He chooses me.
“I hope you don’t regret that,” Marco says quietly. “I really do.”
Footsteps approach the hallway, which means it’s time to either announce my presence or get caught eavesdropping. The decision is made when I step into the living room like nothing was heard.
“Oh, sorry. Didn’t mean to interrupt.”
Marco turns, and up close he’s younger than I expected, maybe early thirties, handsome in a sharp-featured way, with eyes that assess and categorize in seconds. “Elena. We haven’t been formally introduced. Marco Rinaldi, Alessandro’s second.”
“Second-in-command,” Alessandro clarifies. “He runs operations when I’m... occupied.”
“Nice to meet you.” The words come out stiff, formal. Hard to be friendly with someone who wants Alessandro to dump me for strategic purposes.
Marco’s eyes flick between us, and something like resignation crosses his face. “I should go. Boss, think about what I said.”
“I have. The answer’s still no.”
“Figured as much.” Marco nods at me. “Ms. Harper. Stay safe.”
Then he’s gone, leaving Alessandro and me alone in the cavernous penthouse with the weight of overheard conversations between us.
“How much did you hear?” Alessandro asks.
“Enough.” No point in lying. “He’s right, you know. About me being a distraction.”
“He’s wrong.” Alessandro crosses to where I’m standing, and suddenly the huge space feels very small. “You’re not a distraction. You’re the only thing keeping me sane right now.”
“Alessandro—”
“You wanted the truth. Here it is.” He’s close enough now that his cologne, something dark and expensive, fills my senses. “Yes, I run criminal operations in Seattle. Yes, I’ve killed people. Yes, being with me puts you in danger. But you also make me want to be better than what I am. Make me remember there’s more to life than territory and profit margins and body counts.”
His hand comes up to cup my face, and despite everything, the danger, the fear, Marco’s warnings, I lean into his touch.
“I’m terrified,” the admission comes out barely above a whisper. “Of this, of you, of what loving you might cost.”
“You should be.”
“But I can’t seem to stop. Can’t seem to walk away.” My hand covers his, holding it against my cheek. “What does that make me?”
“Mine,” he says, and then his mouth is on mine.
The kiss is different from the others, it’s desperate, claiming, as if he’s trying to pour every emotion he can’t articulate into this connection. Hands tangle in his hair, my body pressed against his, and nothing else exists except this moment, this man, this impossible thing between us.
Alessandro walks me backward until my spine hits the cold glass of the window. His hands slide under my sweater, fingers splaying across bare skin, and heat floods through my body.
“Tell me to stop,” he murmurs against my mouth. “Tell me this is moving too fast.”
“Don’t stop.” The words come out breathy, desperate. “Please don’t stop.”
He groans, a sound that goes straight through me, and his mouth moves to my neck, teeth grazing sensitive skin. One hand slides higher under my sweater, and when his thumb brushes the underside of my breast through my bra, a sound escapes that definitely qualifies as a moan.
“Cristo,” he mutters. “Elena—”
“Bedroom.” Can barely form words. “We should—bedroom—”
But even as the suggestion is made, Alessandro pulls back. His breathing is ragged, his hair messed from my fingers, his eyes almost black with desire. And he’s shaking his head.
“We can’t.”
