Page 79 of Ruined By Capture

I feel Alessio's hand warm on my knee before I notice the shift in the room. The men straighten subtly as the door opens.

Damiano Feretti enters and the air changes—molecules rearranging themselves around his presence.

He's taller than I imagined, with well-built shoulders that fill out his tailored suit perfectly. Dark wavy hair frames a face that's all sharp angles and intensity. His eyes, deep brown and perceptive, sweep the room before landing on me.

"Melania Lombardi," he says in a smooth baritone with an accent slightly denser than Alessio's. "Welcome to my home."

I elevate my posture, refusing to shrink under his scrutiny. "Thank you for having me, Mr. Feretti."

A smile touches his lips, not reaching his eyes. "Damiano, please. After all you've become quite... significant to my right hand." His gaze flicks to Alessio, some unspoken communication passing between them.

He moves to the other head of the table with fluid grace, unbuttoning his jacket before taking his seat. The otherswait until he's settled before resuming their own positions, a choreography they've performed countless times.

"I trust my men have been hospitable," he says, reaching for the wine glass Ginerva has already filled.

"Some more than others," I reply, glancing at Enzo, who smirks in response, and Matteo who does likewise. "But yes, considering the circumstances."

Ginerva appears from the kitchen door, directing two young men in black uniforms as they wheel in serving carts. The aroma hits me first—rich, complex scents that make my stomach hum with anticipation.

"I hope you're hungry," Alessio murmurs close to my ear, his breath warm on my skin.

I nod, watching the servers place gleaming platters along the center of the table. Each dish looks like it belongs in a high-end restaurant.

"I've heard rumors about your chef," I say to Damiano as a server places a delicate appetizer before me—seared scallops nestled on vibrant green puree. "They say he trained in Milan before working for you."

Damiano's expression glows with undisguised pride. "Ettore. Yes, he was head chef at a two-star Michelin restaurant."

"He doesn't cook for just anyone," Enzo adds, already reaching for his fork. "Consider yourself special."

The first bite melts on my tongue—perfectly seared scallop with a pea puree that's delicate inside and intensely flavorful. I can't help the small sound of appreciation that escapes me.

When I look up I catch Alessio watching me, his eyes darkening at my reaction. Heat floods my cheeks as I remember his earlier comments about the lurid sounds I make when eating.

"Ettore will be pleased you approve," Damiano says, noticing our exchange with shrewd eyes that obviously miss nothing.

The servers return, this time with pasta—handmade tagliatelle with ragu that's been simmering for hours, if not days judging by its depth of flavor. The pasta itself is perfectly al dente, with just the right amount of resistance against my teeth.

"This is incredible," I admit, forgetting for a moment that I'm dining with men who could order my execution as easily as they ordered this meal.

Noah nods in agreement. "Food and violence," he says casually, twirling pasta around his fork. "Italians excel at both."

Despite the somewhat tense environment, I can't help but appreciate the culinary artistry before me. Food has always been my weakness—my one true indulgence.

Even as a child, when other girls begged their fathers for toys, I only wanted to try the legendary tiramisu at Ristorante Milano or taste the famous gelato from a tiny shop we used to visit in Los Angeles. My father never understood this preference, viewing it as frivolous compared to the status symbols he liked to display.

I glance around as the servers clear our plates, my pulse quickening with anticipation. The osso buco was exquisite but what I'm really waiting for is dessert. My sweet tooth has been a constant companion since childhood—the one pleasure that remained unchanged through boarding schools, my mother's death, and my father's increasing control.

"You're looking rather preoccupied," Alessio murmurs beside me, his thumb brushing my knee under the table. "Something on your mind?"

"I was wondering about dessert," I admit, very low so the others won’t mock my eagerness. "If the chef is as skilled as everyone claims..."

His lips curve into that half smile that makes my stomach flip. "Ah, you have a sweet tooth."

"My greatest weakness," I confess. "I'd skip meals to save room for dessert when I was younger."

I catch Damiano's eye across the table. The scrutiny I expected—the hard questions, the pointed assessment—hasn't materialized. He's watching, yes, but there's no interrogation. This dinner isn't about extracting information from her; it's about observing how she carries herself and how we interact.

Melania lifts her spoon, dipping into the creamy and chocolate shaving surface of the tiramisu. The instant the dessert touches her lips, she closes her eyes, a soft moan of pleasure escaping her. My body responds instantly, remembering similar sounds from our time together.

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