Something’s brewing.
I glance toward the kitchen doorway, and there he is. Nicolo. Standing with one of his men, his head bent as he listens to a rapid stream of Italian. His expression doesn’t change, but the muscles in his jaw flex once, twice.
When he looks up, his gaze collides with mine, sharp as a blade. And for a split second, my breath catches.
Then he turns back to his men, dismissing me like I’m nothing.
Anger coils hot in my chest.
Okay, Esposito. Two can play this game.
The dining hallis too big, too quiet, and filled with too many guards pretending they don’t notice me. I spear a piece of fruit with more aggression than necessary, biting into it like it personally offended me.
Across the table, Nicolo sits with his usual morning spread: black coffee, toast, a newspaper in Italian I can’t be bothered to translate. He doesn’t even glance my way. This has been “our routine” since training started. His silence, my simmering irritation.
Not today. Instead of letting him continue ignoring me, I decide to poke.
“You know,” I say sweetly, leaning my chin on my hand, “for someone who lectures about discipline and focus, you really don’t practice what you preach.”
His eyes flick up, void of any emotion and sharp, then dart back down to the paper. “Eat your breakfast.”
I grin. “I’m just saying, if you spent half as much time working out those control issues as you do as glaring at me, maybe you wouldn’t already have gray hairs.”
“I’m in mylateforties,” he grumbles, eyes still on the paper.
“So?” I push.
The air shifts. Subtle. Dangerous.
His jaw tics once as he folds the newspaper in half with lethal calm and sets it down beside his plate. “Mara.”
My pulse jumps, but I mask it with another bite of fruit. “Yes,Daddy?”
The scrape of his chair against the stone floor echoes like a warning shot. In two strides, he’s at my side, one large hand braced on the table beside my plate, his shadow falling over me.
“You want to provoke me?” His voice is low, quiet enough that the guards across the room won’t hear, but every syllable coils in my stomach. “Then understand the cost. You keep pushing, and I’ll break you in ways you won’t recover from.”
For a moment, neither of us moves. His eyes burn into mine, and my throat goes dry, but I force a smirk.
“Promises, promises.”
His nostrils flare, and for one terrifying second, I think he might actually snap. Instead, he straightens, smooths the cuff of his shirt, and walks back to his seat like I didn’t just call himDaddyover breakfast.
But I know better. I got under his skin. And that’s all I need.
I spear another piece of fruit, forcing myself to chew, slow and steady, while my blood hums with adrenaline.
He pretends he’s unaffected, but I know better. He’s rattled.
And I’ll keep pushing until I find the crack that finally makes him break.
18
NICOLO
I’m back in my office, but the scrape of my chair is still echoing in my head. Her smirk is still burned into my vision.
Yes, Daddy.
