“Sofia,” he murmured, her name a low warning and a question.
She was the one who closed the final distance. She stepped into him, her hand coming to rest on his chest, feeling the steady, strong beat of his heart beneath her palm.
“This is a bad idea,” she whispered, leaning closer.
Tonio cradled her jaw. “The worst,” he breathed against her lips.
Then he kissed her.
Soft at first—wine and restraint. Then deeper. Her hands gripped his shoulders; his arms locked around her waist, pulling her flush. One hand splayed at her back, the other tangled in her hair, tilting her for better access.
The world dissolved.
His mouth trailed fire down her throat. She gasped, head falling back, fingers in his hair.
She slid her hands under his shirt—warm skin, hard muscle. He groaned against her neck. In answer, his hand slipped beneath her top, thumb brushing the underside of her breast. She arched into him.
He unclasped her bra with a flick. His palm filled her bare breast, his thumb circling the peak until it tightened. A low moan escaped her.
“Tonio,” she breathed.
He kissed her again—deep, consuming. Shirt gone. Skin to skin.
His mouth closed over her nipple, tongue teasing. His hand slid down her stomach, under her waistband, past the last barrier.
She cried out. Her knees buckled. He caught her, arm around her waist, fingers moving with lethal precision.
Each stroke coiled her tighter—until she shattered.
A sharp cry tore from her throat, her body pulsing around his hand, nails digging into his shoulders. He drew it out, slow, relentless, until she sagged against him, boneless.
Silence. Only breathing.
Then his hand stilled, withdrew, and settled at her back.
She lifted her head, dazed.
“That’s enough,” he said, his voice rough. “For tonight.”
“Tonio—”
He shook his head. “Not like this. Not when we’re still running on adrenaline.”
His thumb traced her jaw. “When it happens, it’ll be us. Not the day.”
He kissed her forehead—lingering—then walked away.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
The ghost of Sofia’s touch was a brand on his skin. Tonio shoved the feeling down and opened the file Luc had arranged to be dropped into their secure server overnight—the Valencia case. A forgotten scandal. A young woman disappeared. This was the reality he needed to focus on. Not the memory of her breath against his neck, but the faded photo of Maria Valencia, a woman whose life had been erased by the man they were trying to destroy.
Maria Valencia, 22. Reported missing. Presumed drowned.
Paper-clipped to the file was a grainy photo: a young woman with dark curls, smiling near the docks. And behind her, blurred but unmistakable—Randal Young. Back then, just an ambitious aide. Tonio’s thumb hovered over Young’s smirking face. The same smirk he’d seen in press conferences for years, the same one he’d flashed at Tonio last year at a charity gala—untouchable, condescending.
She had filed a report days earlier, and in the margin, a junior detective had scribbled, “Subject said she was scared and being threatened. Claimed she had ‘proof he wasn’t the man peoplethought’ and planned to meet a Tribune reporter the day after she disappeared.”
The case had been shut down too fast, too neatly. Buried.
