“Yes.” He says it like we’re discussing a routine business meeting. “Tomorrow.”
Every alarm bell in my head starts blasting at once as my brain scrambles to catch up. Is this some kind of the test? Does he suspect something?
“I appreciate the invitation, but—”
“It wasn’t a request, Mr. DaCosta.”
Huh. Yeah, this stinks like a trap.
“I’m just a contractor,” I say carefully. “Not family.”
“You have access to our security systems. That makes you family, whether you like it or not.” His mouth curves into something that’s not quite a smile. “Besides, I find it useful tosee how people behave outside work. You can learn a lot about someone over a good meal and wine.”
Or you’re testing me. Trying to get under my skin to see what I’m up to.
“Do you invite your staff casually for dinners in your home, Mr. Valerio?”
“No.” He tilts his head, studying me with that unnerving focus that makes me feel like a specimen pinned under glass. “Only when it matters.”
“And what makes me matter?”
He doesn't answer immediately, watching me with that unreadable expression.
“It’s been a while since I found someone…” He pauses, letting the silence stretch until my pulse kicks up. “Interesting.”
“Interesting,” I repeat flatly. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
His mouth twitches, like he’s about to smile and decides against it. “Come tomorrow. You’ll see.”
Fuck. I don’t play games I don’t understand, and nothing about Enzo Valerio is simple. But refusing would raise more questions than I want to answer now.
I hold his gaze, weighing my options. But the more I consider it, the more I think this works in my favor.
Dinner parties mean mingling. People moving between rooms, stepping out for phone calls, wandering down quiet corridors. Valerio playing the gracious host, distracted by guests and obligations.
All I need is one moment. Catch him alone in an empty hallway, silencer muffling the shot, and I’m out before anyone realizes their boss is bleeding out on imported marble.
Hell, this may be the opportunity I’ve been waiting for.
“What time?” I ask.
“Eight. I’ll send a car.” He straightens, and I catch another wave of his scent—more potent this time, or maybe my suppressants are failing faster than I thought. “Dress well. My mother will be there, and she has opinions about appropriate attire.”
His mother.
Jesus Christ. I’m going to murder this man in front of his mother.
My stomach churns violently. What kind of person am I becoming?
The thought must’ve shown on my face because Enzo’s eyes narrow. “Problem? Need me to send something to wear too?”
I snort under my breath. Is this fucker serious?
“I don’t need you sending a car, and fortunately I own clothes,” I say, letting my irritation bleed into my voice. “I can get to your place myself.”
“How so?”
“I’ll take a cab.”
