Page 116 of Out of Control

Home.

It’s my first thought.

I want her, is a close second.

“Good thing flattery gets you everywhere with me.” She chuckles and then pulls me in for another kiss.

“Lucky me.”

CHAPTER FIFTY

Sofia

“Breathe, Bellissima,” Rossi murmurs into the back of my neck. “There’s a crowd of people outside the gallery waiting for you to open your doors. To enjoy that incredible space you’ve created. To revel over the many incredible pieces you’ve painstakingly curated. You look stunning. You are stunning.”

“I couldn’t have done it without you,” I say, turning to face him. The sunset is vibrant against the darkening sky and with all the windows in the Navarro villa, the room is bathed in a soft light.

He winks and smirks. “You can thank me later.”

I brush my lips against his. “Promise?”

“I promise.” He pats my ass. “Now are you going to tell me what you’ve named the gallery?”

“I don’t officially have one yet.”

“You’re opening the gallery without one?”

I nod. “Good things take time.”

“Like us?”

I grin and brush my lips against his. “Like us.”

“Now, let’s get to your grand opening. Our car is waiting.”

“Wait.” I pull him back against me and savor the softness of his kiss and knowing that he’s mine. “I love you.”

He slides his hand up and down my back and he deepens the kiss.

When the front door opens, we both startle apart. And when I hear the familiar hum of my grandfather’s wheelchair, dread drops like a weight into my stomach.

He looks at me, then Rossi, and back to me. His hands shake in their position on the arms of his wheelchair. “Out of my house.”

“Sir,” Rossi says.

“El patriarca,” I say, my voice pleading as I struggle between what’s been ingrained in me and what I want.

“I come here to surprise my granddaughter—to celebrate her accomplishments—to find you’re trying to ruin her reputation? Trying to sully our name?”

“No. El patriarca.” Tears well in my eyes as everything I’ve battled in my head comes to living color in front of me. “He’s not—we’re not.” I shake my head back and forth.

I swore when the time came for him to find out about us that I’d be strong, that I’d tell him like it is, but now that he’s sitting before me, I’ve been reduced to a little girl still scrambling for approval.

“It’s not what you think,” I say.

“Sofia,” Rossi says evenly as he takes several steps back. The muscle pulses in his jaw and his eyes hold a sadness I can’t even begin to understand. “This is your night. Go enjoy it.”

“But—”