“Could this mean we are dealing with more than just one person?”
“Possibly,” he says with a firm nod. “I want you to go through all the files and accounts of everyone that works directly under us,” he says as he starts driving. “I don't think the others will appreciate having their assistants and direct advisors investigated, but it's a necessary evil. Do it discreetly and weed them all out.”
“Right,” I say, and I hear what he’s not saying. I’m not to use any of my assistants on this. I have to do all the work myself, and fuck, that’s going to be a shit ton of work without help. It’s like he said earlier—he trusts everyone in that room, but that trust doesn’t extend to their direct assistants. Mine and his included.
“Everything else you’re working on can wait until we take care of this mole problem.”
“Got it.”
We sit in silence as the weight of the information swirls in my head. Matteo makes a detour to his wife’s office building to pick her up, and the air in the car changes when she joins us, filling it with cheerfulness. Suddenly, the discussion changes from moles and investigations to Sofia Marino’s upcomingfashion event, and it’s quite something watching my brother engage in her discussion. I’ve never been in their company alone, and it feels like I’m interrupting a private moment.
The dinner party is well underway when we arrive at Roarke and Elena's new home, a stunning townhouse with its clean lines and contrasting textures—smooth, charcoal grey stucco meeting panels of warm, natural wood. Floor-to-ceiling windows that offer a glimpse into the warm, lit interior, and a manicured garden sits just below.
Roarke and Elena meet us at the door, so I push everything else to the back burner as we're ushered to the dining room. I start to put on my usual charming smile, but it freezes on my lips when I see...her.
The music and the loud chatter in the room fade as my breath hitches and all my focus falls on her—Roarke O'Shea's sister. I've seen her before, in the distance, at some family functions, but never like this.
I'm not sure if it's the way the light catches her, but I'm completely stopped in my tracks. She wears a thin-strapped black evening gown, the kind that whispers against the skin and seems to absorb all the light around it, making her glow even brighter. Her dark red hair falls down her shoulders in waves, a stark contrast to the sleek fabric of her dress. And her eyes... Christ, they're like pools of the clearest blue, like the skies on a summer morning or the calm of an ocean.
I stand by the entrance, frozen, as my mind struggles to catch up with what my eyes are seeing. She's standing near the window, a glass of something sparkling in her hand, and the way she holds it, the casual elegance of it, is mesmerizing.
The world around her seems to fade away, the noise and the movement dissolving into a silent appreciation of herbeauty. And I'm no different, lost in the moment, completely and utterly captivated.
I start toward her when a thought—a name—slips into my head, and guilt slams into me like a sledgehammer.
Var
We've never met or spoken about our feelings for each other, but they're there. In the flirting and in all those late-night calls. Looking at someone else this way, even with casual attraction, feels like a betrayal. In my defense, I haven't felt attraction to other women from the moment Var came into my life. I've been tempted many times to suggest a meetup, but I didn't think she'd want to be with me if she found out that I belong to an Italian mob family. Me being a Rossi would likely send her running for the hills.
Still, it doesn’t make me want her any less. It doesn’t stop me from thinking about meeting her. I’ve considered forging my identity to meet her, but I’d rather not start our relationship with a lie.
I glance toward Fiona, who's now talking to her brother, and shake my head. I can't and won't betray Var for anyone. Not even for a woman as breathtaking as Fiona O'Shea.
I turn away, with every intention of ignoring the beautiful woman, but as one of the only uncoupled people at the party, we find ourselves seated next to each other. It's just my luck that I would be next to a woman who smells like a field of roses and is as pretty as a flower.
As dinner progresses, I realize that Fiona doesn't have much of an opinion of me, which I find surprising. Everyone loves me. I'm the harmless Rossi. The one women tend to feel safe around and the easiest to get along with.
Not to Fiona O'Shea, it seems.
“Hey, Lorenzo, I don't know if you and Fiona have met before tonight,” Elena says at some point when the awkward silence between Fiona and me stretches. “You're both into tech. Isn't that interesting?”
And there's an opening, so I take it. “What do you do, Miss O'Shea?”
“Please, call me Fiona. Miss O'Shea sounds a little…formal,” Fiona says, turning to me. I try not to get lost in those beautiful blue eyes. “I work at my family's firm…in tech, of course. What about you?”
I flash her a charming smile. “I code,” I say casually. “Sometimes, I respond to ransomware attacks, fix a computer or two when someone accidentally clicks on one of those ‘win a free cruise' emails.”
She's not the least bit impressed by my attempt to make a joke, if the way her eyes narrow is anything to go by. “You don't look anything like the guys I've met in tech.”
“I didn't know there was a uniform for us nerds.” And if there were, then I'm certain it's not that sexy number she has on. Goddamnit. I shouldn't be thinking about Fiona as anything but another guest. I already have a woman I’m falling in love with, and I refuse to be swayed by Fiona's pretty eyes or that stubborn mouth. I clear my throat, pushing down that little voice at the back of my mind telling me to lean closer for that sweet rosy scent. “So, Fiona, what's your specialty?”
“Cyber security but…” She bites her lower lip, and my eyes follow the movement before I can stop myself. “Sometimes I dabble in full-stack development, but I'm not afraid to get my hands dirty with a bit of DevOps.”
My lips twitch as she speaks. Christ, something about her feels familiar, but I can't put a finger on it. “Impressive,” I say, leaning back in my seat to stare at her, everyone else fading away. “Very impressive for someone as young as you are.”
“I'm not a newbie,” she says defensively. “I'm twenty-two. I've been practicing for years.”
Twenty-two? Jesus Christ. She's more than a fucking decade younger than me. What the fuck am I doing? Thinking of her the way I do. I've never dated anyone more than a year or two younger than me.
