But I was thinking.
The shower had been running hot enough to fog the glass, and my mind was three hours ahead, running through the Vegas meeting. Pietro's been negotiating with the Marchetti family for six months—legitimate casino investments that could launder money faster than our construction fronts. The numbers work. The projections are solid. But something feels wrong.
The Marchetti patriarch, Vincent, keeps pushing for a faster timeline. Keeps sweetening the deal. Keeps being too agreeable.
In my world, people who agree too easily are either desperate or planning something.
I towel off, my mind splitting between the meeting and the image of Kristen's eyes going wide. The way her breath caught. The flush that crept up her neck.
She tried to hide it. Her face went neutral so fast I almost believed I'd imagined the whole thing. But her voice came out too high when she apologized.
Kristen Thomas is not as unaffected as she wants me to believe.
Neither are you, a voice in my head points out. So what's your excuse?
I pull on slacks, then a white button-down, leaving it untucked while I check my phone. Three messages from Pietroabout the Vegas meeting. One from Liam with an update on Jack Walker's finances. One from Giulia reminding me about tonight's departure.
Tonight.
My mother leaves for Sicily with Giulia, Valentino, and Carmela. The compound will feel emptier.
And Kristen will be here.
Managing the household. Walking these halls. Existing in my space.
She's an employee, I remind myself. Temporary. Two months. She has a daughter. This is not someone you pursue.
My cock doesn't care about logic.
I finish dressing and head for the kitchen, keeping my steps slow. I won't chase her. Won't corner her. Won't acknowledge what just happened unless she brings it up first—which she won't, because Kristen Thomas is too smart to poke that particular bear.
The kitchen smells like Giulia's lemon cookies. Voices drift from the conservatory—Nora and Sophia, probably, planning something that will inevitably require Vittoria's energy and Lorenzo's patience.
I pour coffee when Dante walks in.
Dark hair swept back, a few strands falling across his forehead despite the styling product he uses. He has a scar through his left eyebrow. His knuckles are healing from whatever business he handled last week.
Lorenzo's consigliere.
Dante and Liam are the only men outside the Sartori bloodline who sit in our inner circle. They earned that place with blood and loyalty.
While Lorenzo runs the restaurants, Dante manages the darker underbelly—debts collected, territories respected, problems disappeared.
"Coffee." He doesn't ask. Just reaches past me for a mug.
I step aside. "Help yourself."
"Already am." He pours, then leans against the counter.
"Didn't sleep?"
I take a sip instead of answering.
Dante doesn't push. That's one thing I appreciate about him.
"The Thomas woman," he says finally. "How long am I playing chauffeur?"
I set my mug down. "The contract is two months."
