26. Chapter Damian
A s I was taking my skates off and returning them to the rental stand, Aria went to one of the food stalls and got the biggest cream cheese pretzel she could find, and to top it off, she made me eat half of it. I’m not even mad. That shit was fucking delicious.
I don’t think I’ve ever had this much fun, in like, well, ever. Sure, I go on vacations once a year, and I go out with Lorenzo and Matteo from time to time, but this is different. She has this way of making me feel light and relaxed, naturally sharing her positive energy, making the people around her just be… better.
And I’m just a simple man who wants to follow her wherever she goes .
She makes me want to become a better person. It’s as simple as that. With her, I can do the impossible.
To actually, truly, be happy for once.
Never in a million years did I think that was a possibility. It’s not that I’m unhappy with my life, but I’ve always been just content, but unfulfilled. Always looking for the next best thing, trying to fill that dread and emptiness that rests deep inside of me.
Except when I’m with her.
All I want to do is make these moments last forever, put us in a bubble, and just… be .
She groans, limping. “I don’t know why we skated before going to the museum. I’m beat.”
My body feels super sore too, but I refuse to make this day shorter. I want to spend the most humanly possible time with her before we go back to our normal professional relationship.
Yeah, like you can ever go back to that.
“Well, too bad. You promised The Met. I haven’t been in years.” When I was able to afford any sort of traveling, this was the first place I came to. My first stop was The Metropolitan Museum, where such fine art as Autumn Rhythm by Jackson Pollock and Self Portrait With Straw Hat by Vincent van Gogh reside. It had been my dream since I was a little kid to go, but my father was struggling as it is with his gallery, so we couldn’t afford it.
“Which painting are you most excited to see?” I ask.
“Mmm,” she ponders. “Probably Bridge Over A Pond Of Water Lilies by Claude Monet. I love his work. It’s so… peaceful. I could stare at it for hours if they let me.”
We arrive at the museum and since it’s a Saturday, it’s definitely busier than normal, but we enter quickly and go to our favorite spots. We see the different collections from Asian to Egyptian art, and much more. We decide to leave the European paintings for last since that’s mostly what we came for.
As we’re roaming the European Paintings section, I’m barely paying attention to my surroundings. I’m mostly looking at Aria, because even though there is nothing but rich history in this place, all I can focus on is her . The way her eyes beam with excitement when she sees one of her favorite collections, to the way she scrunches her eyebrows as she studies a new painting, trying to discover the secret and history behind it. She likes to come up with her own theories and damn this girl is good, proving once more why she’s one of the top curators in the industry.
“Okay, this one,” she points as she reads the title, “ Cypress in Moonlight .”
I nod, trying to regain my focus on the painting instead of the beautiful woman standing next to me.
“I can tell you off the bat, the style, in particular, is very similar to Vincent van Gogh with the way the cypress and both potted plants are dominating this scene, even though there’s so much going on in the background, your eyes just go directly to that cypress.”
I nod in understanding, taking in the painting, trying my best to focus on the background, but my eyes keep moving to the cypress automatically.
“I bet you didn’t even notice the two shadows in the back,” she points out.
I gaze over the painting, trying my best to ignore the cypress and potted plants, noticing a shallow street next to the buildings, where there are indeed two shadows walking. “Such attention to detail,” I say in awe.
“Indeed,” she whispers.
We look at a few more statement pieces before we realize it’s already closing time. Being surrounded by art is a quick way to lose track of time, getting so involved in the rich history and the story each piece tells. It’s truly amazing.
My safe space.
As we exit the museum, we’re hit with the cold wind of the night. It's a little past nine in the evening, and the city is bustling with activity as always.
“Are you hungry?” I ask.
“I’m starving, but I’m so tired. I say we order takeout.”
“As long as it’s not dumplings, I don’t think I can eat those for a while.” I shudder with a grimace. Those dumplings were delicious, but I had too many at once .
She rubs her hands together, seeking some warmth as a laugh escapes her lips. “ Ha . Liar. You know you loved them.”
“True,” I confess.
