Page 130 of Brutal Heir

He followed. “I don’t care.”

My back hit the wall. “I won’t go to dinner with you.”

He placed his forearm over my head and leaned in. “I’m getting tired of you always answering no.”

I turned my head to the side. “Then stop asking the questions.”

A ghost of dark humor teased the corner of his lips. “No.”

“Please. You have to stop all the special treatment. It’s making me a pariah with the staff.”

Sebastian ran his fingers along one of my curls. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

Frustrated, I ticked off the items on my fingertips. “The executive office I don’t deserve. Making me attend meetings above my position. The rides to work. I can’t imagine what they would say if they knew I was still living in your palazzo. Private dinner invitations. How I’m exempt from the security pat-downs.”

“The security pat-downs?”

They were a source of constant complaining, gossip, and a strange sort of camaraderie for the staff.

The House of Diamanti not only supplied eighty percent of the world’s diamonds, but it was also an extremely influential jeweler. I’d learned that only four floors of the headquarters in Rome were visible to the public—the main storefront, the jeweler’s atelier, the administrative offices, and the executive floors.

But below the building existed a whole different world.

Several floors of vaults, secure loading docks, and cutting rooms lay underground, where rough diamonds arrived by the truckload.

Cutting a diamond was not just a science but an art.

Some of the cutters had held their positions with Diamanti for generations. The craft was steeped in mystical superstition, where a cutter would carefully study a rough diamond to determine the best way to bring forth the perfect gem.

One wrong cut could ruin the diamond and cost the company millions.

Rumor had it Sebastian’s sister, Arabella, had a special gift for it.

The staff spoke of her almost as if she were a witch.

Of course, with millions of dollars' worth of diamonds everywhere, security was tight. Staff endured arbitrary searches when exiting the building.

One of the first Italian phrases I’d learned these last two weeks was “Fermato ai controlli, che palle!”—held up at security, what a pain.

It was almost a rite of passage.

And I was exempt from it.

“Yes, the pat-downs. None of your security guards will come near me.”

Before I could object, his large hands spanned my waist, flipping me around to face the wall.

“What are you⁠—”

Sebastian grabbed my wrists, stretching my arms over my head as he pressed my palms to the wall.

“You wanted a security pat-down,” he said, his voice laced with dark amusement.

His body pressed against mine, tightening his grip on my wrists. “Now, now. If you’re not a good girl, I’ll be forced to do a strip search.”

“This is not what I meant.”

Goose bumps rose on my flesh as he ran his hands over my silk-sleeved arms, sweeping my hair aside to bare my neck.