I'm not a man who talks for hours. Small talk bores me. Business conversations serve a purpose, then end. But Vittoria's voice in my ears? That's something else entirely. A siren's spell winding through my skull, making me want to listen to her read a fucking grocery list if it meant she kept speaking.
I asked about the training session. How she managed to make my men understand complex security protocols in four hours.
She started explaining. Something about coding architecture and neural network integration and behavioral pattern recognition. Her hands moved while she talked, gesturing at invisible screens, drawing diagrams in the air. Her dark eyes lit up like she'd forgotten who she was sitting across from.
I understood maybe thirty percent of the technical words.
I listened to every single one.
"The key is making the system intuitive," she'd said, leaning forward slightly. "Your men don't need to understand the algorithm. They need to trust that when the screen flashes red, something's wrong. I built the interface around that instinct."
Built.Like she constructed it from nothing. Because she did.
This woman could hack into government databases, crash stock markets, probably start wars with a laptop.
Then she yawned.
Just a small thing. Her hand rising to cover her mouth, those dark lashes fluttering against her cheeks, her whole body softening for one unguarded moment.
So fucking beautiful.
I wanted to carry her home. Put her in my bed. Watch her sleep. Stand guard at the door until morning.
Insane. I know.
But I've accepted my particular brand of madness where Vittoria Sartori is concerned.
"This one," I tell the man, finally opening the velvet box again.
"Excellent choice, Mr. Baganov. Shall I wrap it?"
"No." I snap the box closed and pocket it. "I'll handle it."
Outside, Chicago's afternoon traffic crawls past while I slide into the back of my car. Igor waits behind the wheel, engine already running.
"Where to, boss?"
"The compound. I have a delivery to arrange."
The velvet box burns against my chest as we drive.
Tomorrow night. Another dinner. Another chance to watch her fight her attraction while pretending she's merely tolerating my presence. Another opportunity to crack through those walls she's built. Walls I recognize because I built identical ones around myself.
But first, this gift.
Every war begins with a first move. Every seduction starts with a single touch.
She'll probably hate it. Throw it back in my face.
But she'll think about it. About me.
She'll wonder.
And wondering is the first step toward wanting.
My phone rings.
"Speak."