My driver arrives and I open the door for Aria. Thankfully, she’s so exhausted she doesn’t protest, which I appreciate because my body is so sore from ice skating, and I don’t think I can walk anymore. The drive is short, and we go back to the condo as we go over the eating options, deciding to go simple and order some pizza.
Nodding toward her room as I pick up the takeout pamphlet, I say, “I’ll make the order, you can go take a shower.”
“Oh, thank you. Because I’m so cold, I can’t wait to feel some hot water against my skin,” she says through a giggle, walking to her room and shutting the door.
I bite my lip trying to contain back a groan, because now I have an image in my head of Aria’s soft skin with droplets of water glistening all over.
And I’m officially losing my mind again. Get it fucking together.
Shaking my head and trying my best to get that image out of my head, I opt to call the restaurant instead. I have no idea what type of toppings she likes, so I order a few different combinations.
As I wait for the food to arrive, I sit down and open my laptop to take a quick look at my emails, trying to get ahead for the upcoming week and putting out any fires that need my attention. I’ve been so distracted with Aria that I’ve barely paid attention to my phone, much less my email. I have hundreds of unread emails—not surprising— with random requests and meeting reminders. As I glance at them, I notice an encrypted email that just came in.
From: Unknown
To: Damian Romano
Subject: None
You need to fire Aria Petrov. There will be consequences if you don’t.
What the fuck?
My phone rings, and Matteo’s name shows up on the screen. I don’t hesitate to pick it up.
“I just saw the email,” Matteo says from the other line.
I thin my lips as I close my eyes, trying to keep myself together and not let the rage that’s slowly simmering take over.
“I’m already tracing the email, relax,” Matteo continues, somehow sensing my rage brewing.
“Do you think this is related to the break-in?”
“I don’t doubt it. Who the hell did you piss off?” Matteo asks with a hint of amusement in his voice that ticks me off.
“How much time do you have?” I retort, gritting my teeth. I’m a fucking billionaire in a cut-throat business. I have enemies coming out of my fucking ears .
“I will keep you posted,” Matteo says before hanging up.
Who the fuck is doing this? But more importantly, why? Is it another gallery that maybe wants her on their team? I don’t think she has gotten any other offers, but even if she did, she wouldn’t take one.
Or would she?
No. No way.
As I’m brewing in my thoughts, my email pins with another encrypted email notification.
From: Unknown
To: Damian Romano
Subject: None
You have a week to meet my demand, otherwise, you can sit and watch the consequences of your own stupid actions.
As I’m reading the email, Aria comes out of her bedroom. My back stiffens and I snap the laptop shut with a little more force than necessary.
“You okay?” Aria asks as she approaches me.
I look back at her. “Uh, yeah. Why?”
She holds my gaze for a moment as she dries her hair with a towel, then shrugs and sits next to me. She can’t find out what’s happening. She’s going to want to get involved and I just have this gut strange feeling I can’t pinpoint, but all I know is that I want her as far as possible from this situation .
Before she can drill me with more questions, the food arrives and we sit down and open all the boxes. I definitely ordered way too much, but better be safe than sorry.
“You’re so extra. A bacon pizza would have been fine,” she grabs a slice and takes a bite, “but thank you.”
“Well, what if you preferred pepperoni? Or veggies? I didn’t want to risk it,” I shrug, picking a piece of my own and biting into the cheesy, bready savoriness.
She swallows her bite before replying, “I hate pepperoni.”
“Wow.” My eyebrows shot up in surprise. “I think you may be the only person in the world that hates pepperoni.”
She shrugs. “It’s disgusting. Don’t ask me why, because there’s no rhyme or reason for my hate for it. I hate the taste, and it’s so greasy.”
“Bacon is greasy too,” I point out.
“Yeah, but at least it tastes good,” she counters with a playful smile, then takes another bite.
I shake my head with a laugh. That's her, alright. No rhyme or reason for the things she likes. We keep eating and talking about art, our college years, and anything random we can think of.
“Do you have any siblings?” I ask.
