Chapter Thirteen
Antonio
I’m waiting in the back room of the restaurant, and I’ve made sure it’s exactly the kind of private that impresses and affords us privacy but doesn’t make her uncomfortable.
Even if we’ve already spent the night together, I figured she’d be more comfortable if I met her here instead of showing up where she’s staying.
Less pressure. Less control. If she decides to walk, she can walk into the night and disappear without having to peel me off her doorstep. A woman like Elsa appreciates exits.
Though there’s no chance in hell of that happening tonight.
The restaurant knows me well enough not to ask questions. They just do what I want.
The table is set to my specifications—nothing crowded, nothing fussy, just crisp linens, clean plates, and glassware that looks fancy but effortless.
The wine is already chilling, bucket packed, condensation beading on the metal like it’s sweating from anticipation.
There’s a private server on standby, the kind who doesn’t hover and doesn’t listen, who knows when to appear and when to vanish.
Everything is perfect.
It should be easy to focus on anything else, but my mind keeps circling back to Monday.
Bellandi Syndicate. Chicago trying to buy its way into our backyard.
Northstar in the middle, and Nilsson holding the gate like a locked fist. Roberto’s going to want me sharp, charming, surgical.
Caterina’s going to want me disciplined.
I’ll be all of that.
On Monday.
Tonight? There’s nothing for me to do. No moves to make, no call that changes anything, no leverage I can squeeze out of the air in a single evening. If I cancelled this, I’d just be sitting at home, staring at the ceiling, replaying the last twenty-four hours until it made me insane.
And I’m not cancelling.
Even if I know Roberto would disapprove. Even if I can already hear the tone in his voice—Antonio, now is not the time to get distracted.
I couldn’t make myself do it.
Because she’s the kind of distraction that doesn’t feel like distraction at all. She feels like gravity. Like something that grabbed me the second she walked into a room and hasn’t let go since.
Elsa is just too perfect.
Not just the body—though my brain does a quick, appreciative lap around that anyway. Long legs. Those lips. The way she fit around me like she was built for it. For me. The way she tried to look annoyed right before she laughed.
It’s the other thing. The thing I can’t quite pin down.
There’s something different about her, and I can’t get her out of my head.
I keep thinking about the way she watched me, like she was measuring me for something.
The way she fought for control, even when she was coming apart.
The way she looked this morning when she had to leave—practical mouth, dangerous eyes, like she was already negotiating with herself.
I have to know more about her.
Not in the casual way. Not in the what-do-you-do, where-are-you-from small talk way.
In the way that makes my chest tighten with impatience. In the way that has me checking the time more than once, listening for footsteps outside the door, feeling that pull in my gut like I’m bracing for impact all over again.
I’m compelled to spend more time with her.
And damn it, there’s nothing else I can do about the acquisition tonight, so I’m doing the only thing that makes sense.
I’m sitting in a private room, with the wine chilling, the server discreet, the table perfect—
Waiting for the perfect woman to walk in.
And if she shows up, I already know I’m not going to be able to pretend this is just dinner.
The server slips into the room.
“Sir,” he says quietly, professional to the bone. “Your date has arrived.”
For a second, my body forgets how to move.
Then I’m up, smoothing my jacket like I’m not the man who spent all day counting down the seconds. I straighten my cuffs, adjust my tie by a fraction, and take one last look at the room—at the table, the wine.
Everything is perfect.
My heartbeat does not care.
The server disappears again, and the air thickens in anticipation.
I face the opening and wait.
I barely notice the hostess lead her in because when she rounds the corner—
Every single thought drops clean out of my head.
She steps in like she owns the space, like the room exists for the sole purpose of her being in it. Chin slightly lifted. Eyes forward.
My mouth goes dry so fast it’s almost painful.
She’s in black, but this isn’t the careful, restrained kind of dress from last night. This is something that’s been sharpened into a weapon.
