ARSHILA — POV
Italian food is the best thing humanity ever got right.
I'm serious. It's fucking illegal how good this is.
It's been two days after the gala.
Now ,
I'm sitting at the long dining table, sleeves pushed up, hair half-tied, fork already ruined by sauce.
The room smells like garlic, butter, something slow and indulgent that makes you forget trauma exists for a second.
Candles low. Plates heavy. Everything expensive in that quiet, doesn't-need-to-show-off way.
Zayan sits across from me.
Black shirt. Open collar.That Damn collarbone showing. Calm face. Controlled posture. The version of him that belongs at tables like this.
I take a bite.
And fuck.
I don't even mean to make the sound. It just slips out of me, low and unfiltered, the kind of noise your body makes before your brain gets a vote.
A soft, wrecked little moan.
I freeze mid-chew.
I swear the room goes still.
I don't look up. I don't need to. I can feel his attention land on me like weight. Slow. Curious. Dangerous in that quiet way he does.
I take another bite because apparently I've chosen chaos tonight.
It's even better.
Another sound escapes me, longer this time, breathier, and I hate that I can feel heat creep up my neck.
There's a pause.
Then his voice cuts through the table, low and unhurried.
"If food makes you sound like that," he says calmly, "I'd hate to hear what happens when something actually touches you."
Water.
Bad timing.
I choke so hard my soul leaves my body and briefly considers not coming back. I cough, spit water everywhere, hand slamming the table as I wheeze like I've just been personally attacked by oxygen.
"What the fuck—" I gasp. "What the actual fuck is wrong with you?"
He doesn't move.
Doesn't rush.
Doesn't apologize.
He just watches me with that steady, unreadable gaze while I'm dying in front of imported crystal.
"You okay?" he asks mildly, like he didn't just verbally commit a felony.
I grab my napkin, wiping my mouth, still coughing.
"Are you insane?" I finally manage. "Who says that. At dinner. In front of food."
"You're the one moaning," he replies smoothly. "I just commented on the acoustics."
I glare at him.
Hard.
"That was not a moan."
He tilts his head slightly.
The analyzing tilt.
"It absolutely was."
My face is on fire.
I stab another piece of pasta like it personally betrayed me. "It's called enjoying food. Italians invented that. You'd know if you had a soul."
"Careful," he says, eyes dropping to my mouth as I chew. "You're doing it again."
I stop chewing.
Slowly.
I swallow.
I look up.
His gaze is locked on me now. Not soft. Not playful. Focused in that way that makes my pulse trip over itself.
"You're doing this on purpose," I say.
"No," he answers. "You are."
My stomach tightens.
I push my glass away. "You're disgusting."
"Mm," he hums. "Yet you married me."
"That was before you started narrating my eating habits like porn."
His mouth twitches. Not a smile. Worse.
"You're the one making sounds," he says quietly. "I'm just reacting."
I lean back in my chair, crossing my arms. "React silently like a normal person."
"Why?" His voice drops a notch. "You clearly don't."
Fuck.
I lean back in my chair, arms crossed, chin lifted, still warm in the face and pissed about it.
"You talk like someone who doesn't actually hear girls moan," I say flatly.
His brow lifts a fraction. Minimal. Controlled.
"I don't," he says.
I snort. "Wow. That explains… a lot."
His gaze sharpens. Not offended. Interested.
"Until you," he adds, calm as ever.
That lands.
Harder than it should.
I scoff to cover it. "Please. You're telling me you've never heard it before. Ever."
"No," he says, unbothered. "I'm saying I've never paid attention."
I blink.
"That's somehow worse."
"It's accurate."
I shake my head, incredulous. "You definitely watch porn."
His mouth curves just slightly. "I don't."
I laugh. Short. Disbelieving. "Oh? What are you, a saint now?"
"No," he says evenly. "Just selective."
I point my fork at him. "Selective is billionaire code for lying."
"Is it?" he asks. "Or is it just easier for you to imagine me distracted instead of restrained?"
That shuts me up for half a second.
I hate that half second.
"So what," I say, pushing, "you've never been curious?"
"I have," he replies. "I just don't need a screen to imagine sounds."
My throat goes dry.
I pick up my glass. Take a sip. Regret it immediately.
"You're saying insane things at dinner," I mutter.
"You keep reacting," he says quietly. "That's not my fault."
I narrow my eyes. "You enjoy this."
He doesn't answer right away.
He looks at my mouth again. Slow. Intentional.
"Yes," he says finally. "I do."
The word settles between us. Heavy. Loaded.
I swallow. "You're unbelievable."
"And yet," he says, voice low, "you're still eating."
I glance down at my plate.
Damn it.
I stab my fork into the plate again, harder than necessary.
