Azra
My brain short-circuits as I slam the door shut so fast that the frame rattles. I brace my back against it, palms flat against the grain as my heart pounds like I’ve sprinted a mile. I’m mortified. Horrified. And worse—stunned by my reaction.
I didn’t know I could be that cruel.
That intrusive.
That curious.
I squeeze my eyes shut. “Nope. No. Absolutely not. We’re deleting that from memory.”
When Matteo mutters something in Italian that I’m pretty sure isn’t a compliment before shutting off the water, I push off the door.
As I pace the room, I try to erase the image of him stroking his dick from my mind.
It’s no easy task. My god... that man is a machine made for pleasure.
The way his moans echoed over the steady flow of water, and how his large hand didn’t diminish the size of his cock in the slightest, stimulated my senses.
He planted his feet at shoulder width as he rocked his erection in and out of his hand, as if he uses every muscle in his body to satisfy his bed companions.
Over and over, he moved his hand from the base to the tip. For a split second, I wished it were my hand pumping him. Then I remembered I was supposed to be mad at him.
He snapped at me last night after I woke him from what looked like a nightmare, but apparently, my subconscious didn’t get the message. I dreamed about him anyway. It was a dirty, full-penetration dream that woke me with that urgent, bursting-to-pee feeling I’ve never experienced before.
Well… except in the SUV yesterday, and look how that turned out. He left me hanging, and I’m still not over it.
When the bathroom door opens, I strive to subdue my racing pulse. Matteo steps out, towel slung low around his waist, hair dripping the same way pre-cum leaked from his cock when he busted my watch.
I force myself to look anywhere but at him.
“Morning,” he says, as if nothing happened.
“Morning,” I parrot, pretending I’m made of stone.
Our eyes lock in the dresser mirror, and I shift my focus to my suitcase. I refuse to contemplate what I just walked in on. I refuse to think about him. Anything I felt in that split second was nothing but shock—and maybe annoyance that my brain chose that moment to malfunction.
Whatever it was, it wasn’t real. Nothing I feel toward Matteo is real. It’s a strategy. A performance. A role I must play to keep a promise I made years ago.
The audience I’m aiming for isn’t him.
Straightening my spine, I shift into the version of myself I trust—the calculating one.
“We need to talk about the schedule.”
Matteo lifts a dark brow. “Schedule?”
“Yes. Schedule.” I pull a fresh pair of panties out of my suitcase, confident the ones I’m wearing needed changing long before I entered the bathroom.
My dream was that vivid. “Anto... my ex... is scheduled to attend three events this week.” Ignoring the smugness radiating from Matteo that wordlessly announces Antonio’s schedule may have changed since we last spoke, I continue.
“That gives us three perfect opportunities for him to see us together.”
His jaw grinds with an irritation that his lack of reply doesn’t reveal.
I keep going.
“A charity dinner on Wednesday, a private function on Friday, and a gallery opening on Sunday.” I tick each one off on my fingers. “I want to be there, with you, in a way that’s impossible for him to ignore our connection.”
Matteo’s amused huff rustles my hair. “Connection?”
I lock eyes with him in the mirror, undeterred by his snarky tone.
“If you want to pretend that while masturbating, you weren’t imagining me on my knees, sucking your dick, I can do the same, but that will just make liars out of us both.
” I don’t sugarcoat it. “We have a sexual connection. I may not like that we do, but there’s no denying it. ”
Matteo studies me, expression unreadable. I don’t flinch or look away, because this isn’t about us. It’s about Antonio and jealousy being a powerful weapon.
He doesn’t deny my claim.
He simply adds fuel to the fire.
“Has anyone ever told you you’re bossy when you’ve been denied?” My throat struggles to swallow as he flares his nostrils. “Did you come before you woke, or were you left hanging—”
“As you left me hanging yesterday?” I interrupt, refusing to let him push the narrative of our exchange. “I didn’t dream last night… and even if I had, it most certainly wouldn’t have been about you.”
“Liar,” he murmurs, moving toward the spacious dressing room. He squashes together a row of clothes, pulls them off the rod in one swift motion, and then dumps them onto an oversized chaise. “If that’s not enough room for your things, I’ll have a maid pack away my summer clothes this afternoon.”
For three heart-thrashing seconds, I do nothing but stare. I lived with Antonio for two months, and not once did I consider unpacking my suitcase.
“I don’t need any space. I’m happy to live out of a suitcase.”
“Living out of a suitcase is temporary.” I don’t know where to look when Matteo slings off his towel to pull on a pair of jeans sans underwear. “If you want people to believe this”—after tucking away his dick, he waves his hand between us—“you need them to believe it’s permanent.”
To stop myself from groaning in disappointment at the fast rise of his zipper, which hides the cropped hairs on his groin, I nod nonchalantly.
