An oversized black hoodie swallows her frame, the sleeves pushed up to her elbows. Gray leggings cling to those legs I've been dreaming about for a month. Her dark hair is pulled into a messy knot on top of her head, loose strands framing her face. No makeup. No jewelry. Nothing but Vittoria Sartori in her most unguarded state.
Bozhe moy.She's fucking stunning.
Pietro gestures toward the chair beside me. "Vittoria, take a seat. I want you to walk Dmitri through the security system we discussed for the new club."
She doesn't move. Those dark eyes flick between her brother and me like she's calculating escape routes. Smart girl. She should run.
But she won't.
I can see it in the tension along her jaw, the way her fingers curl at her sides. She's terrified, but she's alsofurious. At me. At the situation. At whatever cosmic joke put us in the same room again.
Good. I want her fire.
"Of course." Her voice comes out steady, professional. She finally moves, settling into the leather chair with deliberate grace, keeping as much distance between us as the furniture allows.
Pietro launches into something about the joint venture. Our families' first legitimate business together, a club in the West Loop that will cement the Baganov-Sartori alliance. I should be listening. This deal represents months of careful negotiation,a bridge between Bratva and Italian interests that my father fought for before his illness.
Instead, I'm watching the way she breathes.
Short, controlled inhales. She's hyperaware of my presence, her body angled slightly away like she can minimize how much of her I can see. It doesn't work. I notice everything. The pulse fluttering at her throat. The flush creeping up her neck despite her composed expression. The way she won't look at me directly.
"...Vittoria designed the entire system herself," Pietro says, pulling my attention back. "It's beyond anything currently on the market."
"Impressive." I keep my voice neutral, but my eyes stay on her. "Tell me about it."
She finally meets my gaze. Challenge sparks there.
There she is.
"The system integrates facial recognition with behavioral analysis." She shifts forward, and the motion pulls her hoodie tighter across her chest. "It doesn't just identify known threats. It predicts potential ones based on movement patterns, body language, even micro-expressions."
Her mouth keeps moving. Technical terms. Algorithms. Processing speeds.
I don't hear a single word.
I'm too busy remembering how those lips tasted. The way she gasped when I pressed her against the window. How her fingers had tangled in my hair before she pushed me away.
That push.
Fuck.That push did something to me.
I've had women throw themselves at my feet. Models and socialites drawn to the danger. None of them ever said no. None of them evercould.
But Vittoria Sartori shoved me back and walked out.
I should have been furious. Instead, I wasintrigued.
That night, I had Igor follow her car to make sure she got home safe. Then I put eyes on the compound. Discreet surveillance—nothing invasive, just enough to know she was protected. For a month, I watched through reports and camera feeds as she locked herself away.
She didn't leave. Not once.
The princess built herself a cage, and it drove me absolutely insane.
Every day she stayed hidden, my obsession grew. I imagined her in that bedroom. I wondered if she thought about me. If she touched herself remembering my hands on her body. If she regretted walking away.
I left her alone. Gave her space. Let her believe she'd escaped.
But patience is my greatest weapon. I can outwait anyone.
