“Haven’t you already sold it?”
“I stopped the sale. I looked into it, and your suspicion—that the amulet once belonged to Ramses III—could very well be right.”
“Really?”
He nodded, leaning forward. “That’s why I want you to come with me to Rome. Your knowledge—and your instincts—could be crucial.”
“To Rome?” My voice trembled. “With you?”
I inhaled sharply, clutched my cup, and took a long sip of tea. “When would we leave?”
“As soon as tomorrow,” Damian said with that determined half-smile. “Everything’s arranged. You only need to pack.”
I set the cup down. “Mr. Miller, I’m not sure I can on such short notice…”
“It’s part of your work,” he cut in, gentle but edged with steel. “Your expertise is essential. Of course, you’ll be paid for the week. And there’s nothing to worry about. We’ll be staying at a hotel I know well.”
“I don’t know…”
Rome. The city I both loved and despised. In my mind’s eye, its ruins rose like ghosts: the Colosseum, the narrow alleys, the vaulted depths of the Vatican Library.
But Rome was also where my father lived. The man who had cast my childhood into the shadows of the Mafia. Not just the deals and whispered meetings. The nights, after visitors left, when certain smiles turned cruel—and I was left with memories I had spent years trying to bury.
The thought of returning filled me with a dangerous cocktail of excitement, nerves, and unease. Should I tell my father I’d be there? The question pressed heavy, but another voice warned me to stay silent.
And then there was Damian. How the hell was I supposed to endure days at his side? The tension between us was unbearable, electric. From the first time I walked into his office, when he closed the distance, he had unsettled me. After that kiss—after his words—I knew it was reckless to let it happen again.
But the idea of working in the Vatican Library, of being part of such a discovery, lit me with pure euphoria. Would I be able to endure that constant, dangerous pull between us? Probably not. The way he looked at me, the way he spoke—as if he knew truths I had never dared say—was both fascinating and frightening.
“Miss Elfhorn?” His voice cut through my thoughts. “Are you even listening to me?”
I lifted my head and met his gaze. “All right. I’ll come.”
“Very good,” Damian said, taking a slow, satisfied sip of tea. Then he set the cup aside and rose. “I want to bring a book with me. An old text on Egyptian amulets. I checked the catalog earlier—the number is A157.”
I followed him toward the shelves. My fingers drifted across the spines as though I were searching for something, but my mind was blank. The numbers blurred, meaningless. I moved with purpose only on the outside. Inside, everything was façade.
A storm was raging in me. Every step, every breath a tightrope between running and staying frozen. Just to feel how close he was. Perfect. Off to a great start.
Even before he touched me, I felt him. His presence rolled in like a soundless storm. I was reaching for a book when heat spread across my hand.
He placed his hand on mine, gentle but firm, stopping me before I could pull the volume free. His fingers pressed lightly—a grip that didn’t ask; it took.
My chest jumped. Every nerve screamed. I stayed. Held by something I couldn’t name. Something I wanted anyway.
“Miss Elfhorn,” he breathed, lips close to my hair. Barely more than a breath, but it scorched every wall I’d built. Between the shelves at my front and his body at my back, there was no air left. No escape.
“You’re costing me my sleep. I can’t stop thinking about you.”
My chest tightened. I had to force breath into my lungs. Thought thinned until there was nothing left. I turned toward him. “Mr. Miller,” I started, but words shattered when his fingers slid to the buttons of my pants. They died on my lips like embers. Heat flooded me—shame, fear, something darker.
“I have to restrain myself around you. And I hate it.” His voice dropped, intimate and too near. He took my hand and guided it—first across my stomach, then lower. My legs trembled.
“Because I’m not used to holding back.” Quiet. Almost tender. More dangerous for it.
Our fingers found the edge of my panties, sliding beneath—slow, unbearably slow—until they brushed the place that made me lose myself. I wanted to say no. My body burned under that touch.
“And because you keep me up at night… I should really punish you.”
