Silence wasn't common in the Moretti household — especially not when it was full of guests, music, and the aroma of vintage wine — but for a few lingering seconds, it blanketed the room.
Valerio's sudden exit with Leona hadn't gone unnoticed. It was bold, intense, and spoke volumes.
At the far end of the room, Mr. Russo glanced toward Mr. Moretti. The two men locked eyes, smirking in unison.
"Reminds you of something?" Russo asked, sipping his drink with amused satisfaction.
Moretti chuckled, brushing a hand over his graying stubble. "A night in Sicily. Me and Sofia disappearing after a wedding party?"
Russo's eyes twinkled. "Ah, right. That wine cellar."
Both men let out low chuckles, the sound familiar and weathered, as if this scene was a mirror of their younger selves. There was no reprimanding or surprise — just a shared understanding that sometimes, when emotions burned too bright, decorum didn't stand a chance.
Their wives, seated nearby, exchanged a glance of their own.
Giuliana Moretti leaned slightly toward Sofia Moretti, a soft smile on her lips. "Well," she said lightly, "it was only a matter of time. I was starting to think they'd keep pretending forever."
Sofia raised her glass. "Young love. Dangerous… but beautiful."
Giuliana chuckled under her breath. "Dangerous indeed."
Meanwhile, Alessia rubbed her belly, sinking into the sofa beside Dante. She was glowing — her cheeks flushed with warmth and a kind of mischief.
"I told you," she whispered to him. "Leona isn't just some sweet sunshine girl."
Dante snorted. "You think Valerio's shirt survives tonight?"
"No chance," Alessia said, grinning.
From across the room, the mood wasn't quite as light.
Chiara stood frozen, her hands clenched around the wine glass. Her jaw had tensed, just slightly, but her eyes—those betrayed her more than anything. She'd seen it. The way Valerio looked at Leona. The way he touched her like no one else existed. That wasn't lust.
It was loss—for Chiara.
She swallowed hard and looked down, pretending to fix the ring on her finger.
Mason stood beside her, the firelight casting a glow across his thoughtful expression. He didn't speak. Didn't move. Just observed.
It wasn't judgment in his eyes, nor resentment. But there was something—an awareness, maybe. A calculation. A curiosity that refused to be pinned down. He watched the stairs, the very spot Leona had last stood.
He had seen the look in her eyes before she turned and walked off with Valerio. That subtle dominance. The confidence. The control. She was nothing like the women he had met in their social circle.
Dante, ever the observer, didn't miss the way Mason's eyes lingered on the staircase even after Leona and Valerio had long disappeared. His brows arched slightly.
"Mason," Dante said casually, pouring himself a fresh drink. "You alright there?"
Mason blinked, then smiled — but it didn't quite reach his eyes. "She's something," he said simply.
Dante tilted his head. "That she is."
Alessia leaned forward, barely able to hide her laughter. "Oh no," she muttered, "we are not doing this triangle thing. I swear I will drag Leona out of it myself."
"I don't think Leona's confused," Dante said smoothly. "She knows exactly what she's doing."
Chiara couldn't take it anymore. "She's too sure," she snapped, a little too loud. "It's like she knows she owns him."
Alessia looked at her, expression blank for a moment before she gave a bright smile. "Because maybe she does?"
Chiara scoffed, downing the rest of her wine and walking toward the hallway. Her heels clacked a little too sharply against the marble, but no one stopped her.
"Someone's bitter," Dante mumbled.
Mr. Russo clapped his hands together once. "Well," he said, his voice jovial as always, "looks like this vacation just got a whole lot more interesting."
Giuliana shook her head. "Let them be. Young people should live. Feel. Learn."
Sofia smirked. "And make a little mess along the way."
Alessia smiled, rubbing her stomach affectionately. "Leona's not the type to let anyone else write her story. Valerio's just lucky she chose to let him in."
And somewhere above, behind thick doors and muffled laughter, Valerio Moretti was discovering exactly what that meant.
Valerio barely had time to lock the door before Leona pushed him back, his shoulders hitting the wooden surface with a soft thud. Her fingers were already on his collar, tugging him downward, her eyes darker than he'd ever seen them. She was a storm wrapped in silk and perfume—and she had no intention of letting him catch his breath.
"You're mine tonight," she murmured, voice low and commanding, lips just a breath away from his. Her tone left no room for argument.
Valerio swallowed hard, his breath hitching. "Leona, you don't have to—"
She kissed him before he could finish, deep and unrelenting. Her hands found the buttons of his shirt and made quick work of them, each one popping loose under her firm grip. Her lipstick smeared on his jaw, down his throat, branding him. She didn't stop until his shirt hung open, exposing his chest to the cool air and her heated gaze.
He tried to sit up, to reclaim some sense of control, but she pressed him back down with a single hand on his chest. "Not tonight, Moretti," she said, dark amusement curling her lips. "Tonight, you follow my rules."
She straddled him, her legs caging him in place, making it clear who was in charge. Her fingertips trailed down the center of his chest, nails grazing over his skin just enough to make him shiver. She leaned down, her mouth brushing the hollow of his throat, and he tilted his head instinctively, giving her access, surrendering without a word.
Her kisses weren't soft. They were fire, claiming every part of him she touched. She left lipstick stains across his collarbones, his chest, and slowly down toward his stomach. When he gasped, she smiled against his skin.
"You're too quiet, Valerio," she whispered, lifting her head to meet his eyes. "I want to hear you."
He opened his mouth, but only a low groan escaped when her nails scraped down his sides. His hands gripped the sheets beneath them, fighting the instinct to flip her over and take control. But she saw the struggle in his eyes and shook her head.