She shakes her head. “Only child, fortunately. I don’t think any other normal child could have survived my mother,” she says with a laugh that doesn’t reach her eyes, and that tugs at my heart in an unsatisfactory way.
She’s so unapologetically herself, no matter what. It’s my favorite quality about her, but I can’t help but wonder if it’s because of all she’s endured. I can relate, in a sense. I believe what breaks you makes you stronger. You can either face your problems or run away from them.
I chose the latter, deciding to take my father’s struggling business and turn it into the empire it is becoming today. But at the same time, I refuse to look back and forgive everything I went through with him, because even though he's not here, he doesn’t deserve my forgiveness. Fuck that. I don’t want to be the bigger person, even if it’s the right thing to do.
You don’t always have to do the right thing, not if it means sacrificing your sanity.
“Do you have any siblings?”
I shake my head. “The closest thing I have to a brother is Enzo. He lived in Italy until his late teenage years, but used to visit Chicago every summer, and we would spend our time together,” I say, reminiscing the few good memories I have.
Her eyes soften as she grabs my hand and squeezes it in a tender, loving way. The feeling is electric, and I never want to let go.
“Boy, do I feel sorry for you if Enzo is the closest thing you had. He seems unreliable,” she jokes .
“Surprisingly, he has been the only constant in my life,” I confess.
Despite Enzo living a hard life, training since he was a literal child on how to think and behave like a businessman, preparing to take over the Mancini name, he taught me everything I know. Helped me build my business plans, invested his time and energy, but most importantly— believed in me. It’s difficult to accept how the tables have turned, how somehow, for some reason, he has lost his way in life. He’s not the man he used to be. That’s for sure.
We finish eating, and she insists on making hot chocolates, even though I’m so stuffed and don’t think I can ingest anything else, I accept it. Because it just means I have a few more minutes with her. As we both sit on the couch, facing each other, and she’s talking about her first days working for The Institute, a moment of honesty takes over me for a chance.
Without thinking, I say, “Can I confess something?”
She looks at me expectantly and nods.
“I don’t want this day to end,” I whisper.
She doesn’t falter, nor does her body language change in surprise. She grabs my mug and places it on the table next to hers. Taking my hand and interlacing our fingers, she whispers, “Me neither.” She looks down, avoiding my gaze.
My heart quickens at her words. Here I thought the feeling wasn’t mutual, that she was just being kind, wanting to make sure I didn’t spend my Saturday alone. Because that sums up Aria Petrov.
Fierce. Selfless. Kind.
Our bodies shift closer, and I tuck one of her hair strands behind her ear. She looks up, with her bright hazel eyes, and I get lost in them once again.
All I can do is admire her. Her beauty is fucking overwhelming.
Both of my hands find the base of her jawline, and as she melts to my touch, I whisper, “Penso di essermi innamorata di te.”
“What does that mean?” she asks softly.
“That you’re beautiful,” the lie rolls off my tongue easily, because I’m not ready to tell her the truth. Not yet, anyway.
Before she can respond, I close the little distance we have left with a soft, yearning kiss. I’ve been wanting to do this ever since we last kissed, and fuck, it feels good to feel her lips on mine. She kisses me back with the same softness and need, reciprocating my feelings. This kiss feels different. Whilst the first kiss was fierce, and desperate, this one is the exact opposite. It’s like time is staying still, and we have nothing else to do but to explore each other’s mouths. The kiss is consuming; intoxicating. I could die a happy man right now. There’s no other place I would rather be.
Her lips part, and I let out an appreciative groan as my tongue clashes with hers. She tastes so fucking sweet . I’ve never considered myself a sweets kind of man, but for her? I could indulge in it for the rest of my life. My teeth find her bottom lip, and I bite it softly. A low, soft moan escapes her lips as I bite the soft flesh. She wraps her arms around my shoulders, fisting my hair and bringing us closer, and God, it’s driving me insane. I could happily get lost in her touch, her delicious taste and her dizzying scent and never come back.
My weakness; my lifeline; my anchor.
Mine. Mine. Fucking mine.