This is disgusting.
This is garbage.
Mario?
No. No way. Not a chance.
The denial is instant. Visceral. Almost angry.
Not him.
Not the man who pulled the sheet over my shoulder this morning when the air was cool. Not the man who fed me breakfast in his garden. Not the man who reminded me more than once that I could say no. Not the man who held my hand and waited for me to squeeze once or twice.
Not him.
Not that.
Absolutely not.
I push away from the table. The chair legs scrape against the floor.
My breath is suddenly shallow.
How well do I actually know him?
The question slips in before I can stop it.
I have spent two nights with him.
Two nights.
And a handful of hours in the office.
A few meetings. A few conversations. Dinner. Sex. Breakfast. A bag of lingerie that I still have not unpacked because looking at it makes me feel both treasured and reckless.
That is not knowing someone.
That is attraction.
Chemistry.
Madness.
I know he is intense.
I know he can be ruthless.
I have seen it in his face. In the office, the conference room. I have seen enough to understand that Mario Conti is not merely a businessman with sharp edges.
Some of the things implicated in those articlesaretrue. I'm not stupid. I'm not naïve.
There is violence in him.
Controlled and well-hidden.
But it’s there.
I have felt it like a current under his skin.
