Of my beautiful face? I knew you missed me and my great looks.
Me
Shut up, Val. I want to see my niece. I miss that little ball of chaos.
Can’t wait for her to grow up and give Eli the biggest headache.
Val
Shaking my head.
Me
No one spells it out
Val
That’s beside the point.
Val Sends a picture of Bianca
Me
Oh, my God. How freaking cute!
I could literally eat her up.
I miss her adorable little giggle
Val
She misses you too.
Me
Tell her it’s all her dad’s fault.
Val
It’s for your safety…
I don’t reply to that last one. I don’t feel like it. Pocketing my phone, I get up and decide it’s time for my little master plan.
Swinging my door open, I head down the hall and across to the other wing, where I’m betting Nicolo’s office lies…along with that tightly-leashed control. The control I’m itching to snap in half.
I know I can push him. Nudge him past whatever invisible line he’s drawn between himself and the rest of the world. I’ve seen the cracks in that iron-clad control already—and I want to watch them splinter open into craters.
Pausing in front of a large mahogany door with an intricate lock that has eye identification and a thumb scanner, I debate whether this is going to be a tougher task than I thought. But I try the handle regardless. The door cracks open soundlessly and the soft notes of jazz music curl through the air.
The room smells faintly of leather, old paper, and something sharper: him. My eyes sweep over the space, taking in the towering bookshelves that stretch to the coffered ceiling and the rows of leather-bound spines like soldiers standing at attention.The far wall is swallowed by a massive arched window, its heavy curtains drawn halfway to let in the muted gold of the late afternoon light. Outside, the gardens look like something out of a painting.
A solid mahogany desk dominates the room, polished to a mirror shine, its surface neat to the point of obsession. Papers stacked with military precision, a brass lamp casting a pool of warm light, an antique clock ticking quietly on a nearby shelf. A deep leather chair sits behind it, matching the two black armchairs angled in front, their cushions gleaming as if they were freshly delivered.
Everything here feels deliberate. Control in the form of a room, just like Nicolo is control in the form of a human.
And Nicolo is sitting in his office chair behind the large wooden table. His dark, thick, luscious hair is slicked back, reading glasses on his straight nose. God, he looks like a Roman statue, as if he was carved by Michelangelo himself. Chiseled cheekbones, long lashes, and that tan skin that never leaves him even in the winter. His eyes never lift from the paper in front of him as he writes with a pen, crossing and writing and then flipping through the papers, his gaze scanning across the paper.
My fingers dig into my palms. I’m not going to let him ignore me. I linger just inside the room as the door clicks shut behind me, sealing me in with the only man who could be more dangerous than my brothers.
