My lips still tingle from his kiss. My skin remembers exactly where his hands touched me. It's just physical, I remind myself. Bodies responding to stimuli. It means nothing.
I repeat this like a mantra as Damiano navigates through Manhattan's late-night traffic. This is an act. I'm here for revenge. He killed my father. There is nothing between us but mutual manipulation.
The mansion comes into view, grand and imposing against the night sky. I've been living here for weeks, but it still doesn't feel like home. Perhaps no place ever will again.
Daniel opens my car door, and I step out without waiting for Damiano. The air feels cool against my heated skin, a welcome relief. My heels click on the marble as I cross the foyer, my mind already focused on the solitude of my room.
Damiano's footsteps follow behind me, steady and unhurried. I can sense him watching me, waiting for something—a word, a look back, some acknowledgment of what happened tonight.
I won't give it to him.
At the base of the grand staircase, I pause, my hand on the railing. "Goodnight," I say, the word clipped and formal. I don't turn to face him, don't give him the satisfaction of seeing whatever might be written across my face.
Without waiting for his response, I climb the stairs, my emerald dress whispering against the steps. My shoulders remain straight, my pace measured—never letting him see how desperately I want to escapehis presence.
Only when I close my bedroom door behind me do I allow myself to breathe.
I toss and turn for what feels like hours, my mind replaying the gala like a movie I can't shut off. Damiano's possessive grip. The heat of his kiss. The way his eyes darkened when Rossi approached me.
"This is ridiculous," I mutter, throwing back the covers.
Sleep isn't coming tonight. My throat feels parched, likely from the champagne at the gala. I slip out of bed, not bothering with a robe. It's past three in the morning—who would be awake to see me in my sleep shorts and tank top anyway?
The marble floor feels cool under my bare feet as I make my way downstairs. The mansion is different at night—shadowed and silent, the moonlight streaming through tall windows casting everything in silver and black.
I reach the kitchen and flip on the small light above the sink, not wanting to illuminate the entire space. The cold water feels heavenly against my throat, and I close my eyes for a moment, enjoying the simple pleasure.
"If you're determined to wander around my house dressed like that, I'll have to rip all your clothes out."
The deep voice behind me nearly makes me drop my glass. I turn slowly to find Damiano leaning against the doorframe, arms crossed over his chest. He's still in his dress pants from the gala, but his jacket and tie are gone, his white shirt unbuttoned at the collar revealing a glimpse of tanned skin and what looks like the edge of a tattoo.
His dark eyes travel from my face down my body, lingering on my bare legs. My sleep shorts suddenly feel much shorter than they did when I put them on.
Instead of covering myself or apologizing, I take another deliberate sip of water, letting a small smile play at my lips.
"Is that a promise or a threat?" I ask, setting my glass down and leaning back against the counter. The cool marble presses against my lower back. "Because if you're planning to destroy my entire wardrobe, I should probably go shopping again. Lucrezia would love that."
I can see him struggling with himself, fighting between irritation and something more primal.
"You think this is a game?" he asks, pushing off the doorframe and taking a step into the kitchen.
I shrug one shoulder, feeling reckless. "Maybe. You started it with that little display at the gala."
I watch the storm building in Damiano's eyes as he crosses the kitchen toward me. There's something dangerous in his gaze—something that should make me run, not stand my ground. But I'm tired of running.
"You have no idea what game we're playing," he growls.
Before I can respond, his hands grip the waistband of my shorts. The sound of tearing fabric fills the kitchen as he rips them clean off me. The sudden exposure of my bare legs to the cool air makes me gasp.
I should be outraged. I should slap him and storm away. Instead, heat pools low in my belly, and my heart hammers against my ribs.
"Is that all you can do?" I challenge, my voice steadier than I feel.
In one fluid motion, he scoops me up, one arm behind my knees and the other supporting my back. My tank top rides up as he lifts me against his chest.
Put me down!
The words form in my mind, but my mouth won'tcooperate. I should be fighting, screaming, demanding he release me. This is Damiano Feretti—my father's killer, my enemy.
