot as fresh-baked bread. As I passed him, I caught his scorching cedar scent and the low rumble of laughter from deep in his chest.

I bit my lip hard and practically fled down the shadowed stone corridor on unsteady heels.

Through the dark narrow passage, I pushed open the bathroom door and locked it.

I turned on the brass faucet. Cold water splashed on my wrists, making me gasp. The girl in the mirror had flushed cheeks, eyes brighter than ever, the green square neckline rising and falling with rapid breaths.

I pulled out my phone, fingers flying across the screen, sending Isabella a voice message.

—Isa, oh my God, tonight's going so well... He took me to this super cozy hidden Tuscan place, and we talked forever about our pasts. He even opened up completely about his history and his family. I've never felt this close to anyone. I've decided—after dinner, I'm telling him how I feel! If he says yes, I'll introduce you this weekend!

Send.