Then I hang up before he has a chance to respond, tossing the cell phone onto the desk with more force than necessary.
Three days. Three days of Chloe being polite, distant, and completely beyond my reach. Three days of trying to focus on finding the people who took Emmanuel, and all I can think about is the hurt and disappointment on her face.
The hurt in her eyes when she’d barged into my office that night haunts me still. The cold resignation when she said she didn’t want to be the other woman.
Omero’s right. I’m not thinking clearly. I haven’t been since she walked out of my office.
She’s laid low, taken care of Emmanuel like she promised she would with the same dedication, if not more, than before. They’ve spent every day watching movies, playing games, and I had even heard him laugh yesterday. But the moment I enter the room, her smile fades. Her warmth disappears.
Chloe has built a wall between us, and I have no idea how to breach it.
I should be focused on the contracts, the intel, on anything that helps our family move forward. My men have been working around the clock, following leads in all the right places.
But Omero’s right, I can’t concentrate.
Every time I try to review intelligence reports, I see her face. I’m the Don of the Italian Mafia. I’ve negotiated territory take-over deals without blinking, stared down enemies without flinching, but one woman’s disappointment has me completely off balance.
I need to fix this.
The sound of light footsteps on the stairs pulls me from my thoughts. Quick, trying to be quiet.
Chloe.
I’m out of my chair and into the hallway before I consciously know I’m moving. She’s already at the top of the stairs, heading toward her room. I take the stairs two at a time to catch her.
“Chloe.”
She freezes the moment I say her name, her hand on the doorknob, and for a moment, I think she’s going to ignore me completely. But to my relief, she turns to face me— shoulders stiff, arms wrapped around herself, eyes down —and waits for me to reach her.
“It’s late,” she says without looking at me. “I’m headed to bed.”
“We need to talk.”
“There’s really nothing to talk about, Basili.”
“Yes, we do. You’ve been avoiding me for three days.”
“I haven’t been avoiding you. I’ve been doing my job.” She still won’t look at me as she speaks. “Isn’t that what you wanted? For me to mind my own business and do what I came here to do?”
That stings, my own words thrown back at me.
“That’s not what I meant.”
She finally looks up at me, the look in her eyes cold and timid all at the same time. Which tears at my heart. “You made it very clear. You have your life, your business, your arrangements.”
“Chloe —”
“Goodnight, Mr. Cierro.” She turns back to her door.
“Don’t.” The word comes out harsh. “Don’t call me that.”
“Why not? It’s what you wanted.”
“That’s not what I wanted. It’s the furthest thing from what I wanted.”
She laughs, but there’s no humor in it. “Right. That’s why you told me to forget what I heard. To mind my own business. To stop being dramatic and to focus on Emmanuel.”
I move to close the distance between us, and she backs against the door, eyes flashing with an emotion halfway between anger and hurt.
