CHAPTER 44: Unarmed Hearts

CHAPTER 44: Unarmed Hearts
Dinner unfolded with a deceptive ease that unsettled Isabella more than any confrontation ever could.
They spoke of nothing that mattered…at least, nothing that was supposed to matter.
The wine they had easily loosened whatever tension that had threatened to ruin the evening, and the quiet peace of the restaurant settled around them like a shared secret.
Luca let her talk. He didn’t interrupt or attempt to steer the conversation back to himself, neither did he use her words as ammunition or leverage. He listened with a focus that made her acutely aware of every sentence that was leaving her mouth.
It irritated her at first. But as time gradually went on, she discovered that it actually pleased her dangerously.
She found herself talking about Rome without meaning to. About the galleries hidden in forgotten streets, about the private collectors who pretended not to care while obsessing over brushstrokes and provenance. She spoke about restoring damaged pieces, about the quiet satisfaction that could be deprived by just watching something broken regain its original beauty.
“You light up when you talk about it,” Luca observed calmly.
She paused in the middle of her sentence. “About what?”
“Art…Your work.”
She scoffed lightly. “That’s ridiculous.”
“It’s not,” he replied. “Your shoulders relax when you do, and your voice changes.”
She narrowed her eyes at him. “You sound as if you’ve been watching me the entire time.”
“I have,” he said without apology.
She expected that honest admission to annoy her, but instead, it sent a strange warmth through her entire being.
She shifted in her seat and took another sip of wine. “You wouldn’t understand it anyway.”
“Try me,” he said with a chuckle.
She raised a brow and gave him a skeptical look. “You don’t strike me as the type to care about paintings.”
Luca grinned mischievously. “I own a Caravaggio, Bella.”
She choked on her drink as she stared at him in shock.
“You’re lying,” she blurted out.
“I’m not,” he replied with a shrug. “Honestly.”
Her eyes sharpened with curiosity. “Which one?”
“The Flagellation of Christ,” he replied smoothly. “A private acquisition. Naples period.”
She put down the wine glass slowly and tried to think clearly.
The piece that Luca had just mentioned wasn't something that anyone could just guess easily. It wasn’t a name that could just be dropped casually…It was a knowledge that could only be earned through obsession or serious study.
“Are you being serious right now?” she asked slowly.
He nodded. “I am.”
She studied him carefully, feeling her hostility fighting a losing war with reluctant fascination. “And here I thought you only collected weapons and enemies.”
“I collect whatever holds power,” he said calmly. “Art does that too…Just in a different way.”
Against her will, she smiled.
It slipped out before she could stop it…small, genuine, and unguarded.
Luca noticed it…Of course he did.
His eyes softened instantly, and something in his expression gradually changed, as if he had just been handed a fragile gift and was afraid to make the mistake of letting it fall.
As the courses passed, Isabella forgot to keep track of time.
She forgot to count exits. Forgot to measure her words. Forgot, briefly, why she was supposed to hate him.
He asked her about her collection in Rome…about the pieces she kept hidden away, about which ones she would save first if everything else burned. He remembered names she mentioned in passing, recalled details she hadn’t even realized she had shared with him.
No man had ever paid attention like that…Not without wanting something else in return.
And yet Luca asked all the right questions without demanding. He admired her without making an attempt to claim her. He doted on her without suffocating her.
When he reached across the table to brush a crumb from her lip, she nearly pulled back…but stopped herself at the last second.
The touch was light, reverent, and surprisingly intimate.
Her body reacted in the most treacherous way possible, and she hated herself for enjoying it.
By the time dessert arrived, the evening outside the window had deepened into a velvet dusk. Streetlights were now glowing softly, and the city beyond the glass seemed distant and utterly irrelevant.
Isabella leaned back in her chair and exhaled slowly. She had not realized how tired she was until the weight of the day finally caught up to her.
Luca noticed it immediately.
“You should rest,” he said gently. “We can head back home now.”
The words were so considerate and thoughtful that they annoyed her. She would have actually preferred if he was arrogant.
Already?” she asked coldly. “The evening has barely begun.”
“You’ve had a long day, Bella,” he said softly.
“And suddenly you’re concerned about my bedtime?”
He smiled kindly at her. “Only about your well being.”
She studied him, trying to see if he was hiding something…if it was time to take off his mask and reveal his true intentions.
When she saw that he was just being concerned, a sudden ache she didn't understand began to stir inside her. The idea of the night ending so soon suddenly felt wrong.
She straightened on her chair, crossing her arms loosely. “I don’t feel like going home yet.”
Luca looked at her with surprise. “You don’t?”
“No,” she said, injecting sarcasm into her voice to hide the truth. “The night is young. Unless you’re exhausted already.”
His eyes gleamed.
“Hardly.”
She tilted her head. “Then what? Are you going to tuck me into bed and read me a story?”
“Only if you ask nicely.”
She huffed, then caught herself laughing.
Luca looked at her for a while, then leaned back thoughtfully.
“There’s a nice place,” he said slowly. “Not far from here. With music and dancing if you're up for it.”
Her heart skipped.
“Dancing?” she asked, pretending to be bored by the suggestion. “What kind of dancing?”
“Salsa.”
The word sent a spark through her blood.
She hid her reaction yet again, and gave him a curious stare instead. “I don’t see you as someone who can dance salsa, Luca.”
“You’d be surprised at the many things I'm actually good at,” he replied cheerfully.
“I doubt it,” she shot back. “You’d probably step on my toes.”
“Maybe only once,” he replied laughing. “After that, I’d learn pretty fast.”
She hesitated, playing her role carefully. “And why would I agree to something like that?”
“Because,” he said calmly, “you want to.”
She waved a dismissive hand at him. “You’re very confident, Don Moretti”
“I’m just observant,” came the confident reply.
She stood up slowly and smoothed her dress. “I don't think I'm actually dressed for dancing.”
“You’re dressed to be admired, Bella,” he said. “That’s even more dangerous.”
She rolled her eyes, but the heat crept into her cheeks anyway.
“Fine,” she said after a while of deliberate delay. “But don’t get excited. I’m only agreeing to this because I don’t feel like going home.”
His smile widened…triumphant, but restrained.
“Of course.”
As they left the restaurant together, Isabella felt something change irrevocably inside her.
She was no longer simply enduring his presence.
She was seeking it and enjoying it.
And that realization scared her more than any threat ever could.
Because she suddenly wasn't fighting him anymore…She was dancing dangerously close to wanting him.
And she had no idea how to stop.