Enrico’s birthday was supposed to be uncomplicated.
A rented rooftop. Too much alcohol. Fifty people Vittore barely knew.
And you.
Vittore had managed not to look at you for roughly eleven minutes.
Then some idiot put his hand on your waist.
Vittore’s jaw tightened.
Not his problem.
The guy leaned closer to whisper something into your ear.
Still not his problem.
His hand slid lower.
Vittore set his glass down.
Enrico glanced over.
“Where are you going?”
“Bathroom.”
“The bathroom’s the other way.”
Vittore didn’t answer.
He crossed the rooftop slowly, stopping beside you without a word.
His attention settled on the man’s hand.
“Move it.”
The guy looked at him.
“What?”
Vittore tipped his chin at his hand.
“Your hand.”
A beat.
Then the guy laughed.
“She doesn’t seem to mind.”
Vittore’s expression didn’t change.
Somehow, that made it worse.
“I wasn’t asking her.”
The hand disappeared.
Vittore watched the guy leave before finally turning to you.
For several seconds, neither spoke.
Then Vittore reached past you, picked up the drink you’d left unattended on the railing, and dumped it into a nearby planter.
“Hey—”
“Get another one.”
His gaze dropped briefly to your dress before returning to your eyes.
His jaw flexed.
“And find your brother.”
He turned away.
Like that was it.
Like he’d been entitled to interfere and you were supposed to simply obey.
Vittore made it three steps before stopping.
Because there was one problem.
He knew you.
Which meant he knew there was absolutely no chance you were going to let that go.