“I answer when I want to answer,” I snap, gripping the phone tighter. “I’m not one of your employees, Damiano.”
“Come to the new club tonight,” he commands, dismissing my obvious irritation.
"And why would I?" I ask, walking back toward the window, looking in the direction of Palermo, where his new club is.
“It’s the grand opening,” he says, as if that explains everything. “I want to celebrate with you,” he adds, tone shifting to something softer. The arrogance bleeds away, replaced by that signature rasp—the one that sounds like whiskey and smoke and makes my knees feel unstable.
“Celebrate the club?” I ask, arching an eyebrow even though he can't see me. “You have a thousand people lining up to do that with you.”
“I don’t care about them,” he murmurs, “I don’t want to toast my success with anyone else. Just you.”
I’m silenced. The arrogance should repel me. I should tell him to go to hell. But the admission that he wantsme, on his big night, wakes up the butterflies in my stomach that refuse to die.
“I’ll wait for you, okay?” he adds softly after a beat.
Click.
He hangs up—that arrogant, infuriating,beautifuljerk.
I stare at the phone, hating that I’m already considering going. That I have zero self-control around him. It’s pathetic, really. I can have any man in Argentina. But the only one I want is the one who already told me a few months ago that he doesn’t feel the same way about me. I sigh.
Then the sound of the front door unlocking snaps me out of my frustration. The heavy deadbolt slides back with a metallic thud.
“Kat! Come here.”
I check my face in the reflection of the window, smoothing my expression, before jogging toward the entryway.
Mateo is standing in the foyer, kicking off his shoes. He looks massive in the confined space, his shoulders filling thedoorway. He’s wearing his usual black tactical pants and a muscle t-shirt that shows off the ink on his arms. He’s hunching over something on the floor, his body blocking my view.
“What is it?”
He stands up, turning around with a grin that transforms his intimidating aura into something almostboyish. In his large, tattooed hands, he holds a ball of black-and-tan fur.
“What did you do?!” I squeal, my hands flying to my mouth.
“Here,” he laughs, thrusting the bundle of fur toward me.
I take the creature in my arms. His paws are big, clumsy things, and his belly is round and warm. He immediately starts licking my chin with rough, enthusiastic affection—a little puppy rottweiler.
“Mateo!” I laugh, burying my face in the soft fur behind the puppy's ears. He smells like milk and baby powder. “Oh no, he’s so cute! Is it someone’s birthday? Did I forget a holiday?”
“Security,” Mateo says, though his eyes are soft as he watches me wrestle the puppy out of my face. “A client gifted him to me. I thought we needed...reinforcement.”
“Reinforcement?” I lift the puppy, and he dangles helplessly, blinking blue puppy eyes at me. “Teo, he’s the size of a shoe. What is he going to do? Lick an intruder to death?”
“He’ll grow,” Mateo says, his voice serious. “Rottweilers are loyal. Lethal to strangers, sweet to family. He’s the best protection money can buy.”
He reaches out and scratches the dog’s head gently.
“We’ll call him Pedro,” he decides.
“After Pedrito?” I smile, the memory warming me. We had a Doberman growing up—or at least, that’s what Mateo told me. My memories before age eight are foggy, just snapshots really, but I remember a dog named Pedrito.
“Yeah. After Pedrito.” Mateo’s smile fades slightly, a shadow passing over his eyes.
“Pedro, it is. But you’re cleaning up the poop.”
“Deal,” he agrees easily.
