"I'm not hungry."
"You said that last night too." I pull out a chair. "Sit."
"Don't tell me what to do."
There it is. That fire I love. I could push. Force her into the chair. Make her understand that defiance only goes so far in my world.
Instead, I sit down myself. I pick up my fork and start eating.
She stands there for a long moment, arms crossed over her chest. Then, as I knew she would, she moves to the table. Sits across from me. Her stomach growls. She's practical, my girl. She'll eat.
She does. She eats the eggs first, then the toast. She ignores the fruit.
We don't speak. The silence hangs between us. I watch her eat, memorizing the way her lips close around the fork, the delicate movement of her throat when she swallows.
"I have to leave this morning," I say finally.
Her head snaps up. Hope flashes across her face before she can hide it.
My lips curve. "Don't get excited,tesoro. I'll be back tonight."
"Where are you going?"
"Work."
"What kind of work?"
"The kind that keeps you safe." I drain my coffee. "The kind that keeps our enemies from thinking they can touch what's mine."
She flinches. I love that reaction.
"While I'm gone," I continue, my voice dropping lower, quieter, "you're welcome to explore the penthouse. Read. Watch television. Make yourself comfortable." I lean forward slightly. "But don't try to leave, Francesca. Like I told you, the elevator door won't open without the code. The windows don't open at all.” I let the sentence hang.
"And you'll find me," she finishes, her voice flat. "You've made that clear."
"I will." I stand, collecting our plates. “I'll find you. Every time."
She glares at me.Cazzo, I love that look. All fury and fear and heat she won't acknowledge.
"I already don't like you."
I move around the table, and she goes very still. I stop behind her chair, close enough that I could reach out and touch her hair, run my fingers through those dark curls.
I don't. Not yet.
"Yes, you do," I say softly, my lips close to her ear. "That's what scares you."
I feel her shiver. Hear her breath catch.
Then I step back, putting distance between us before I do something stupid. Before I cancel the job and spend the day showing her exactly how much she affects me.
"Be good,mia bella," I say as I head for the door. "I'll know if you're not."
I leave her sitting at the table, fury and confusion warring on her beautiful face.
The drive to Brighton Beach takes longer than it should. Traffic on the BQE crawls, giving me too much time to think. I should be focused on the job—reviewing Orlov's patterns, planning my approach, running through contingencies. Instead, all I can think about is Francesca locked in my apartment, pacing like a caged animal, looking for ways out.
Looking for ways to leave me.
