Chapter 12: Public Possession
The scar on Isabella’s throat was a faint, pink line, visible only if you knew to look for it. She touched it absently as she stood on the villa’s sun-drenched terrace, the morning light warming her skin but doing little to thaw the memory of cold steel. It didn’t hurt. It felt like a brand.
“Stop worrying at it,” Gianna’s voice came from behind her, soft but firm. She appeared, handing Isabella a small, heavy ceramic cup of bitter espresso. “It’ll fade.”
“I’m not worrying,” Isabella said. It was a lie. She was tracing the physical proof of the night, the line where Gianna’s world had literally cut into her own.
Gianna watched her, her green eyes unreadable behind dark sunglasses. She wore a simple linen dress, cream-colored, looking for all the world like a sophisticated tourist. Only Isabella could see the tightness in her shoulders, the vigilance in her stillness. The bloodstained shirt was ashes in the hearth.
“We’re going down to the market,” Gianna announced, finishing her own espresso in one swallow.
“Is that wise?” The question was out before Isabella could stop it.
A ghost of a smile touched Gianna’s lips. “Wisdom has nothing to do with it. I need to be seen. You need air that doesn’t smell of my mistakes.” She reached out, her thumb gently stroking the scar. “And I want to buy you something pretty. Normal people do that.”
The market was a cacophony of life, a stark counterpoint to the silent, violent intimacy of the villa. Sunlight bounced off terracotta pots, glinted on rows of silver lemons hanging from ropes. The air was thick with the smell of frying fish, overripe produce, and a hundred different perfumes. Isabella let herself be pulled into the current, Gianna’s hand a firm anchor around her wrist.
But it wasn’t a gentle hold. It was possessive, deliberate. Gianna moved through the crowd not like a shopper, but like a shark through water, her gaze constantly scanning, assessing. Venders called out, extolling the virtues of their lace, their ceramics, their limoncello. Gianna would nod curtly, occasionally bartering in rapid-fire Italian that was several degrees colder than the language Isabella knew.
They turned a corner, away from the main thoroughfare, into a narrower alley shaded by towering bougainvillea. The sounds of the market faded to a muffled hum. Gianna stopped abruptly in front of a stall selling faded maps and old books, but she wasn’t looking at the wares.
“That man by the sardine grill,” she said, her voice low, barely moving her lips. “Polo shirt. He’s been with us since the piazza.”
A chill unrelated to the shade crept down Isabella’s spine. “Are we in danger?”
“No,” Gianna said, and the absolute certainty in her tone was more frightening than fear. “He’s just making sure I’m not planning to stay. Sending a message.”
Before Isabella could process this, Gianna spun her, pushing her back against a rough, sun-warmed stone wall. It was a recessed doorway, shrouded in shadow, hidden from the alley’s direct view by a rack of garish tourist towels.
“Gianna, what—“
The words were crushed by Gianna’s mouth. This wasn’t the desperate kiss from the dawn; this was something else. Claiming. A performance. Gianna’s tongue invaded her mouth, one hand tangling in her curls, pulling just to the edge of pain. Isabella moaned into the kiss, her body responding instantly, a traitor to her confusion.
Gianna broke the kiss, her lips trailing down to Isabella’s throat, to the scar. She licked it, a slow, wet stroke that made Isabella shudder. “He’s watching,” Gianna breathed against her skin, her voice thick with false passion. “Let’s give him a show.”
Her free hand slid under Isabella’s sundress, pushing the fabric up around her waist. The air was cool on her bare thighs. There was no preamble. Gianna’s fingers hooked into the side of her panties, yanking them down just enough.
“Gianna, not here,” Isabella gasped, but it was weak, already dissolving into a plea as Gianna’s palm pressed against her.
“Right here,” Gianna corrected, her voice a dark thrill. Her middle finger slid through Isabella’s folds, already finding her wet. “You’re so fucking ready. Is it the danger? Knowing he can almost see?”
Isabella’s head thudded back against the stone. It was. The absurd, terrifying publicness of it, the grimy stone against her back, the scent of basil and dust, the distant chatter of people just feet away—it all coiled into a sharp, illicit need. Gianna’s finger pushed inside her, curling, and Isabella bit her lip to stifle a cry.
“That’s it,” Gianna whispered, her own breath growing ragged. She worked her finger in and out, a ruthless, focused rhythm. Her thumb found Isabella’s clit, rubbing tight, angry circles. “Come on, cara. Come against this dirty wall while that prick watches and reports back that we’re just two lovesick tourists.”
The obscenity of the words, the rough skill of her touch, the terrifying exposure—it built a pressure in Isabella that was unbearable. Her hips jerked, meeting Gianna’s thrusts. She could hear footsteps approaching on the cobbles, a woman’s laugh. They passed, inches from the towel rack, oblivious.
The nearness broke her. A sharp, silent orgasm ripped through her, seizing her muscles, her mouth open in a soundless scream. Gianna held her through it, her finger still deep inside, her body shielding Isabella’s contorted face from the alley.
As the waves receded, leaving her boneless and trembling, Gianna slowly withdrew her hand. She brought her glistening fingers to her own mouth, her eyes locked on Isabella’s. She sucked them clean with a deliberate, obscene slowness.
Then she straightened Isabella’s dress with a disturbing tenderness, pulling her panties back into place. She smoothed her hair, her touch now gentle.
“See?” Gianna murmured, adjusting her sunglasses. Her voice was steady again, the performance over. “Normal people.”
She took Isabella’s hand, her grip firm, and led her back into the bright sunlight of the market. The man in the polo shirt was gone.
They walked in silence for a while, the normal sounds of the market now feeling like a roar in Isabella’s ears. Her legs were weak, her core throbbing with a raw, spent ache.
“You used me,” Isabella said finally, her voice surprisingly calm.
“Yes,” Gianna admitted without hesitation. “I needed a convincing display of distraction. You were the most convincing thing I could think of.”
It was honesty, brutal and unvarnished. It should have hurt. Instead, it felt like another kind of intimacy.
“And the rest?” Isabella asked, stopping to look at a display of glass bottles, her reflection wavy and distorted. “The… the way you touched me. Was that just for him?”
Gianna turned to her. For a moment, the marketplace mask slipped. The raw hunger Isabella saw there had nothing to do with spectators.
“No,” Gianna said, the single word loaded with a lifetime of want. “That was because I saw the way you looked at the lemons. Because your dress is yellow. Because you exist.” She leaned in, her lips close to Isabella’s ear. “What I’m going to do to you back at the villa, when we’re alone and I have you in that white bed, that won’t be for anyone else either. I’m going to fuck you until you forget your own name. I’m going to taste every part of you. I’m going to make you scream so loud the sea will carry the sound all the way to that pathetic husband of yours. Do you understand?”
Isabella felt a fresh, shocking surge of wetness between her thighs. She nodded, unable to speak.
Gianna smiled, a true, fierce smile that transformed her face. She plucked a perfect lemon from a nearby crate, paid the vendor without looking, and placed the cool, sun-bright fruit in Isabella’s hand.
“Hold onto that,” she said, her fingers lingering. “We’ll need it later.”