A Fire Lit in Plain Sight

They stared at each other for a long second, pulse still racing, cheeks warm, thoughts scattered in the most inconvenient ways.

Then she smoothed her dress, lifted her chin, and walked past him, her shoulder brushing his arm on purpose, toward the doors.

He watched her go, fully aware that he had just set something in motion neither of them would be able to ignore.

The heat of the hall hit immediately. Music, laughter, clinking glasses—everything continued as if nothing had happened on the balcony.

Bella slipped back into the ballroom alone.

Different. Anyone who knew her well enough would have caught it in the way her shoulders sat just a fraction looser, in the way her eyes held too much light for someone who had only gone out for air.

Marco caught it immediately.

He didn’t say anything. He just watched her cross the floor, accept a glass she didn’t drink from, smile at someone she didn’t hear. His mouth twitched, slow and knowing.

Outside, Luca stayed where he was.

He lit the cigar with deliberate care, shielding the flame from the breeze, the gesture grounding him. Smoke curled upward as he exhaled, jaw tight, eyes fixed on nothing and everything at once.

Marco took another glass of whiskey and walked toward the balcony, joining Luca.

“You look like a man who just made a mistake,” Marco said mildly, appearing at his side with two glasses of whiskey.

Luca didn’t turn. “I don’t make mistakes.”

Marco handed him the glass. Luca took it. His grip tightened slightly around it.

“So,” Marco continued, almost lazily, “balcony.”

Luca didn’t deny it. Didn’t confirm it either.

Luca finally glanced at him. “You’re enjoying this.”

“Immensely.” Marco leaned against the railing. “You should have seen her when she came back in. That glow isn’t champagne.”

Silence stretched. Luca took a slow drink, the whiskey burning just enough.

Inside, the music shifted. A familiar melody rose, slower, ceremonial.

Bella stiffened the moment she heard it.

Don Giovanni appeared at her side, offering his arm. “A dance, figlia mia.”

She smiled and accepted.

From the balcony, both men watched her move into her father’s embrace.

“She’s trying very hard to look unaffected,” Marco noted. “That’s how I know she is.”

Luca’s eyes followed Bella as she danced. Her movements were perfect. Controlled. But her gaze drifted, once, twice, landing exactly where he stood.

Their eyes met.

She didn’t look away.

Marco chuckled softly. “Oh, this is going to be a problem.”

The flame flared briefly, reflected in his eyes. He inhaled, slow and controlled, the smoke curling upward as if reluctant to leave him.

Bella was laughing now, something soft and genuine as her father murmured something in her ear. She looked luminous. Alive.

Marco took a slow sip. “You know,” he said lightly, “you should really be careful with my sister.”

Luca exhaled smoke. “I am.”

Marco chuckled. “That wasn’t a warning. That was advice.”

Luca arched a brow.

“She’s a Valenti,” Marco continued. “You don’t resist Valenti women. You survive them. Sometimes.”

Luca’s gaze stayed fixed on Bella. “I noticed.”

“Good,” Marco said. “Because once she decides she wants something, she doesn’t let go.”

Luca finally smiled. Not polite. Not amused. Something darker.

“Funny,” he replied calmly. “Santoro men have the same reputation.”

Marco turned to him then, really looking. The set of Luca’s shoulders. The ease. The quiet certainty.

For a brief second, something flickered across Marco’s face.

Interest. Satisfaction.

“Oh,” he said softly. “So this is going to burn.”

Luca took another draw from the cigar, eyes never leaving Bella as she spun gracefully with her father. “Most things worth having do.”

Marco laughed under his breath. “God help the Morettis.”

The song ended. Applause rose.

Don Giovanni kissed Bella’s cheek and released her hand. She stepped back, scanning the room without meaning to.

Her eyes found Luca instantly.

He was already watching her.

And this time, he didn’t look away.

Marco followed her gaze, then glanced back at Luca, shaking his head in quiet disbelief. “I thought this marriage would be a strategic inconvenience.”

Luca finished the whiskey in one smooth swallow. “And now?”

Marco smiled, all brotherly affection and ruthless calculation. “Now I think I just lit a fire and handed it two matches.”

Luca set the glass aside, crushed the cigar out against the stone. “Then I suggest you stand back.”

Marco lifted his hands in mock surrender. “Oh, I will. I’m not getting between that.”

As Luca moved toward the ballroom, Marco watched Bella’s posture change the moment she felt him approach. Subtle. Instinctive.

Marco exhaled, equal parts amused and impressed.

Then another woman appeared at Luca’s side as if summoned by the music itself.

Tall. Dark hair swept elegantly over one shoulder. A dress that knew exactly what it was doing and did it without apology. Confident in the way of women who were used to being noticed and expected compliance.

“Luca,” she said smoothly. “You disappear from your own wedding celebration. People might talk.”

He turned, already wearing that infuriatingly polite half-smile. “Let them. It keeps them busy.”

She laughed, soft and practiced. “Dance with me.”

It wasn’t a question.

The orchestra shifted, a new melody unfolding, slow and intimate. Around them, couples moved instinctively closer. Luca hesitated just long enough for it to be noticeable to the wrong people.

