Chapter 22 22

Chapter 22 22
The storm outside mirrors the storm within me.
Damiano lies on his back, one arm around my shoulders, the other resting loosely on his stomach. His chest rises and falls in slow, steady rhythm. I curl against him, the scent of his skin, clean, masculine, familiar, grounding me in this strange, sudden place.
The sheets are soft and warm, but nothing compares to the safety I feel lying here with him. His fingers occasionally twitch in his sleep, and I wonder what dreams might be flickering behind his closed eyes. Mine are a mess, tangled thoughts of Lorenzo, of keys and vaults, of secrets that could break everything. But right now, in the stillness of this storm-wrapped room, I let myself forget.
I press a soft kiss against his collarbone.
The thunder growls again, closer this time. Damiano stirs a little, his hold on me tightening instinctively as if to protect me even in sleep. I feel his breath against my forehead, warm and comforting.
I don’t know what tomorrow holds. I don’t know if I can still carry out the plan Lorenzo put in front of me. But right now, in this bed, with the rain pounding the world outside and Damiano’s heart beating under my cheek, I choose to rest.
The evening settles softly around us like a secret.
The storm hasn’t calmed — if anything, the rain falls heavier now, a constant rhythm that taps against the windows and echoes gently over the lake. Damiano and I step out onto the covered patio of our small resort room, each wrapped in a thick white hotel robe. The wind carries the scent of wet earth and pine, and the misty air feels cool against my skin.
The boatman had just arrived moments ago, placing two trays of food on the small patio table — perfectly grilled steaks, charred vegetables drizzled in olive oil, a decadent dessert that looks like tiramisu, and a bottle of expensive red wine already uncorked. The plates are still warm, covered neatly under silver domes. I insisted on eating outside despite the rain, something about the wildness of the moment felt perfect and though Damiano hesitated, he finally agreed with a smile and a shake of his head.
"You'll catch a cold," he says, pouring us both a glass of wine.
"I'll survive," I murmur, sitting across from him and pulling my knees up under the table. “Besides, this is kind of romantic.”
He lifts his glass toward mine in a silent toast. The crystal clinks.
“To strange dinners and stormy nights,” he says.
“And confusing relationships,” I add.
We laugh.
The food is divine. I cut slowly into my steak, savoring every bite. Damiano eats with a familiar calmness, his knife slicing cleanly, precisely. But there’s a weight in his silence and after a few more bites, he speaks.
“When I was seventeen,” he begins, his voice low, the storm adding drama to every word, “I killed a man for the first time. I didn’t sleep that night. Didn’t sleep for weeks. It wasn’t honorable or glorious. It was bloody. And it changed me.”
I pause, fork mid-air. I don’t speak... I let him.
“I lost my virginity at eighteen. It wasn’t love, just something that happened. At twenty-three, I met Bella. She changed everything for me. I loved her... I really did. She made the world seem... lighter.”
There’s a pause as he takes a slow sip of wine.
“She was pregnant. We were supposed to get married. I was 26 when I lost her. And I never recovered from it. Not really.”
The thunder rolls again, and I flinch slightly at the sound. Damiano reaches across the table and gently touches my hand.
“I’m 29 now,” he says. “Nearly thirty. And for the first time, since everything. Since her, since the chaos — I think I’m living again.”
I watch him in silence. “I don’t have much to say about life,” I reply softly, “because I think... this is the first time I’m living, too.”
We continue eating slowly, like we have all the time in the world and for the first time in a long time, maybe we do.
A particularly loud crack of thunder makes me jump again and Damiano laughs, rising to wrap his arm around my shoulders. “Birdie, I’m here,” he murmurs. “Always. Don’t worry.”
I lean into him.
Then, as the mood softens, we start talking about something lighter. Our honeymoon.
“Italy,” I say without hesitation. “I want gelato on the beach. I want to walk ancient ruins barefoot. I want stories.”
“I was about to say Italy too,” he grins. “Rome, Naples, maybe a detour to Sicily. You’d love the old legends, the ruins... the chaos.”
We talk about it like it’s already real. I keep eating, slow and content. Damiano’s plate is already empty, and he leans back, glass in hand.
“I’m not going to pressure you,” he says suddenly. “After the wedding, about getting pregnant. You’ve just gone through something awful. I want you to be ready, not just physically, but here.” He taps his chest. “And here.” He touches his temple.
His thoughtfulness makes my throat tighten.
“Thank you,” I whisper.
We sit for a while longer, watching the storm dance over the lake. The rain blurs the world outside, but within this patio, within this moment, it’s just us.
Damiano tells me a few stories from his youth, some darker, some ridiculous. He even imitates his uncle’s voice in a joke and I burst out laughing — loud, belly-deep laughter I haven’t felt in weeks. He laughs too, watching me, eyes warm with something I don’t dare name.
And somewhere between the steak and the tiramisu, between the thunder and the safety of his hand in mine, we realize: this — this unusual, stormy night, might just be one of the best in our lives.
Damiano is beside me, silent. We’ve spoken so much tonight that silence now feels like a language of its own. The plates have been cleared, the laughter has died down, and yet we’re still here—together, under this strange storm.
It’s nearly ten when we finally rise. The night is heavy and quiet. The only sound is the water below and our slow footsteps across the patio wood.
Just before I reach the door, Damiano takes my hand. I pause, turning toward him. He doesn't say anything at first—he just slips something cool and smooth onto my finger. I glance down.
A diamond. Elegant. Sharp. Perfectly cut.
My breath hitches.
He doesn’t kneel. He doesn’t make a grand speech.
He looks at me—serious, calm, entirely Damiano—and says,
“I’m not the kind of man who gets on his knees to ask someone to marry him. That’s not who I am.”
His fingers tighten around mine, grounding me.
“I’ll say this instead: Aurora Sienna Moretti, don’t ever lie to me. Don’t sneak around me. Don’t cheat me—of the truth, of trust, of us. Obey me, and I’ll obey you. I’ll protect you, give you my world. You and I... if we keep our loyalty, our love can lead us very far.”
I don’t speak. I just stare at him, feeling a dozen things at once.
The diamond catches the faint light, glinting like a secret promise.
“I’ve never wanted forever until you,” he adds, his voice low.
My throat is tight, my heart thudding like a drum in the rain-drenched silence.
All I manage to whisper is, “Okay.”
“I want to make this moment more memorable.” I smirk and make him sit down again.
I slide off his lap to the floor in front of him. He grabs the cushion from the seat beside him and nudges me up to cushion my knees. I’m eager to please. He watches me with heavy-lidded eyes as I lick around the head. I take him deep and his thighs tense, knees shooting wider. 
I switch my hand, jacking him in a tight fist and moving my mouth lower.
“Oh fuck!” Damiano’s hand tangles in my hair. “Madonna. Cristo. Dio. What are you doing to me?”
I love the heady power that surges through me, knowing how much pleasure I’m giving him. 
When I return to engulf his cock in my mouth, he surges forward in the chair, shoving it down my throat as he holds the back of my head captive. I choke, but don’t stop sucking. I move up and down over his cock, taking him into the pocket of my cheek, then to the back of my throat. I slow down and relax my muscles.
He tightens his fist in my hair and groans. The string of Italian curses fuels my desire. I pick up my speed, bobbing over his dick, using my fist, too, so it feels like I’m taking his full length.
“Aurora. Fuck! Aurora.” He comes down my throat.
I swallow. I’m pretty damn proud of myself. It doesn’t hurt that Damiano’s roar still around the lake. I continue to roll my tongue along the underside of his dick, sucking him dry. My clit pulses in time with my heartbeat. 
I need sex, desperately.