Capitolo 1: Il Primo Sguardo
The sultry air of a late summer evening in Florence clung to Isabella Rossi’s skin as she stepped into the dimly lit trattoria, her crimson dress hugging every curve of her athletic frame. She wasn’t here for the wine or the pasta—she was here for him. Lorenzo Bianchi, the infamous art dealer with a reputation for stealing more than just rare paintings. His dark eyes locked onto hers from across the room, a smirk playing on his lips as he leaned back in his chair, a glass of Chianti in hand.
'Isabella, cara mia, you’re late,' Lorenzo drawled, his voice a low, velvet caress that sent a shiver down her spine. 'I was beginning to think you’d stood me up. Again.'
She sauntered over, her heels clicking with purpose on the tiled floor, and slid into the seat opposite him. 'Lorenzo, if I wanted to waste your time, I’d have sent a postcard. I’m here, aren’t I? So, stop pouting and tell me why you dragged me halfway across the city.' Her tone was sharp, but her eyes betrayed a flicker of intrigue, roaming over the sharp lines of his jaw and the way his tailored shirt strained against his chest.
He chuckled, leaning forward, the scent of his cologne—sandalwood and sin—invading her senses. 'Always so direct. I love that about you. But let’s not pretend you don’t know why you’re here. You’ve heard the rumors about the Caravaggio I acquired. You want in on the deal, and I want… something else.' His gaze dipped to her lips, then lower, lingering on the neckline of her dress.
Isabella arched a brow, unfazed. 'Oh, please. If you think I’m going to spread my legs for a painting, you’ve clearly underestimated me. I’m not some starry-eyed ragazza you can charm with a wink and a stolen masterpiece. You want my expertise? You’ll pay for it. In cash, not cock.' Her words were a challenge, laced with a heat that matched the fire in her eyes.
Lorenzo’s smirk widened, his fingers tracing the rim of his glass. 'You wound me, Isabella. But I like a woman who plays hard to get. Tell me, though—does that fire in your tongue match the one I bet is burning between those thighs right now?' His voice dropped, daring her to bite back.
She leaned in, her breath hot against his ear as she whispered, 'Keep talking, Lorenzo, and you might just find out how wet I can get when I’m properly motivated. But it won’t be because of your pretty words.' Her hand brushed against his under the table, a deliberate tease, before she pulled back with a wicked smile.
The tension between them crackled like a live wire, the room around them fading as their banter turned into something primal. Lorenzo’s eyes darkened, his breath hitching as he murmured, 'Then let’s skip the appetizers, shall we? My hotel is just around the corner. Unless you’re afraid you can’t handle what I’ve got waiting for you.'
Isabella stood, her movements deliberate, her gaze never leaving his. 'Afraid? Darling, I’m the one who’s going to leave you sweating and panting. Lead the way.'
As they stepped out into the humid night, the promise of what was to come hung heavy between them. Her pulse raced, not from nerves, but from the raw, hungry anticipation of having him—hard, desperate, and dripping with need—under her control. The door to his suite loomed ahead, and she knew the moment it closed behind them, there’d be no turning back from the explosion of lust waiting to ignite.
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