If he wants to keep shit from spiraling out of control, he’s free to stop provoking me.
Funny how that’s never an option.
But then again, Bella’s life has already come under threat from the D’Ambrosio Family. If nothing else, I can at least negotiate some kind of deal where they leave her fate to me.
So, against my better judgment, I respond. Don't overthink it.
I’ll be there.
Nico’s response comes almost instantly.
Good. Your fiery PR agent has already agreed to come.
A dark, possessive, and dangerous feeling crawls through me upon reading the text. It balloons in my chest and spreads through my veins until my phone digs into the flesh of my fingers.
She what?
Just when the fuck has Bella been talking to Nico? And more importantly, how fucking long has she been talking to him?
The logical half of my brain reminds me that as Luca’s sister, it shouldn’t be surprising that she found a way to contact the same people her piece of shit brother used to work for.
For all I know, she might be working for Nico as well.
Maybe from the very beginning.
But there’s another half of my brain—the animal half that neither thinks nor plans but onlywants—that leaves a dark and bitter taste in my mouth at the thought of what else the two of them could be doing other than talking.
Was that why she didn’t let me in the door when I came to pick her up on the night of the fundraiser gala? Was it because Nico was there?
Has she been fucking him behind my back?
I slam my phone down and pick up Bella’s panties. Has she put herself up on Nico’s desk? Did she spread her legs for him the way she did for me?
My fingers clench around the soft material and I swear I can feel them wringing out a few more drops of dampness.
A knock comes on my door, quick and sharp. I put the panties down.
“Come in.”
Ludmilla enters without hesitation, and her eyes zero in on Bella’s crumpled up panties on my desk. She arches a single silver eyebrow in silent judgment.
“Do I want to know what happened today?”
“It’s not what you think.”
“Hmm.” She doesn’t sound convinced. “You’ve been in here for hours,malchik. Your dinner is getting cold.”
“I’m not hungry.”
“You’re not eating. There’s a difference.”
I don’t respond. There’s nothing to say that won’t make this worse, and nothing that won’t leave her with even more questions for me. And if the last fifteen years have taught me anything, whenever Ludmilla has questions, they usually follow with a lecture that cuts just too close to the core.
She moves closer, studies me for a long moment, and then looks down at the chess board on my desk.
“Is this about Bella?”
“No.”
