My bare feet slap against the hardwood as I hurry toward my room. Every shadow makes me jump. If Pietro sees me like this, practically naked and dripping water from Lorenzo's room, I'm probably dead.
The twenty feet to my door feels like miles. My hands shake so badly I nearly drop the wet clothes twice. Finally, I slip inside and lean back against the closed door, shaking.
What did I just do?
I drop the soaked clothes in a heap and press my palms against my burning cheeks. The towel barely covers me, and I'm suddenly aware of how exposed I am, how reckless that was.
I went to his room to talk. Just talk. I was going to tell him I'm nervous about tonight's party, about facing all those people who'll judge me as a Torrino. About pretending to be in love when my feelings are anything but pretend.
I wanted to tell him I'm scared too. That I understand why he keeps pushing me away, because this thing between us terrifies me just as much.
But then I heard the shower running.
I should have left. Should have waited in his bedroom or come back later. Instead, I found myself pushing open the bathroom door, steam billowing out like an invitation.
And then I saw him.
One hand braced against the marble wall, the other... God. His head thrown back, lips parted, his eyes closed.
Every muscle in his torso stood out in sharp relief. The V of his hips led down to where his hand moved in steady strokes. Scars crisscrossed his chest and ribs—evidence of the violent life he leads. Water traced each ridge and valley of muscle, and I couldn't breathe, couldn't think, couldn't do anything but stare.
He was magnificent. Dangerous and beautiful and completely lost in whatever fantasy played behind his closed eyes.
Something took over then. Not courage exactly, but something wilder. The need to touch him, to be the reality instead of the fantasy, overwhelmed every rational thought.
The look on his face when he opened his eye. He wanted to push me away. I saw it in the way his jaw clenched, the way his hands fisted at his sides.
But he didn't. He let me touch him, let me take control, let me watch him fall apart under my hands.
The power of it was intoxicating. This man who commands an empire, who has people killed with a word, trembling because of me. Coming undone because of my touch.
I loved every second of it.
But now, alone in my room with adrenaline fading, the fear creeps back in. What if I pushed too far? What if he's angry? What if this ruins everything?
I drop the towel and grab fresh underwear from the dresser, my movements jerky and uncoordinated. My hands won't stop shaking.
The black dress hangs in the closet, waiting for tonight. In less than two hours, I'll have to face Chicago's criminal elite as Lorenzo's fiancée.
And I'll have to do it all while knowing what Lorenzo looks like when he comes.
I sink onto the bed, still in just my underwear, and wrap my arms around myself. The compound feels too quiet, like everyone can hear my racing heartbeat, like they all know what I just did.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
Sophia
The car idles outside the hotel, and through the tinted windows I can see them. Reporters, photographers, a wall of flashing lights waiting to devour us. My stomach churns.
Lorenzo sits beside me, silent. He hasn't said a word since we left the compound. Not about what happened in his shower, not about the party, nothing. Just this suffocating silence that makes my chest tight.
I smooth my hands over the black dress for the hundredth time.
"You okay?" His voice cuts through the silence, making me jump.
I turn to look at him. He's devastating in his suit, every inch the powerful businessman the world thinks he is.
"Not really."
