And every night, somewhere between two and three in the morning, the bedroom door opens with a near-silent click and Rafael slides in behind me. The mattress dips under his weight and the cool rush of air that follows him carries the scent of fresh soap layered over something darker, like he scrubbed the night's sins from his skin before climbing into bed beside me.
His arm comes around my waist, pulling me flush against the solid wall of his chest, and I feel the steady drum of his heartbeat against my spine.
He is always hard. The thick ridge of his arousal presses against the curve of my backside through the thin silk of whatever nightgown I found folded on the bed that evening, and every cell in my body lights up with an awareness I have no business feeling for a man who is essentially holding me captive in a luxury tower.
But he never acts on it. And it’s infuriating, frustrating and I’ve never been so damn horny and unsatisfied in my life. I’m a virgin, but that doesn’t mean I’ve never had an orgasm. This man has kept me on the edge of want for fourteen freaking miserable days.
Fourteen.
One more night and I might actually have to be the one to make the first move and get this show on the road.
In those early morning hours he presses his lips to my shoulder, breathes me in like I am something sacred, and holds me until the tension in his body slowly, reluctantly, unwinds. I know because there’s no way I’m sleeping. Not with the way my body blushes and grows expectant with how he touches me.
Then he sleeps. And when I do finally fall asleep, he is gone by morning.
Two weeks of this particular brand of torture have taught me several things. Lesson number four in the ongoing education of Persia Fiore: A man who holds you like you are precious while refusing to tell you what you owe him is far more dangerous than one who names his price upfront.
I stretch across the expanse of Egyptian cotton sheets that still carry the fading warmth of his body.
I throw back the covers and pad across the cool hardwood floors to the bathroom, catching my reflection in the mirror as I pass. The woman staring back at me looks better than she did two weeks ago—the dark circles under her eyes have faded, the hollowness in her cheeks has filled out from regular meals and restless sleep, and there's a flush to her skin that has nothing to do with health and everything to do with the man who holds her every night without taking what she offered him.
The shower helps clear my head, the hot water sluicing over my shoulders and down my back where the raised edges of my scars catch the spray. Rafael hasn't seen them yet. He hasn't tried to remove my bolero or asked about what I'm hiding beneath the fabric, and I don't know if that's consideration or disinterest or something else entirely.
I dress in one of the silk robes I found in the closet he told me to use and make my way to the kitchen, following the scent of fresh coffee and something sweet baking in the oven.
The penthouse is stunning and suffocating in equal measure. During the day I exist in a vacuum of polished marble and designer furniture, rattling around Rafael’s kingdom like a coin in an empty jar. The space is massive, an entire floor of the Redthorne building dedicated to one man's solitude, and every room I wander through tells me the same story. No photographs on the mantle. No scuffed shoes by the door. No half-read book left spine-up on the arm of a chair. Not a single shred of evidence that a human being with feelings actually lives here. Just beauty without any warmth, which is starting to feel like the running theme of my existence.
I round the corner of the kitchen to find Marta, Rafael's cook, arranging pastries on a serving platter, her weathered facecreasing into a warm smile that makes something in my chest ache with longing for maternal affection I've never really known.
"Good morning, Ms. Persia. You slept well, I hope?"
Marta is a round, warm woman in her sixties with flour permanently dusted across the front of her apron and laugh lines so deep they look carved by decades of genuine happiness.
I slide onto one of the barstools at the marble island and accept the cup of coffee she pushes toward me. "As well as can be expected when you're sharing a bed with a man who treats you like a body pillow."
The words slip out before I can stop them, and Marta's eyebrows rise toward her silver-streaked hairline. But instead of the judgment I expect, she lets out a soft laugh and shakes her head.
"That boy has always been better at showing than telling. Give him time."
"You've known him long?"
“Since he was in preschool.” She pulls a tray of golden croissants from the oven, and the buttery scent makes my stomach growl despite my emotional turmoil. "His mother used to bring him to my bakery every Saturday morning for chocolate croissants. After she passed, his father stopped bringing him, but Rafael would sneak out and walk the twelve blocks himself just to sit at my counter and eat pastries.” Her expression softens with memory. “He was such a serious little boy. Always watching, always thinking. The other children played while he observed and calculated.”
“That sounds like him.” I wrap my hands around the warm ceramic of my coffee cup and try to reconcile the imageof a lonely child walking twelve blocks for pastries with the dangerous man who crashed my wedding with guns blazing.
"He's never brought anyone here before, you know.” Marta sets a plate of pastries in front of me and meets my eyes with an intensity that makes me sit up straighter. "In all the years I've worked for him, you are the first woman to sleep in his bed. The first woman to wear his clothes, eat at his table, exist in his space. The only people who come through that elevator are the men from his syndicate. His brothers. Drake. Luca. The others. But never a woman.”
The information settles into my chest like a stone, heavy and warm and confusing. I don't know what to do with it, so I focus on Marta instead—her warm smile, the flour on her apron, the air of perpetual hope about her that says she can't wait to have little babies running through this penthouse for her to feed.
I wrap my hands around my coffee mug and steer the conversation onto an easier topic. Babies and a real home life are not in my cards. I know Rafael is planning something. He’s got my father by the balls with me in his penthouse. He’s not about babies and family.
Rafael is nothing if not money and power driven. His actions speak volumes.
I raise the mug to my lips and swallow down a healthy dose of caffeine. "What is the Red Letter Syndicate, exactly?"
Marta gives me a look that holds both affection and weariness. “They are the men who keep this city from tearing itself apart. Six of them with Rafael at the head. But I've said too much. Mr. Milano values his privacy.” She resumes her kneading of anothertype of dough. “He is a good man with a hard life. That is all I will say.”
I watch her slide the fresh loaf of bread into the oven and then wash the remaining pots. When she’s done, she dries her hands and looks at me like a mom would look at a daughter she cares about. She pats my hand. “When the timer goes off, the bread is ready. I left the lasagna from last night in the other oven to slowly heat. If you need anything, you call me, okay. I have a girl’s book club meeting tonight so I need to be going now.”
