Five days! Since landing in Florence, stepping off a private jet into a world I’d only seen in movies. Five days of pasta, gelato, and wine tasting like sunshine. Five days of Lorenzo’s hand on my back, lips on my neck, and voice in my ear—rough, possessive, reverent.
That first night, he’d brought me to a trattoria tucked into the hills outside Florence, the kind of place with checkered tablecloths and a nonna in the kitchen who pinched my cheeks and insisted I was too thin. She kept bringing food until I could barely move, and Lorenzo watched me with that quiet half-smile, as if he was memorizing every bite, every sound I made.
“Good?” he asked, and I couldn’t even answer, just nodded with my mouth full of the best carbonara I’d ever had.
The next day, he showed me Lake Como. I stood in the piazza and tilted my head back until my neck ached, trying to see the top of that impossible dome. He stood behind me, his arms around my waist, and told me how his nonna used to bring him here when he was a boy, how she’d buy him gelato from the place on the corner and tell him stories about Brunelleschi. I felt his chest press against my back, his chin resting on my shoulder, and for a moment—just a moment—I forgot about all the darkness that lurked beneath the surface. Forgot about the way he’d bound me with his tie, the way he’d claimed me in that bathroom, the way he’d punched my ex without a second thought.
Here, he was just a man showing his wife his favorite places.
We went to the Uffizi Gallery. He held my hand as we walked through room after room of Renaissance masterpieces, stopping in front of a Caravaggio—a painting of a boy being bitten by a lizard, the expression of pain and surprise so vivid it made my stomach clench.
“This one’s always been my favorite,” he said, his voice low.
“Why?”
He was quiet for a long moment. “Because it’s honest. Pain is honest. Everything else… It’s just decoration.”
I didn’t know how to respond to that. So I just squeezed his hand and let him lead me to the next painting.
We spent the entire second day at Lake Como, where he’d roamed as a kid.
He woke me before dawn, bundled me into a car, and drove us to the lake. The water was perfectly still, reflecting the mountains like a mirror. He’d arranged for a private boat—a sleek wooden thing with a captain who disappeared as soon as we stepped aboard, leaving us alone.
He let me steer. I was terrible at it, constantly over-correcting, but he stood behind me, his body bracketing mine, his hands covering mine on the wheel.
“Easy,” he murmured, his lips brushing my ear. “Gentle. Feel the water.”
“I can’t feel the water; I’m in a boat.”
He laughed—that genuine, surprised laugh that still made my pulse race. “Just… breathe. Trust it.”
I did. I let him guide me, let his warmth seep into my back, let the quiet of the lake settle over me. We floated for hours, stopping at a tiny village where we ate fresh fish and drank wine on a patio overlooking the water.
“You used to come here?” I asked, tracing the rim of my glass.
“When things got bad.” His voice was careful, measured. “I’d take a boat out and just… disappear for a while. No phone. No family. Just the water.”
“Did it help?”
He looked at me, and his eyes were softer than I’d ever seen them. “No. But it was the closest thing to peace I had.”
I reached across the table and took his hand. He let me.
That night, back at the villa, he showed me what peace meant to him now. It meant his mouth on every inch of my body. His hands were gripping my hips as he took me from behind, his voice rough in my ear, telling me exactly what I was to him.
“Mine,” he growled, his fingers digging into my thighs. “Say it.”
“Yours,” I gasped, and the word tasted like surrender—but a sweet one.
He didn’t let me sleep for hours. And when I finally did, it was in his arms, his chest pressed to my back, his breath warm against my neck.
Day three was Milan.
He took me shopping on Via Montenapoleone. I’ve never felt so out of place. Stores were quiet enough to hear silk rustle and heels click on marble. Saleswomen lookedat me—my jeans, worn sneakers, cheap handbag—and I saw their judgment.
Then Lorenzo walked in, tall and sure of himself. The saleswomen straightened, their attention shifting. He spoke in quick, confident Italian, and suddenly there were armfuls of clothes—dresses, skirts, blouses, shoes, bags—piled into my arms.
“I don’t need all this,” I whispered, tugging at his sleeve.
