Page 16 of Temptation
He studies me for a long moment, his eyes boring into mine. “Good,” he tells me, reaching out to brush a strand of hair behind my ear.
“I’ll tuck the children in, and then we’ll have a drink,” he repeats his earlier words before turning and exiting the kitchen, leaving me feeling more than just a little confused.
Fabrizio Moretti is a paradox. A riddle I am not sure is even possible to solve.
One moment, he’s a doting father, radiating warmth and adoration for his children. The next, he turns ruthless and uncaring, his eyes glacial and hard as stone.
My mind whirls with the contradictions of this man and the confusing mix of emotions he stirs up in me. And through them all, I can’t help but feel a strange sense of longing to know if there is something more beneath the surface—a desire to get to know if there is a glimmer of decency hidden behind the brutal facade; a burning curiosity to peel back his layers and uncover what’s lying underneath.
Time seems to warp and bend as I remain frozen in the middle of the kitchen for what could be mere seconds or endless minutes.
When I finally move, it’s as if my feet have a mind of their own, drawn irresistibly towards the stairs and Fabrizio’s invitation to help put the children to bed. I tell myself it’s to learn their routine, but deep down, I know it’s more than that. I want to glimpse that tender side of Fabrizio, the one he only shows his children—the side I saw once and yearn to see again, convincing myself it wasn’t just my imagination.
As soon as I step into the hallway on the upper floor, a giggle echoes through the air—a rare and precious sound.
Leaning against the door frame of Flynn’s room, I observe the intimate scene unfold before me, feeling like an outsider peeking into a world that’s not my own. Fabrizio sits on the bed, his large frame dwarfing the tiny boy wriggling beneath his tickling fingers. Flynn’s eyes sparkle with delight, his face flushed with happiness.
“Stop that, Dad,” he gasps between giggles, squirming away from his father’s playful assault. Fabrizio halts his attack, a content smile softening his features.
“But only because it’s time for you to sleep now,” he murmurs, his voice low and soothing. “Do you want me to read you a bedtime story?”
The little boy shakes his head, his chin jutting out in determination. “No, I’m a big boy already. I don’t need bedtimestories anymore.” He yanks his blanket up to his chin and rolls onto his side, presenting his back to his father. “Good night, Dad.”
Fabrizio’s expression turns solemn. He sighs and presses a gentle kiss to his son’s head. “Good night,piccolo,” he tells him as he slowly gets to his feet, lingering for another moment before turning to leave the room.
When his gaze meets mine, it’s once more an unreadable mask. He doesn’t even acknowledge me as he simply walks past me and disappears into Maddy’s room with long strides.
Once again, I follow, lingering in the doorway, watching as the little girl’s face lights up with a radiant smile.
“Daddy.” She sits up in the huge bed, looking like a little princess amidst a sea of plush toys and pillows. The bed is so large that she seems almost lost in it, a tiny island in a fluffy ocean. Her father’s frame seems to fill the spacious room as he approaches her bedside. I remain standing in the doorway, not wanting to intrude on their special moment. Judging by how Fabrizio insisted on putting the twins to bed himself, I gather that this doesn’t happen too often.
“Ms. Walsh, sit with us,” Maddy tells me, looking over at me with shining eyes, her voice full of excitement. “Daddy is going to read me my favorite story.”
My gaze flicks to her father, and he gives a subtle nod of approval. I take a seat on the edge of the bed opposite him, feeling slightly out of place. But Maddy’s smile puts me at ease, drawing me into her little happy bubble.
“And what is your favorite story,amore?” he asks, his voice dripping with affection. The Italian endearment rolls off his tongue, a gentle caress.
“Beauty and the Beast,” she replies, snuggling back into her pillows and blankets.
A wry smile twists my lips. How fitting. The tale of a young maiden trapped in a beast’s castle is a stark reminder of my current situation. But I manage to stifle my bitter chuckle, not wanting to ruin the magic of the moment because of the irony.
“That’s a beautiful story.” I smile down at her.
Her father clears his throat as he grabs the worn book from the nightstand. The cover is faded, the pages dog-eared from countless readings. He begins to read in a hushed tone, his voice like a gentle lullaby. Maddy’s eyelids begin to droop. A few more sentences and she’s asleep, a tiny puff of breath escaping her lips as she drifts into a land of dreams. It’s a shame, really, because I could listen to the sound of his deep baritone for hours and let myself get lost in the vibrations of his voice.
But Fabrizio gently places the book on the nightstand, his gaze lingering on his sleeping child for a moment before he rises.
He doesn’t spare me a glance as he moves to leave the room, halting for the briefest moment as his eyes focus on the frame on her bookshelf. I wonder if I’d see a flash of sadness in his gaze if I could see his face right now. Wordlessly, he slips from the room, leaving me with his sleeping daughter.
“Good night, princess,” I whisper to Maddy, my voice barely audible over the sound of her steady breathing. I gently smooth a strand of hair out of her face, feeling a pang of tenderness for the innocent girl sleeping before me. After one last look at her peaceful features, I tear myself away, closing the door behind me with a soft click.
But when I turn around to make my way back downstairs, I’m startled to find myself nearly colliding with Fabrizio. He appears out of nowhere, his tall frame looming over me as he plants both of his hands on the doorframe on either side of me, caging me in between the hard wood of the door and the even harder wall of his chest.
A surprised “Huh” escapes my lips as I crane my neck to meet his gaze, my heart leaping into my throat.
His eyes burn into mine, smoldering with an intensity that makes every inch of my skin prickle with anticipation. I feel his gaze like a physical touch, as if he’s tracing my features with a blazing finger. Just like in the kitchen earlier, for the briefest of moments, I find myself convinced that he’s on the verge of kissing me, his lips a tilt of his head away from mine. My pulse pounds in my ears, my breath catching in my chest. I can no longer distinguish if the tremble running through me is from longing or fear. Perhaps it’s a little of both.
But just as before, he doesn’t kiss me. Instead, he simply regards me for a moment longer, his expression unreadable. Then, without a word, he pushes off from the doorframe and strides away, leaving me feeling bereft and bewildered. My pulse is still racing as I follow him downstairs and into the kitchen, my senses heightened in his wake.