"You should respect your food," I snap. "It didn't do anything to deserve whatever the hell this is."
His mouth tilts.
Not a smile.
A smirk. Slow. Knowing. Like he's been waiting for that exact sentence.
"I will," he says calmly.
My eyes narrow. "Good."
He doesn't look at the plate when he adds, voice low, unhurried, almost polite—
"But when do I get the chance to respect my food?"
Something in my brain slams the brakes.
I stop chewing.
Mid-motion.
Every survival instinct I own lights up like a crime scene.
I slowly set the fork down.
Too carefully.
He's watching me now. Elbows resting on the table. Fingers relaxed. Like he's got all night and I'm the only thing worth paying attention to.
"That's not," I say carefully, "what we're talking about."
"Isn't it?" he asks.
My pulse kicks.
I don't like the way he says it. Like the answer is obvious and I'm the one being slow.
"What food," I ask flatly, "are you talking about?"
The pause is deliberate.
Cruel.
Then—
"You."
I choke.
Again.
Full-body betrayal.
I cough so hard my eyes water, chair scraping as I jerk back, hand slamming the table while I fight for oxygen like I've been personally assaulted by vowels.
"What the fuck is wrong with you?" I wheeze. "Are you broken?"
He doesn't help.
Doesn't reach out.
Doesn't apologize.
He leans back instead, watching me like this is the most entertained he's been all evening.
"You asked," he says mildly.
"You answered like a menace."
His eyes flick over me, slow and unashamed. My mouth. My throat. The way I'm still trying to breathe like a functional human.
"You enjoy this way too much," I snap.
"Yes," he says. No hesitation. No denial. "You're very expressive when you're angry."
"I'm expressive because you keep talking like that."
"Like what?"
"Like you're not talking about food."
"I'm not."
I glare at him. Heat crawls under my skin, sharp and infuriating.
"You're doing this on purpose."
"Of course I am."
That honesty should be illegal.
I push my chair back hard and stand, napkin tossed onto the table like I'm done pretending to be civilized.
"I'm fucking done eating."
His gaze follows me up, unbroken, dark with something that is absolutely not food-related.
"You didn't finish," he says.
"I lost my appetite," I fire back.
His eyes drop once more, lazy, dangerous.
I turn away before my body does something stupid.
Because if I stay one more second—
I might throw a plate.
Or worse.
I might sit back down.
I leave the dining room before my body does something reckless.
The living room swallows me whole.
Not massive like His real mansion. Not intimidating. Italian in that effortless way—low ceilings, warm lights, textured walls, art that looks like it's lived a life before it got framed. Expensive without screaming about it. A room meant for people, not power.
Doesn't help.
My skin still feels too tight. Like the air is thicker around me. Like my body hasn't caught up to the fact that I'm no longer sitting across from a man who looks at me like a locked door he already owns the key to.
I grab the remote.
Turn the TV on.
Anything. Noise. Movement. Something that isn't my pulse pounding in my throat or the memory of his voice doing illegal things to my nervous system.
Italian channel.
Of course.
I should learn italian.
I flip it.
Another Italian channel.
Flip.
Cooking show. Some man yelling lovingly at pasta.
Flip.
News.
I don't even register it at first. My thumb already moves, irritation buzzing under my skin, brain still halfway back at the table.
Then something pricks.
Not logic.
Instinct.
I flick back.
The screen sharpens.
And my stomach drops straight through the floor.
The man's face fills the TV.
Clean. Professional. Smiling in that polished, predatory way men like him always smile. The same suit. Same jaw. Same eyes.
The man from the gala.
My body goes cold all at once, like someone flipped a switch in my spine.
I don't understand a single word the anchor is saying. Italian spills out fast, urgent, layered with that dramatic cadence news channels everywhere love. Red text scrolls across the bottom of the screen.
But I don't need the words.
There's a headline.
Bold. White.
A name jumps out at me like it's screaming.
Lorenzo De Luca.
Rich. Italian. Old money sound. The kind of name that belongs on buildings and donation plaques and invitations that cost more than rent.
My heart starts hammering.
Hard. Erratic. Wrong.
I step closer to the screen without realizing it, like proximity might make it clearer. Like I can outrun the feeling crawling up my throat.
Photos flash.
His apartment building.
Police lights.
A blurred body being wheeled out.
My mouth goes dry.
No.
No no no.
I fumble for my phone, fingers suddenly clumsy, pulse so loud I swear it's echoing in the room. The screen unlocks. Google opens. I type his name wrong the first time. Backspace. Try again.
Lorenzo De Luca Italy
Search.
The page loads.
One second.
Two.
Then the headline hits me like a fist to the chest.
Italian businessman Lorenzo De Luca found dead in his apartment.