Then she glances back at me over her shoulder with that look in her eyes like she knows exactly what she’s doing. And maybe she does.
We round the corner, and the air shifts. Colder. Open. The main exit is ahead.
Good. We’re almost done.
She licks the last of the gelato from the cone and tosses the paper into a nearby bin like she’s dropping the mic on our little exchange. My teeth press together and I push ahead, holding the door open for her.
She passes by without a thank you.
Fine. The sooner I get her back to the Castello, the sooner I can put some real distance between us.
At least that’s what I tell myself.
I pop the trunk and drop the bags with more force than necessary. The rest, I shove in the backseat of the car. Mara Folonari acts like the entitled brat she was raised to be and doesn’t offer to carry a single one. She just slides into the passenger seat like she’s earned the ride.
I get in, shut the door, and start the engine. The drive out of the city is slow at first, traffic thick with people heading home for the evening. She sits angled toward the window, quiet, but I can feel her watching me when she thinks I’m not looking. Probably trying to read me. She won’t be able to. The silence isn’t uncomfortable for me. I’ve lived my life in it.
Every few miles, I catch her reflection in the glass—eyes half-lidded, mouth soft, hair spilling loose over her shoulder. It’s too easy to imagine her like that for a different reason.
I push the thought down and focus on the road.
The air changes as we climb into the hills—cooler, sharper, carrying the faint scent of cypress. The headlights cut through the dark, catching glimpses of vineyards and cypress-lined drives. She leans her temple against the glass, her hair spilling forward in loose waves. I keep my eyes on the road, telling myself I’m not looking at her reflection.
The gates of the Castello come into view sooner than I expect. I pull in, tires crunching over gravel, and kill the engine.
“Inside,” I tell her, my voice flat. “And remember the rules.”
She doesn’t answer, just slides out, her flats clicking against the stone. But there’s the smallest curl of a smirk on her lips as she walks ahead of me toward the doors.
This little shit is planning something.
11
MARA
By the time we get back to the Castello, the sun’s gone and the place looks even more intimidating in the dark—all shadows, stone, and the faint glow of warm light spilling from the tall windows. I should be tired after an afternoon of walking, but I’m not.
Nicolo tells me to get inside and “remember the rules.” I have to fight the urge to roll my eyes at the constant reminder of his stupid rules. Why do all men need to be insufferable?
He doesn’t say another word as we step inside. He doesn’t have to. The air here is thick enough with unspoken rules that you could choke on it. His men glance my way, but quickly look elsewhere, like they been told not to risk their lives. Nicolo orders them to grab my bags out of the car, passing the keys to one of the guards.
When only he makes his way toward the door, Nicolo says, “Take two other men with you. You’ll need the extra hands.”
I narrow my eyes on the robotic grandpa. I just know he thinks by saying that, he’s insulting me. Big, fatwroooong. I’m an unashamed shopaholic.
The men rush out, leaving a big, gaping chasm as they pass. Fine by me.
I climb the stairs to my room, leaving him in the hall without so much as a glance over my shoulder. Let him think I’m ignoring him. It’s better if he doesn’t see the smug curl of my lips.
Because I know I got him today. It wasn’t much—a bite of gelato, a few seconds of eye contact—but for a man like Nicolo, that’s something. He can pretend it didn’t mean a thing, but I saw the way his jaw ticked before he leaned in. Control is his drug.
In my room, I watch the three guards dropping the shopping bags onto the floor by the door, all of them avoiding looking in my direction. They all file out, shutting the door behind them as soon as the last bag hits the wooden floor.
I pull out each piece one by one. Dresses in jewel tones, crisp jeans, silky tops, the few lingerie I made sure to linger over just to see the way his eyes narrowed. I trace my fingers over one of the lace sets, imagining the look on his face if I strolled into his precious office wearing it.
Would he bark at me to leave? Or just slam the door behind me?
Either way, the thought makes heat curl low in my stomach.
