Page 12 of Untamed

I lift my porcelain cup, inhale the perfect scent of latte, and take a slow, dramatic sip while observing Luciano. He’s dressed in a charcoal suit sharper than my sarcasm, silver streaking through perfectly styled hair, his expression carved from stone.

There’s something about the man that makes the air feel heavier, like the molecules themselves are afraid to misbehave. He doesn’t even have to speak. He just is. And now that I’m looking properly, it’s clear where Ares gets his whole “mysterious brooding danger” vibe. It's hereditary, like cheekbones and trauma.

The dining room sparkles around me—silver clinks against overpriced china, laughter echoes off marble, and mood lighting works overtime. But the chair at the far end? Empty. Unspoken. Like the family just collectively forgot someone existed.

Where is the elusive dark knight? Again?

If this is supposed to be some traditional celebration breakfast, shouldn’t he be here glaring stoically over his coffee? I didn't see him much at the wedding either, just at the very end, lurking in the shadows like he was auditioning for a gothic reboot ofPride and Prejudice.

I can’t help but wonder if there’s some sort of tension between Ares and the rest of the family. The broody Russo brother. The outsider. Always present, but somehow... not.

Honestly? That makes him at least ten times more dangerously attractive. It's practically a rule.

No sign of a wife beside Luciano either. No warmth to soften his edges. No gentle presence to cancel out the general sense of existential dread he gives off. All I know about Enzo and Ares’s mother is that she died young. Bianca said it’s kind of a taboo subject here. Looking at Luciano now, I’d bet her death didn’t just take her—it carved something out of him that never grew back.

While everyone chats, my attention shifts to the last almond crème croissant on the tray. It’s golden. Flaky. Beautiful. Possibly sent from above. My mouth waters. Game on.

Just as I reach for it with the precision of a pastry thief, another hand moves in at the exact same time.

Matteo.

Of course it’s him.

Our fingers brush. Light. Electric. I freeze long enough for the butterflies in my stomach to start unionizing.

He doesn’t pull back. Nope. Instead, he leans in with zero shame, voice low enough to slide under the hum of conversation.

“Are you going to fight me for it, Fossette?”

The smirk on his face says he really hopes I’ll try.

I raise an eyebrow, casually pretending I’m not red in the face.

“Depends,” I murmur. “You planning to cry if I win?”

Matteo lets out a soft laugh, and it’s infuriatingly attractive. He still doesn’t let go of the croissant. Neither do I. For a solid few seconds, it’s just us—locked in a silent, slow-motion standoff over pastry like its foreplay with high-calorie stakes.

Around us, Luciano mumbles something to my dad. Bianca is giggling at something Enzo whispered. Nobody notices that Matteo and I are currently tangled in a flirt war over baked goods. Nobody sees how dangerously close we are to turning brunch into a rom-com.

His thumb grazes mine. Barely there. But enough to send my internal system crashing.

He glances down at our hands. Then back up. Eyes locked. Smile lazy.

“I don’t cry, Fossette,” he says, voice smooth as ever, that Italian accent sliding off his lips like it was personally handcrafted for sin. “But I don’t lose either.”

Say less.

Challenge fully accepted

I swipe the croissant out from under his hand and take a bite—slow, triumphant, and just dramatic enough to qualify as petty theatre. I even add a little moan of pleasure for effect, just to make sure he knows this victory is personal.

Matteo watches me with a glint in his eye, amused and maybe a touch impressed.

“Oh, what was that?”

“Cheeky little thief,” he mutters, the smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth like he’s enjoying this far too much.

I swallow, then flash him a sugary smile. “Don’t hate the player, Hotshot. Hate yourself for being too slow.”

---