None of them interest me.
Because none of them are her.
I slam my fist against the wood. The pain grounds me. Reminds me who I am.
This obsession is weakness. My father would be disgusted. Hell,I'mdisgusted. I don't pine. I don't chase. I don't lie awake at night wondering what a woman is thinking, feeling, wanting.
But last night I dreamed about her. Dreamed about finishing what we started. Dreamed about her underneath me, around me, saying my name?—
Enough.
CHAPTER SIX
Vittoria
I'm on my way for this "training his security team" thing. That's what Pietro called it.Professional collaboration.
Right. Because there's nothing more professional than remembering how a man's tongue tasted while explaining facial recognition software to his employees.
Nexus looks different in daylight. Less seductive, more industrial. The velvet ropes are gone, the line of beautiful people replaced by delivery trucks and staff in plain clothes hauling crates through a side entrance.
Elio pulls up to the main entrance, and a man I don't recognize steps forward. He opens my door before Elio can even kill the engine.
"Miss Sartori." His accent is thick, Russian. "I'm to take you to Mr. Baganov."
Of course you are.
I glance at Elio, who's already out of the car, hand hovering near his hip. His jaw is tight. He hasn't forgotten what happened here a month ago.
"Lead the way," I say, stepping out.
The granite man guides us through a service entrance, down a corridor. We pass the main floor, chairs stacked on tables, the dance floor looking sad and ordinary without its lighting tricks.
We stop at a door I recognize. The one that leads to the private rooms upstairs.
Granite Man turns to Elio. "She goes in alone."
Elio's hand moves to his weapon. "That's not happening."
"Mr. Baganov's orders."
"I don't take orders from?—"
"Elio." I put my hand on his arm. His muscles are coiled tight, ready to fight. "It's fine."
"Miss Vittoria?—"
"I said it's fine." I hold his gaze until he exhales through his nose, backing down. "Wait here."
Granite Man opens the door and gestures me through. The stairwell is dim, familiar in a way that makes my stomach clench. I climb the stairs alone, my footsteps too loud in the silence.
The door at the top is already open.
And there he is.
Dmitri Baganov leans against his desk, arms crossed over his chest, looking like he owns the world and finds it mildly entertaining. He's in short sleeves today, dark fabric stretched across shoulders that seem broader than I remember. His eyes track my entrance.
Thatsmirk. That goddamn smirk, like I'm a punchline to a joke only he understands.
