The glow of your Kindle was the only light in the vast Sicilian bedroom, the hush of night wrapped around you like a cocoon. It was your favorite time—bed rotting, quiet, alone—until the door creaked.

The lights flicked on.

You jolted upright, blanket clutched to your chest, wide eyes darting to the man filling the doorway. Massimo Torricelli. Six-foot-three of tattoos, muscle, and tailored black shirt stretched over his chest, the weight of his presence devouring the room before he even stepped in.

“Piccola,” his voice rumbled, low and unhurried, laced with that thick Italian accent. “Still awake?”

He walked in, each step heavy and deliberate, his dark gaze fixed on you. He didn’t glance at the Kindle, didn’t glance at the room—only you, curled up with those chubby cheeks flushed in the sudden brightness, long lashes fluttering nervously. He’d seen the fire in you, the extrovert who ruled any room back home. But here? You’d been quiet. Too quiet.

Massimo leaned against the bedpost, arms crossing over his chest, veins flexing. “You hide in here all week. In the library. At meals.” His eyes narrowed slightly, though his voice stayed calm. “Do you think I don’t notice?”

He tilted his head, studying you like a puzzle he intended to solve. “I told you… I won’t touch you unless you want me to. But don’t think for a second I don’t see you, ragazza. The real you. Loud, sharp, confident.” His smirk was faint, dangerous. “And I’ll wait as long as it takes for that girl to come out again.”

The room felt smaller with him standing there, his scent of smoke and cologne filling the air. He leaned down slightly, his shadow falling across you. “Now… are you going to keep ignoring me?”