"Why would I be harmed?" I asked, turning in his arms to study his face.
A shadow crossed his features. "Men like Vincent Rossi don't approach my staff without reason."
"And the reason was me? Because of... whatever this is between us?"
"Because of what he thinks this means," Dario corrected, his hand coming up to brush hair from my face. "Vincent has been looking for leverage against me for years. He thinks he's found it." The implications of his words chilled me. I was truly a pawn in a game I didn't understand, moved into position not by my own choices but by the mere fact that Dario Luca had noticed me.
"What does this mean?" I asked, suddenly needing to know where I stood.
His eyes softened. "That's up to you."
I searched his face, looking for deception, for the calculated charm Valentina had warned me about. Or worse, mocking amusement. Instead, I found something that looked remarkably like vulnerability. "I should be smarter than this," I whispered, more to myself than to him.
His mouth quirked in a half-smile. "Probably."
Despite everything, I laughed softly, the tension breaking. I settled back against his chest, feeling the steady rhythm of his heart beneath my ear. Whatever complications tomorrow would bring, tonight I would allow myself this. I would stay in the warm security of Dario's arms and the dangerous hope that perhaps, just perhaps, could get out of this with my heart intact, even as I knew it was already an impossibility.
Chapter Twelve
Belle
I fought to keep my eyes open as exhaustion pulled at me, my body wonderfully spent from all the fantastic sex. Dario lay beside me, one arm still draped across my waist, but I could feel the tension in him, his mind clearly racing while mine drifted toward sleep. When he thought I'd fallen under, he carefully extracted himself from the bed. Through half-lidded eyes, I watched him pad naked to the windows, his powerful body silhouetted against the city lights. The hard planes of his back, marked with those mysterious scars, told a story of violence I wasn't sure I wanted to know.
He stood like a statue, hands braced against the glass, head bowed slightly as if carrying some invisible weight. His reflection in the darkened window showed a face I hadn't seen before. His usually guarded expression was now troubled, the confident mask momentarily set aside. What demons haunted a man like Dario Luca? What price had he paid for his empire?
Sleep claimed me before I could ponder further, dragging me into darkness with questions still spinning through my mind.
I woke with a start, disoriented by unfamiliar surroundings, the whisper-soft sheets against my naked skin, the vast expanse of a bed too large and luxurious to be mine, all combined to remind me of exactly how out of my depth I was. Morning light filtered through partially closed blinds, painting stripes across the rumpled bedding. For a moment, panic seized me as memories flooded back. Dario's hands on my body, his mouth against my skin, the promises he'd made in the darkness…
What had I done?
I sat up, clutching the sheet to my chest, and scanned the room. Dario was nowhere to be seen, but I heard movement beyond the bedroom door. Relief and disappointment tangled in my chest. I'd hoped to slip away unseen, to avoid the awkwardness of morning after pleasantries with a man so far above my station.
My clothes lay scattered across the floor where we'd discarded them in our urgency. I slid from the bed, wincing slightly at the soreness between my thighs, and gathered my things with quick, furtive movements. I'd just pulled on my jeans when the bedroom door opened.
Dario stood in the doorway, already dressed in fresh clothes. His hair was damp from a shower, and the light scent of his cologne drifted across the room. He looked impossibly put together, while I stood half dressed and disheveled in last night's work uniform. Yeah. Walk of shame didn’t even begin to describe my present situation.
"You're awake," he said, his eyes moving over me with an intensity that made me acutely aware of my nakedness beneath the thin fabric of my bra. "I thought you might sleep longer."
"I should go," I replied, the words coming out more abruptly than I'd intended. "Before the staff starts arriving."
Something flickered in his expression I couldn’t decipher before his usual mask of control returned. "I can have clothes sent up. Something fresh for you to wear home."
I shook my head, pulling my top together and buttoning it closed with fingers that weren't quite steady. "This is fine. I just need to..." I gestured vaguely at my rumpled appearance.
"Of course." He stepped aside, pointing toward a door I hadn't noticed the night before. "The bathroom is there. Take whatever you need."
I scurried past him, careful not to let our bodies touch, and shut the bathroom door behind me with perhaps more force than necessary. I leaned against it, catching my breath, before turning to face my reflection in a mirror larger than the entire length of my bathroom at home.
I looked exactly like what I was. A woman who'd spent the night being thoroughly fucked. My hair was a tangled mess, my lips slightly swollen, and a small bruise was forming at the juncture of my neck and shoulder where Dario's mouth had been particularly enthusiastic. I splashed cold water on my face, trying to clear my head and calm the panic rising in my chest. Because I remembered clearly we hadn’t used a condom. I’d been too far gone to demand one and he hadn’t offered.
What happened now? Did we pretend nothing had changed? Did I become his secret upstairs indulgence while working my shifts below? The thought made my stomach twist. I didn’t want to turn the best physical experience of my life into something icky, but I was headed that way. I used his brush to tame my hair and borrowed some mouthwash, doing what I could to make myself presentable. When I emerged from the bathroom, Dario stood by the bed, holding something in his hands.
"Your bag," he said, offering it to me. "You left it downstairs last night. I retrieved it for you."
"Thank you." I took it, careful to avoid touching his fingers. Or looking at him.
We stood awkwardly for a moment, the passion of the night before replaced by morning uncertainty. I shifted my weight, adjusting my shirt self consciously.
