Sloane scoots closer, tentatively resting her head on my bare chest as my arm winds around her back. “Is this okay?” She peers up at me.
“It’s perfect.” I brush a tender kiss to her lips. “Sleep, baby. I’ve got you.”
I hold her long after she falls asleep, watching her chest rise and fall as she reaches for me in slumber. My arms hold her a little tighter, careful not to squeeze too tight, and my dick approves when she curls into me, sliding one pajama-clad leg over mine.
It’s a miracle I manage to fall asleep at all, but the next thing I know, my alarm is going off. Reaching back, I switch it off before Sloane wakes. We’re tangled in the sheets and one another, and sometime during the night, my hand slipped under her pajama top, resting on the middle of her back. Her skin is warm and soft under my palm, and I covet every part of her silky-smooth skin. Her cheek rests on my chest, her warm breath fanning across my flesh, heating my blood. One hand is flat on my lower stomach, and her fingers rest dangerously close to the bulge straining the cotton of my boxers. Her leg is straddling both of mine, like she tried to climb me during the night. I have zero complaints, and I wish I could stay here like this with her for all eternity, but duty calls.
With military precision, I slide out from under my Sleeping Beauty, somehow managing not to wake her. Sloane needs her sleep. She mumbles something before curling into a ball and nestling deeper onto the pillow. I could stare at her all day and never grow tired of it, but unfortunately, I don’t have that luxury today.
After showering and dressing, I make myself a coffee to go before scribbling a quick note for Sloane. I grab a pink rose from the vase and tiptoe back into my bedroom, setting the note and rose down on the pillow beside her. Snapping a pic of her with my phone—because she looks too beautiful not to—I then press a soft kiss to her hair and leave. It’s an effort to drag myself away, and I really wish I could take the day off, but I’ve got a heavy schedule of meetings, and I won’t be home until late.
Making a pitstop at the bodyguards’ apartment, I talk with John Angelo and Vincenzo, the secondsoldatoI’ve assigned to watch over Sloane, telling them to stick to her like glue today and to let me know if she needs anything.
* * *
The day is a blur of meetings, but I find time to check in with Sloane to ensure she’s okay.
I’m just getting ready to wrap things up and head home when I get a call from our president. Punching the button, I accept Massimo’s call and slump back in my chair. “Don Greco.”
“Cristian. No need to stand on ceremony with me.”
“It’s called showing respect, Massimo.”
“It’s not necessary.”
“Were you calling to discussmafiosoetiquette, or is there another reason?”
Massimo chuckles. “Such a wiseass.” He clears his throat. “There’s been a development. I sent a team over to the wedding venue today, and we found a cell phone. It’s most likely a burner, and it’s smashed to fuck and won’t turn on, but I’ve passed it to the IT team to see if they can work their magic. It might not be anything, but I wanted you to know.”
“Thanks for the heads-up.”
“Gia said she’d liaise with the team and advise you if anything crops up.”
“Good. Have we had any hits with facial recognition yet?” I stretch my legs out under the desk.
“Not so far, but you know these things can take time.”
“I’m meeting my capos tomorrow night, and I’ve already preempted things with a few of my men,” I explain.
“We’ll figure it out. Until we do, increase your personal security.”
“Already done.” I have four men going everywhere with me now, and I sent a team of eight with my parents and Elio, most from my father’s crew, with Clint and Umberto. I’m taking no chances.
“Call if you learn anything.”
“You got it,” I say before hanging up.
* * *
Entering my penthouse, I’m accosted with a host of delicious smells that tickle my nostrils and rumble my stomach. “I’m home,” I call out while unbuttoning my coat. Hanging it on the coat stand, I keep hold of my laptop bag as I stride toward the kitchen. I had breakfast and lunch on the go, but it’s been hours since I ate, and I’m starving. “Something smells really good,” I say when I step inside my large kitchen. Salty, lemony, tomatoey scents linger in the air, and my mouth waters.
Sloane is peeking into the oven, but she straightens up at my voice. “I hope it tastes as good as it smells.” She smiles, and there isn’t a hint of the previous melancholy on her face. “It’s my first time cooking it.”
“What’s on the menu?” I ask, dumping my laptop bag on top of the island unit.
“Chicken piccata with baked ziti.”
My eyebrows climb to my hairline. “That’s my favorite dinner.”