The dress clings to her like it was sewn onto her body, fitted through her waist and hips with no apology.
And then there’s the slit—high enough that the first thing my mind does is evaporate.
One long, smooth line of thigh shows with every step, the fabric parting like it’s designed to make men forget their names.
I forget mine.
The neckline is low—low enough that my gaze drops before I can stop it. Cleavage, framed perfectly by the clean lines of the dress. My throat tightens. I force my eyes up again.
But then she turns slightly, giving the hostess a polite smile, and I see the back.
It’s open.
Completely.
The fabric dips down, down, down, just stopping above the curve of her ass. Her back is elegant and bare, a smooth expanse of skin I suddenly want to run my thumb along—my tongue along. And it’s not even a little modest.
It’s an invitation.
Her heels are stilettos, sharp and high, turning her already-tall frame into something almost unfair. They change the rhythm of her walk—longer stride, hips shifting with that subtle, deliberate sway that makes my hands clench at my sides.
And her face—
Her makeup is not minimal tonight. Her eyes are smoky, the liner pulling focus to that impossible blue, lashes thick enough to make her stare feel sultry and heavy.
Dangerous. Her lips are glossy red—deep, wet-looking, the kind of color that makes my brain immediately picture them wrapped around my cock.
I’m struck dumb.
Not the charming kind of dumb where I can talk my way out of it.
The real kind, where my chest locks up, and my body goes still because it’s trying to absorb the sight of her all at once.
My pulse trips over itself. My hands itch to touch her, and I don’t move because I don’t trust myself not to trip and fall flat on my face.
I’ve seen beautiful women before. I’ve dated them, slept with them, worked with them. But this—this is something else.
She stops just inside the door, and the slit parts again as she shifts her weight, and the flash of thigh is so clean and so deliberate it feels like she aimed it at me.
Heat flashes through me so quickly and brutally, I nearly groan.
I try to find a thought. A line. Anything.
Nothing.
Then her eyes land on me.
The impact is physical.
Her lips curve into a slow smile, and it hits me then—really hits me—that this woman is mine tonight. That I’m the one who gets to look at her, talk to her, touch her.
That I’m the one who gets to undress her later.
My dick goes instantly hard.
I cross the floor, trying not to look like I’m about to shatter into a thousand pieces. My legs feel stiff, my steps too precise. I force a smile that probably looks like a grimace.
“You came,” I say. My voice comes out lower than I intended, rougher.
She laughs, light and throaty, the sound wrapping around my cock and squeezing. “I did.” Her eyes sweep over my suit, then back up to mine. “You clean up well.”
I stop in front of her, close enough that I can smell her perfume—something warm and seductive—and feel the heat coming off her skin. I can see the little details now—the tiny, shimmering flecks in her eye shadow, the delicate veins in her neck that I want to lick.
My hands are actually shaking a little.
I offer her my arm. “Shall we?”
She slides her fingers into the crook of my elbow. Her touch is light but electric, sending a jolt straight through me. I can feel the warmth of her skin through my jacket sleeve.
I lead her to the table, my body screaming at me to turn around, to press her against the nearest wall and devour that glossy red mouth, devour every fucking inch of the goddess in front of me. To get down and worship because I am… Not. Fucking. Worthy.
I pull out her chair for her. A ridiculous, old-fashioned gesture I had drilled in me a long time ago.
She lowers herself into the seat, the slit falling open again, and my brain short-circuits for a second, the glimpse of thigh enough to make me dizzy. I see the top of her stockings. The little clasp holding them up.
Fuck. Me.
I take my own seat opposite her, forcing myself to meet her eyes, to be the composed, confident man I’m supposed to be.
The server appears out of nowhere, pours the wine, and then melts back into the shadows.
She raises her glass. “To… what, exactly?”
“To tonight,” I say, my gaze locked on hers. “And the fact that I might not survive it.”
Her smile widens, and there’s a flicker of something hot and triumphant in her eyes. “We can only hope.”