I lean back in my chair, dragging a hand across my jaw. “What deal are we talking about, exactly?”
“The one where you keep my sister safe. And alive.”
My eyes flick to the rain sliding down the window in slow, silver rivers. “She’s alive. You can just give her a call.”
He exhales sharply. “Don’t fucking push me. I heard Nestor was at your property three days ago.” His voice drops an octave. “You promised she wouldn’t be within reach of that kind of trouble. You know what will happen if you fail.”
The muscle in my jaw tightens. “I don’t fail, Folonari.”
“Everyone fails at some point.”
I almost smile at that. “Not me.”
He pauses, then says quietly, “Don’t make me rethink our deal, Nicolo.”
The line goes dead before I can answer.
My office hums with leftover static from the call. I set the phone down, slow and deliberate, then stare at it like it just insulted me. Emiliano thinks he can threaten me when he’s the one who wanted my help to begin with. He thinks he can remind me what’s at stake, as if I don’t already feel it every goddamn time she walks into a room.
I stand and stretch the tension from my shoulders. The rain drums harder, wind scraping at the glass as if trying to claw its way inside.
And beneath it all—faint, familiar—the soft scent of her perfume. Sweet like temptation made tangible.
I turn toward the sound of footsteps before the knock even comes. The door opens. No hesitation. Of course not.
“Mara.”
She’s framed in the doorway like something the storm conjured: barefoot, hair a wild halo from the humidity, a sheer pink nightgown clinging to her skin. The fabric moves with her breathing, whisper-thin, almost translucent where the light hits. The outline of her nipples, tight from the chill, presses against the gauze of the fabric.
She doesn’t speak. She just walks in, the sound of rain swallowing her steps.
“You shouldn’t be here.” The words come out quiet, almost calm, but the air between us thickens like smoke.
She tilts her head. “I’m always somewhere I’m not meant to be.”
Her voice—soft, tired, threaded with defiance—hits something in my chest that shouldn’t exist.
“Then leave.”
“No,” she says, eyes flicking over me. “You look like you haven’t slept in a week.”
“I don’t have that luxury.”
“Right. Too busy brooding.”
“Watch it.”
I should tell her to leave. I should remind her who she’s talking to. But she crosses the room before I can speak, the lamplight brushing over her skin. The pink tulle darkens when it touches her body. Her bare feet are silent against the rug.
“You know you don’t have to deny yourself. We both want it.” She sounds breathless when she utters the sentence, and I choose to ignore the fire that her words light in my lower abdomen.
“And what isit, exactly?” I slide my hands into my pockets watching her down the length of my nose.
She swallows. “Sex. I’m legal. We’re both adults.”
The words are soft, but deliberate, like she’s testing how far she can push.
A humorless breath leaves me. “Just because it’s legal doesn’t make it ethically or morally correct, nixie.”