"You don't get to lead tonight," she said, dragging her lips across his shoulder, leaving hickeys in her wake. "Let go."
He let out a broken laugh, breathless. "You're going to ruin me."
Leona smiled, slow and wicked. "Good."
Her hands found the waistband of his pants, and he sucked in a sharp breath as she unbuttoned them with expert ease. Her touch was warm and firm, confident. There was no hesitation in her movements, no doubt. And he loved it.
"Do you like this?" she asked, tilting her head as she watched him.
He nodded, too lost to form words.
"Use your words, Moretti," she teased, leaning in again, her lips ghosting over his ear. "Tell me."
"Yes," he breathed, head falling back as her fingers slid along his waist. "God, yes."
She kissed him again, slower this time but no less consuming. Her hands roamed freely, branding every inch of him with touch and fire. He arched beneath her, his body reacting before his mind could catch up.
She pulled back slightly, admiring her work—lipstick smeared across his chest, small red marks blooming along his skin, the dazed look in his eyes. She looked satisfied, like an artist surveying a masterpiece.
"You wear me well," she said with a smirk, trailing a finger down the line of his jaw.
Valerio reached for her then, not to take control, but just to touch. His hands found her waist, holding her like she might vanish. "You're dangerous," he murmured, voice husky.
"So are you," she replied, leaning in to kiss him again, slower now, full of heat and promise.
The night stretched on, soft moans and murmured names echoing off the walls. She never once gave up control, and he never once asked her to. For the first time, Valerio Moretti surrendered completely.
And he loved every second of it.
The room echoed with shallow breaths and quiet moans, but through it all, it was Leona who led every beat of the night. Her fingers traced every scar, every inch of Valerio's chest with precision — not seeking permission, but claiming territory. He melted under her touch, his dominant, composed façade unraveling bit by bit beneath her slow, deliberate control.
She whispered words into his ear that made him shiver, not with fear, but the sheer vulnerability she pulled from him — something no one else had ever managed. Each kiss, each motion was hers to command. Her lipstick stained his chest, his throat, the ridges of his collarbones like little signatures left behind. And he let her. Willingly. Desperately.
By the time the first light peeked through the curtains, Valerio was spent — dazed in awe, still catching his breath — while Leona sat beside him, pulling his shirt over herself like a trophy.
He looked at her then, eyes soft, almost reverent. "You drive me insane," he murmured, voice hoarse.
She smirked, brushing her fingers through his hair, "Good. That was the point."
The morning sun streamed in gently through the sheer curtains, casting golden lines across the messy sheets. Leona had curled up against the pillows, her chest rising and falling in steady rhythm, lips slightly parted as she slept. The faintest of smiles tugged at her mouth, as if even her dreams remembered what happened between them.
Valerio, on the other hand, wasn't granted the same peace.
His head throbbed. A dull, pulsing ache lingered behind his eyes, courtesy of the whiskey from the night before… or maybe it was Leona. Probably both.
With a groan, he ran a hand through his hair and sat up. The sheets rustled as he did, and a familiar scent hit him—her perfume, her skin. It clung to him, embedded in the cotton of his now-ruined white shirt lying crumpled on the floor.
He reached for the shirt but paused. It was a lost cause—lipstick smudges, buttons missing, and faint nail tears on the back. He tossed it aside and stood, bare-chested, barefoot, and honestly, barely awake.
Coffee. He needed coffee.
Valerio tugged on his pajama pants and stumbled out of the room, forgetting—completely forgetting—the aftermath etched onto his skin.
His neck bore deep crimson hickeys, unapologetically bold and visible. His chest held trails of lipstick and teeth marks that stood out against his toned, olive-toned skin. And his back? It was war-torn—raked with nail scratches that burned a little with every movement. Leona had claimed him in ways no one else ever had. And it showed.
Still too sleep-dazed to care, he walked barefoot through the hallway, ruffling his messy curls as he made his way to the kitchen on the other side of the villa.
He didn't notice Chiara standing near the archway with a glass of juice in her hand.
He didn't hear the gasp behind him when Mason, stepping out of the library with Dante, caught sight of the bruises peeking over his shoulder blades.
He didn't even flinch when Mrs. Moretti looked up from the kitchen table, tea mid-sip, brows shooting up just slightly before she gracefully sipped again as if it were nothing.
But the rest noticed.
Chiara nearly dropped her glass.
Mason's jaw clenched.
Dante blinked, then instantly smirked to himself, murmuring, "Damn."
Mr. Russo and Mr. Moretti were sitting at the breakfast table with folded newspapers. One glance up and they exchanged a knowing look—because it wasn't just about last night anymore. It was about what it meant.
Valerio finally reached the espresso machine and muttered something under his breath about needing caffeine or he'd pass out. His fingers moved expertly, grinding beans, filling the portafilter, the routine giving him something to focus on while his brain tried to wake up.
The machine hissed softly, filling the space with the scent of strong Italian roast. He leaned his hands on the counter, waiting, eyes half-lidded.
He hadn't noticed yet.
"Rough night, fratello?" Dante's voice rang out lazily from behind.
Valerio blinked and turned slightly, brows furrowing. "Yeah. That damn wine."
Dante snorted. "Sure, let's blame the wine."
It took Valerio another five seconds before he noticed everyone's eyes. Then another two before his head tilted slightly to the side, catching a glimpse of his reflection on the polished steel of the espresso machine.
His own breath hitched.
The marks.
They were everywhere.
His lips twitched upward, a low exhale escaping him that could've been a laugh or a curse. But he didn't bother covering up. What was the point now?
Leona had marked him like territory, and for some reason, he didn't mind it at all.
He took the coffee in one hand, then turned slowly to face everyone.
"Well," he said with a slow, unapologetic smirk, "good morning."