Then he took her hand.

The floor welcomed them easily. Luca danced well. Effortlessly. His movements precise, controlled, giving just enough to be impressive, never enough to be reckless. His hand rested at her waist with impeccable propriety.

From the edge of the room, Bella noticed immediately.

She told herself she didn’t care.

Of course he would dance. Of course women would want him. This was Luca Santoro. The room practically leaned toward him. She lifted her glass of champagne, took a slow sip, and focused very intently on absolutely anything else.

It didn’t work.

Her gaze betrayed her, drifting back to the dance floor again and again. The woman leaned in, too close. Smiling up at Luca like she had already decided something. Luca listened, nodded, even smiled back.

Bella’s fingers tightened around the stem of her glass.

Ridiculous, she thought. She had no claim. No right. This was politics. Optics. Noise.

And yet.

Luca’s hand shifted slightly at the woman’s back, guiding her through a turn. It was perfect. Smooth. Intimate without being improper.

Bella felt it then. Sharp and unwelcome.

Jealousy.

She exhaled slowly, annoyed with herself. Of all nights to suddenly develop inconvenient emotions.

Across the room, Marco noticed.

He followed Bella’s line of sight, then glanced at Luca mid-spin, the woman laughing softly at something he’d murmured.

Marco’s lips curved in a knowing smile.

“Oh,” he muttered to himself. “There it is.”

On the dance floor, Luca felt it too.

Not the woman in his arms. She was pleasant. Predictable. Safe.

It was the heat of being watched.

He turned slightly, just enough.

His eyes found Bella.

She didn’t look away in time.

The contact was brief. Electric. Charged with everything unsaid. Luca’s expression didn’t change, but something in his posture did. The smallest shift. The kind only someone paying very close attention would notice.

Bella’s breath caught despite herself.

Marco appeared at Bella’s side just as Luca guided his partner in a smooth, practiced turn on the dance floor.

“Enjoying the view, little sister?” he asked, low and teasing, eyebrow arched.

Bella shot him a sharp look. “Marco…”

“Don’t pretend you’re not watching,” he said, smirk curling. “I saw the way your eyes found him the moment he took her hand. That look on your face?”

Bella flushed, annoyed and slightly breathless. “It’s… not what you think.”

“Of course not,” Marco said, voice dripping amusement. “But don’t worry. You two are going to have fun figuring that out.”

Bella’s pulse picked up, her gaze flicking back to the dance floor. Luca’s movements were smooth, precise, polite but undeniably intense. Every turn, every gesture, was measured. He made it seem effortless, and yet… it made Bella’s stomach twist unexpectedly.

Marco noticed. His grin widened. “See? Already, and the night is barely warming up. This is going to get… interesting.”

Bella groaned, exasperated but unable to look away.

Marco leaned back slightly, voice low, teasing. “Remember, little sister… You can also be dangerous. Not just him.”

Bella exhaled, caught between frustration, amusement, and something deeper. The tension stretched across the room, thick and undeniable, with every turn of Luca’s dance, and every glance she stole in his direction.

The night was just beginning. And Marco was already enjoying every second of it.

The last notes of the music faded, and Luca gently guided his partner to the edge of the dance floor. Their turn ended, polite applause ringing softly from a distant corner. Bella watched, chest tightening as she observed the subtle exchange between them.

Luca finally turned to her, eyes unapologetic, catching hers with a dangerous heat she couldn’t look away from.

Her fingers still lingered on the rim of her glass. She set it down carefully on a nearby console, the crystal catching the light in a fleeting sparkle. The warmth of whiskey lingered on her palms, but her mind was elsewhere.

Excusing herself with a soft, deliberate step, she moved toward the private salon at the side of the grand hall. The space was dimly lit, intimate—a room where deals were whispered and secrets kept, away from the chatter of the party. She needed the air, the quiet, and a moment to steady herself.

Leaning against the carved sideboard, Bella let out a controlled breath, her pulse still racing. She hadn’t expected jealousy to hit so sharply. Not like this. The way Luca moved, the precision in his gaze, the subtle heat of his presence—it was maddening. And infuriating.

She pressed a hand to her chest, realizing that the sharp twist in her stomach, the sting of possessiveness, the flare of something almost dangerous, could make her want to… react. To confront. To stake a claim. But here, alone in this small, shadowed room, she allowed herself just a moment to process.

She hadn’t known she could feel so intensely. That a glance, a touch, a turn on the dance floor could ignite something so… volatile. And that jealousy—raw, burning, unmistakable—was hers alone to bear.

A faint exhale escaped her lips. The heat in her veins, the awareness of what she’d just witnessed, made her realize: Luca Santoro was no longer just an ally, or a husband by arrangement. He was danger, wrapped in control, and she was dangerously aware of how much that mattered.

Bella lowered her gaze, taking deep breaths, grounding herself in the quiet of the room. She could hear the distant hum of music, laughter, and strategy through the walls, but here, in this shadowed corner, she could finally admit—to herself—that her pulse, her thoughts, her very blood… belonged as much to the game as it did to him.

And that terrified her.