The first time Lupo touched her, it wasn't with his hands.
It was with his eyes ravenous, calm, unflinching.
Valentina stepped into the Moretti estate like a flame in a house full of gasoline high heels tapping like gunshots on the polished floors, her crimson dress hugging every curve with scandalous elegance. She wasn't dressed to impress.
She was dressed to provoke.
The scarlet satin clung to her body like a second skin. Slit high on one thigh. Backless. A golden dagger shimmered against her leg, tucked into a custom silk garter. A family heirloom. A warning.
Across the opulent hall, Lupo Moretti watched.
He stood at the top of the marble staircase like a wolf in the Vatican casual, deadly. He wore black slacks, a white shirt undone just enough to expose the jagged ink of his collarbone: a Roman numeral over his heart. The date of his first kill. His hands rested in his pockets, but his stare pinned her like a bullet through the heart.
"You're late," he said as he descended, his voice velvet smoke. "Or are you just dramatic?"
Valentina lifted her chin. "If I wanted theatrics, I'd have arrived in chains."
His mouth curved. "Princess of fire and knives. No wonder they fear you."
"Is that admiration I hear?" she asked, sarcasm coating her words.
"Admiration?" Lupo reached the bottom step, towering above her. "No. Obsession? Maybe."
He circled her slowly. The chandelier light played over her bare shoulders. Goosebumps rose not from the cold but from the heat in his gaze.
Every step he took felt like temptation sharpening its claws.
"You dress like war," he murmured behind her. "You carry that dagger like you want someone to try you."
"Try me," she dared, not turning.
He didn't laugh. Instead, he leaned forward, his breath hot against the shell of her ear.
"I'd rather undress you with it."
Her spine stiffened. Her breath caught.
There were lines she should never cross.
Lines like the one between her and her family's sworn rival. Lines like Lupo.
And yet
"You talk like a man with no consequences," she said, finally turning to face him. Her eyes sparked. "Careful, Moretti. I bite."
He looked her over, slow and hungry. "Good. I like pain with my pleasure."
Their words weren't flirtation. They were fire and gasoline, hate and heat, twisted into something neither could name.
He stepped forward. She didn't step back.
They were toe to toe now. One movement, one breath, one mistake and everything would spiral.
"Tell me something," she said, voice soft but sharp. "Do you think about me at night? Or only when you're loading your gun?"
"I think about how you'd sound," he replied, eyes darkening. "If you ever moaned my name instead of spitting it."
She gasped. He didn't flinch.
His words settled on her skin like fingerprints.
There was silence, but it wasn't empty. It was brimming with everything unsaid.
The tension was unbearable like velvet chains, soft to the eye but suffocating beneath the surface.
"You should go," she said, barely audible.
"So should you," he replied.
But neither of them moved.
They were already trapped.