I barked a laugh. "He really wanted to kill me after I dumpedher."
Giovanni shook his head in amusement. "You're unbelievable. Who tells Don Salvatore to his face that his daughter isn't wife material because she's not good enough in bed?"
"I never meant to insult him. It was just the truth."
"The truth? You basically told him his daughter had no fire. That's a serious insult. Especially right after a family dinner where he'd just gifted you Cuba's finest cigars."
"There was no fire, not even a faint breeze," I countered. "That woman was boring. Not even the world's best cigar could've fixed that."
He laughed so hard he shuddered. "And what about... Federica? You know, the opera singer. The diva who made a scene when you canceled on her."
I racked my brain until it hit me. "Francesca. She claimed I'd destroyed her muse."
"Her muse?" He snorted. "She meant her cunt."
A sharp pain shot through my wound as I laughed too.
"The best part was when she begged you publicly after the Scala premiere to give her another chance."
I could still see the embarrassing scene clearly. "And then dramatically threw a glass of red wine in my face in front of everyone because I refused."
Giovanni wiped a tear from the corner of his eye, laughing, and flicked his nth cigarette into the dirt. "So what the hell fascinates you about Fiona? You're not the type to get pulled into something like this."
I leaned back, hand pressed to my hip—the wound throbbed faintly. But it was nothing compared to what Fiona ignited in me. Her dark eyes, always sharp and intense when they looked at me. The way she challenged me—without fear, without submission. Even in moments where others would've long broken, she stood tall against me. She wasn't like the others.
"Fiona is proud and independent," I said finally, my voice quieter, almost lost in thought. "She's not impressed by any of it—what or who I am. It's like she's built a damn firewall around herself. She's a force of nature."
Giovanni raised a skeptical brow. "You're talking about her like a... teenager."
I chuckled low, but my gaze stayed cold. "She's unpredictable. You know how our first real encounter went? At Delany's party. She had a knife. And you know what she did with it? First held it to my cock, then cut me. Right over the rib. And she enjoyed it."
Giovanni's eyes widened in shock. "You're fucking with me."
I rubbed my fingers over the fresh scar, as if I could shake off the memory. "She stood in front of me, pressed the blade to my skin, slow, like it was a game. And smiled with so much fucking pleasure while doing it. That woman is a goddamn sadist—with an angel's face and that fucking voice that clouds your brain." Talking about her, especially about our time together, made me restless—something that never usually happened. "Give me a cigarette."
Giovanni held the pack just out of reach. "Not giving you one. You take two drags then stub it out. Waste them every damn time."
I eyed him sideways. "Because I don't want this addictive shit. I despise it—that loss of control, the need to cling to something. Pathetic." I leaned in. "But right now I need one."
He sighed and finally handed me a cigarette.
I took it, put it between my lips, grabbed the lighter and lit up. The first drag burned like fire in my lungs—harsh, biting, perfect. My eyes fluttered shut as I slowly exhaled the smoke. "Fuck..."
"Told you," Giovanni muttered, grinning as he lit his own.
"Listen..." I leaned back, running a hand through my hair. "Then we had sex—"
„Sex?“ Giovanni arched a mocking brow. "I thought you fucked. Or is it 'making love' now?"
"It's not 'making love.' It's twisted." I shook my head. "She fought me like a fucking fury—all rage and hunger. Like she hated me and wanted me at the same time. And her eyes..." I paused, the memory alone gripping me again. "...like she was possessed. It was raw. Feral. Like we fucked each other straight out of our minds."
He didn't utter a word, listening with rapt attention as if trying to process—or simply comprehend—what he'd just heard.
I took another drag. The smoke burned, clawing its way through my lungs, spreading like a vice I'd never shake. I held it inside for a moment, like I had something to prove to myself—then exhaled sharply, as if it had offended me. I flicked the cigarette to the ground, crushed it under my heel until nothing but ash remained.
"Cristo santo... lo sapevo," Giovanni swore under his breath. "She really did fuck your brain out. Not getting another one from me!" He stared at the ruined cigarette like I'd tossed a masterpiece to the floor. His expression was pure, silent drama—as if mourning a fallen soldier. "It was practically new," he muttered accusingly. Then, slowly, he lifted his gaze. "So...? What happened next with Bonnie and Clyde?"
"It's not fucking funny. After our first night, she just vanished. No note, no message. Middle of the night. I woke up alone in Delany's ugly-ass guesthouse—"
