“Are you going to keep ignoring me?” I ask, keeping my voice soft.
Nicolo keeps his gaze on the papers in front of him, his writing not stopping once. It’s as if I’m not even in the room. But then he speaks, his voice a low grumble.
“I didn’t give you permission to come into my office.”
I scoff, my gaze drifting over his silhouette. “I don’t need your permission to do anything. You forget I’m a Folonari. We wait for no one’s permission.”
That seems to bother him because he stops writing for a fraction of a second before continuing.
“I don’t give a fuck who you are. When you’re onmyproperty, inmyvicinity, you obey my rules.” His voice maintains an even tone, like he knows what he is saying is God’s law and will be followed as such.
I move further into the room, my steps deliberate and slow, testing. But I still keep my distance. Don’t want to startle him. The plush Persian carpet muffles my steps. Nicolo keeps up with the charade, refusing to look at me, to even acknowledge me with eye contact.
“If you don’tcarewho I am, then why avoid me like you don’t want to?—”
He cuts me off, his voice slightly strained. “I’d choose my next words very wisely.”
I narrow my gaze on him, watching his face for anything, something. Then his jaw twitches.
Bingo.
“It’s not like I’m suggesting anything illegal…” I keep my tone light, voice breathy enough to suggest something entirely inappropriate as I trail off.
Nicolo scoffs. Actuallyscoffs. “The irony.”
I tilt my head to the side, frustration bubbling at how he’s ignoring me. My teeth sink into my bottom lip. He might be responding verbally, but he’s refusing to meet my eyes.
Instead of doing the “right” thing, I step up to his desk, circling around the corner to stand behind him. Nicolo tenses, his shoulders bunching up. The light sound of scribbling on paper ceases in the room and the only noise in the room is the final soft notes of jazz and our breathing.
Swallowing down my nerves, I come to a stop behind him, close enough to feel the heat radiating off him. Close enough for my summer dress to brush the side of his chair. My eyes flick down to the papers spread across his desk, curiosity pulling me forward a fraction more. I lean in just enough for my shadow to fall over the page, for the faint scent of my perfume to linger between us.
Nicolo freezes. Then, slowly, he sets the pen down. His chair swings toward me in one fluid, dangerous motion, and suddenly I’m looking down at him—caught in the crosshairs of those dark eyes that promise nothing good. His dark gaze scans my face, narrowing on me.
I’m not backing down. Not when I’ve come this far.
“You don’t realize the absolute mistake you are making right now.” Nicolo slowly stands, his hands in the pockets of his pants, and I instinctively step back.
But he doesn’t let me have that space. He backs me into the wall, his gaze trained on me like lasers. My throat dries, heart hammering against my ribcage, heat crawling up my neck.
“I’m not making a mistake.” I try to say it with conviction, but it comes out as a whisper instead.
He remains stone-faced, utterly unimpressed by me. “No?”
Does he know how to shout?
I shake my head, finding it difficult to speak.
He lifts a singular dark brow. “Use your words. You didn’t have a problem with that when you barged in here like you own the place.”
Pressing my lips together, I try to come up with something, anything. But words evade me. Nicolo’s gaze lazily drifts down my body before flicking back to my face. His expression doesn’t change at all, but I swear it feels like an inferno in here.
“Well, if you’re not going to say anything else…” He leans in, and for some godforsaken reason, I think he’s going to kiss me.
My pulse spikes, breath hitching as the heat of him closes in, the air between us charged and razor-thin…and then it’s gone.
Instead, he somehow manages to slip my phone out of the pocket of my summer dress, grab me by the wrist, and drag me out of his office before slamming the door in my face—all without me even having the chance to protest it. I cross my arms over my chest, my face scrunching up.
This is war.
