Her family had controlled every piece of her life before me, yet somehow she still loved them enough to cry over five stolen minutes. Interesting.
When she finally returned the phone, her cheeks were flushed pink and her eyes brighter than before.
“You timed me,” she accused quietly.
“Yes.” I swirled the coffee in my cup.
Exasperatedly, she sat down across from me. “That was cruel.”
“And yet you’re smiling.”
She blinked like she hadn’t realized it herself. Then the smile disappeared, replaced by stubborn anger again. “I still hate you.”
“Of course you do,” I chuckled. But her fingers lingered slightly against mine when she handed my phone back.
Afterbreakfast,Ilockedmyself inside my office.
The room smelled like leather, smoke, whiskey, and old violence soaked deep into dark wood. Floor-to-ceiling windows overlooked the glittering skyline below, though the blinds stayed half-drawn, slicing sunlight into sharp bars across the floor.
Business consumed the next several hours. Calls. Threats disguised as diplomacy. Money. Territory. Blood. Santino would take the bait. I already knew he would. Men like him always confused inheritance with intelligence.
Meanwhile, Chiara wandered the penthouse freely. The elevators stayed locked, of course. So did the front entrance.There were cameras hidden in every hallway and armed men downstairs.
She wasn’t escaping. But I wanted to see what she’d do with freedom. And deep down, I already knew she wouldn’t run yet. Not while her siblings still lived under her father’s roof.
Hours later, I stepped out of my office expecting silence. Instead, the scent of garlic and butter hit me. I stopped cold.
The penthouse usually smelled sterile. Expensive candles. Leather furniture. Marble polished so clean it barely felt lived in. But now warm air drifted through the space carrying rosemary, cream sauce, fresh bread.
It smelled like home. The realization unsettled me.
I followed the scent toward the kitchen and stopped in the doorway. Chiara stood barefoot at the marble island wearing one of my black dress shirts over her blue dress. The sleeves were rolled messily to her elbows, exposing delicate wrists dusted lightly with flour.
My shirt. Something possessive tightened violently in my chest.
Dark blonde hair spilled halfway out of her braid now while soft music played quietly nearby. She stirred sauce slowly, humming beneath her breath without realizing it.
For one dangerous second, the sight looked domestic. Like she belonged here. Like she belonged to me. Then she noticed me watching.
“Oh, you’re back,” she said softly.
My gaze dragged over her body slowly. The shirt hung off her tiny frame, swallowing her whole while still somehow making her look unbearably sexy. Bare legs. Bare feet. Pink lips parted slightly from surprise. Fuck me, she was beautiful.
“What are you doing?” I asked.
She frowned slightly. “Cooking.”
“We have staff for that,” I reminded her.
“I know.”
“Then why are you cooking?” I questioned. Chiara glanced back toward the stove, shy in a way I hadn’t seen before.
“I used to watch the cooks at home,” she admitted quietly. “I had to hide it from Papa, but I loved it. He always said it was beneath me.”
The confession caught me off guard.
“I’d sneak downstairs late at night sometimes,” she continued, stirring sauce carefully. “One of the cooks taught me things when Papa wasn’t around.”
