Page 47 of Beauty and the Daddy
The heat of him bleeds through silk.
"Shall we?"
The stairs are narrow. His body brackets mine from behind, and I catch his cologne—something dark and expensive that makes me want to lean back into him.
I don't. I climb, feeling like Alice headed down a very different rabbit hole.
Inside, it's all butter-soft leather and wood panels that probably cost more than my dad's entire showroom.
The air tastes different here—filtered, pristine, like even oxygen comes premium.
"Sit wherever you like," he says, folding himself into leather like he was born to it.
I take the seat across from him—far enough to think straight, close enough that our knees almost touch when I cross my legs.
The cabin shrinks. His eyes track the movement, and suddenly I'm hyperaware of every inch of skin my dress doesn't cover.
Once we're in the air, a flight attendant appears with champagne. At seven-thirty in the morning. Because why not?
"No, thank you," I say. "Coffee would be great, though."
Luca raises an eyebrow. "You'll need the champagne more than the coffee once we land."
"Is that supposed to be comforting?" I ask.
"It's supposed to be honest." He takes a sip of his own champagne. "The old men don't like change, outsiders, or Americans with smart mouths."
Great. Three strikes and I haven't even landed yet.
I grab the champagne.
Luca smirks.
I take a sip and let it wash over me. Maybe it's the smouldering way he's looking at me, and that I'm not in control here, but I let my fears be known.
"Hey, Luca…" I whisper, my voice trembling.
His eyes snap to mine, like he wants to see what I can't say. Like he doesn't want to miss a thing.
"What if they don't like me?"
His jaw ticks.
"I'll keep you safe," Luca says. "No matter what happens in Italy, you're under my protection. Remember that."
I should hate needing him… but God, it feels good knowing he's got me.
We hittarmac with a bone-jarring thud, and suddenly Rome isn't just a destination on a boarding pass—it's real.
Ancient stone and terracotta rooftops spread like a fever dream under Mediterranean sun.
I press my nose to the window like I'm five. "It's..." I trail off, because gorgeous doesn't cover it.
It looks like history decided to pose for a postcard.
"Never been," I admit.
"Good." There's something proprietary in his voice, like he's about to show me his personal collection. "Then you'll see it through the right eyes."
