In the mirror, I see him stop behind me. No words. Just the burn of his gaze, slow and searing, as it drags down my reflection from the curve of my shoulders all the way down my length. He steps closer, his fingers wrapping around the zipper, and he tries to tug it down, but it doesn’t work.
I suck in a sharp breath when his other hand rests on the curve of my waist, and I watch as his dark gaze lifts from the zipper, climbing over my reflection until it locks with mine in the mirror. Nicolo tugs again, and the zipper finally gives, but he moves at a glacial pace—his touch searing, each brush of his hand branding my skin. Instead of letting go of the zipper, he leans in. The man radiates heat—like standing too close to a fire you know will burn if you touch.
His lips brush my ear, his voice a low growl. “Never wear this dress again. Not in front of me. Not in front of anyone.”
A shiver runs through me before I can stop it.
I force out a breath, fighting the gasp clawing its way up my throat. “What’s the matter? Worried you won’t be able to control yourself?”
His gaze narrows on me in the mirror—sharp, cutting, as if he finds me ridiculous for even suggesting it. His voice is calm, but lethal.
“Control isn’t my problem. Your lack of it is.”
10
NICOLO
To say that I’d pay my entire fortune for Folonari to get his head out of his ass and take his little sister off my hands is an understatement. This little nixie has me loaded down with shopping bags as she struts through the mall. After buying out half of the boutique, she decided that she wasn’t done…and dragged me along on what she called a “shopping spree.”
I can feel my blood pressure rising by the second. This deal is already proving more taxing than I’d anticipated—and not going in my favor in the slightest.
She walks a few steps ahead of me, blonde hair swaying down her back, head swiveling like she can’t decide which temptation to chase first. Always moving. Always looking. Restless in a way that makesmerestless just watching her. I’m just a glorified babysitter at this point.
She stops abruptly, and I nearly walk into her. Her head tilts toward a small kiosk glowing with neon light: gelato. Of course. Because dragging me through a mall like a pack mule isn’t enough.
Without asking, she veers off. I follow because I have to, not because I want to. My hands are still full of bags when sheorders, all bright eyes and golden hair spilling over her shoulder as she leans against the counter. She comes back with a cone—pistachio, melting already in the warm space. I thought Europe wanted to be green, but the heaters in malls say otherwise.
She licks it once, slowly, and my jaw locks.
We keep walking, her eating, me watching despite myself. It’s infuriating how easily she does it—like she’s forgotten who I am, what I am. Like I’m not carrying the weight of this entire fucking deal on my shoulders while she plays tourist.
When she catches me staring, her lips curve. “Want some?”
For half a second, I consider saying yes just to shut her up. But I don’t give her the satisfaction.
“I don’t eat sugar.”
She blinks at me, disbelief flickering across her face. “You expect me to believe that? One bite won’t kill you.”
I say nothing, just keep walking, adjusting the bags in my grip. She shifts beside me, licking her ice cream again, slower this time. Watching me watch her. Squirming under the weight of my silence.
Finally, I nod once. “Fine.”
Her eyes light up like she’s won something. She holds the cone out, but I lift the bags higher, making it impossible.
“Figure it out.”
She huffs, mutters something under her breath, and then leans in. The cone wobbles precariously close to my suit jacket before she tilts it toward my mouth. I don’t break eye contact as I take a bite. A big one. Cold sweetness hits my tongue, but all I taste is her victory in the curve of her grin.
We walk on. She’s quiet now, which should be a relief, but somehow, it isn’t. I can still hear the soft sound of her licking the gelato. Can still see the little curl of her smile in my periphery.
Every step, I tell myself to focus on the exit. On getting her back to the Castello and locking her in that damn room where she can’t get under my skin.
But my eyes keep drifting. To the way her hair brushes her shoulders when she tilts her head to look into shop windows. To the faint sway of her hips when she shifts her weight from one leg to the other. To the way the ice cream is melting faster than she’s eating it, a thin line of it running toward her fingers.
It’s ridiculous that I notice these things. Worse that I register the urge to reach over and fix them.
I shift the bags again, the fabric handles biting into my palms. It’s a good distraction. Pain. A reminder that I’m here to work, not indulge.