“That should be plenty of room.” Needing to douse the fire roaring through me from his pleased grin, I gesture toward the bathroom. “I’m going to shower and get ready.”
I take two steps before the memory slams into me—his fat cock, his scent, the spasms.
I stop dead in my tracks, my outfit for the day shuddering in my hand. “Is there somewhere else I can shower?”
Matteo smirks at the tremor in my words and shakes his head. “No chance. All the bathrooms on this floor connect to a bedroom. You want this ruse to be authentic, don’t you, micina?” I sheepishly nod. “Then you’re going to need to suck it up and shower in the scent of my cum.”
I roll my eyes so hard it hurts before entering the bathroom for the fastest shower of my life. I’m in and out in under three minutes. Barely enough time to breathe, much less drink in his delicious scent.
When I return to the room, towel around my hair, Matteo is waiting, expression smug.
“That was quick,” he says, grinning.
I shoot him a riled look. “Can you talk? How many strokes did it take you to finish? Two? Three, perhaps?”
His smirk doesn’t falter for even half a second. “Can you blame a man? Your mouth was open as if primed for my cum. Again. It was an extremely enticing visual.”
I gag, and his smirk shifts to a genuine smile.
Against my better judgment, I return his smile. Not for long, just enough to mentally mark a point on his side of the scoreboard.
I remove my towel to comb my hair, and Matteo’s hooded gaze drops to my outfit.
“Absolutely not.”
I drop my gaze to the cotton all-in-one pantsuit. It’s cute and practical, and since he will have to fully remove it to access an area I’m adamant this man will never see again, it’s the perfect ensemble for the first official day of our ruse. “What?”
“That.” Matteo thrusts his hand at my outfit. “No one will believe you’re with me dressed like—”
“If you say a nun, I swear, you cannot hold me accountable for my actions.”
A flare darts through Matteo’s eyes. “I was going to say, like someone who doesn’t want to be noticed. But if calling you a nun is all it takes to get you fired up, I can go that route.”
I whack him in the stomach before moving to the dresser to finish my hair.
It’s wet since I had to dunk my head under the heavy stream of water to wash away his scent from my nose, so I don’t braid it like I usually do.
I leave it to dry naturally. It will add curls to my normally straight hair, but I’ll take any coverage I can get if it hides my inflamed cheeks and dilated eyes.
“You need to be noticed.”
“Why?” I ask, certain that the world’s most eligible bachelor would pale in comparison to him in any room, so why bother?
“Because...”
I wait and wait and wait for him to complete his reply.
He never does.
Instead, he curls his hand over mine and drags me out of the room. We walk through the Caruso mansion in silence until we reach a sunlit dining room.
The room buzzes with electric chemistry when we enter. A long wooden table has at least a dozen people scattered around it, yet it somehow feels warm and homely. There’s laughter, clinking cutlery, and the sweet aroma of freshly brewed coffee.
My stomach grumbles.
I’ve not eaten anything since lunch yesterday.
His strides don’t slacken until we reach a Viking-sized table.
The only time he slows is when he reaches over a man’s shoulder to steal strips of bacon off his plate.
The handsome man with hair just as dark as Matteo’s and an aura of authority swats at him while muttering something in Italian under his breath.
Matteo just grins before handing half his stash to me.
While I munch on salty strips of lard, Matteo guides me to the end of the long table, where a dark-haired man and a blonde woman sit close together.
The woman shifts uncomfortably amid the opulence, but she glows with genuine happiness while studying the drawing a dark-haired girl proudly shows her.
The girl sits at the head of the table, occupying a chair that signals authority even when unoccupied. She’s sitting in the hierarchy’s seat like her childhood won’t mimic mine.
I briefly wonder how my life might have differed had I not grown up in the Turkish mafia. If my father had ever allowed me to sit on his chair, my life plan might not have included vengeance and manipulation.
Matteo stops beside them.
“Dante. Lucia,” he says, his voice smooth. “This is Azra.”
The man—Dante—raises a brow, as if he’s heard my name before. When his eyes lower to where Matteo’s hand is still wrapped around mine, Matteo and I pull away.
Our actions only cock Dante’s brow higher.
Lucia smiles warmly. “It’s lovely to meet you, Azra.
” She turns to face the little girl gazing up at me.
“This is Dante’s”—she hesitates for just a moment—“our daughter, Camille,” she finishes, gesturing toward the little girl.
The “our” catches in her throat, as if she’s still getting used to saying it.
The girl beams up at me before holding out her drawing. I lean in and freeze. The picture is unexpected. I’ve never attended a strip club, but I am reasonably sure that’s the premise of her drawing. The silver pole in the center of the image is extremely telling.
I school my expression before anyone notices.
Lucia is too receptive. “It’s a long story.”
Matteo clears his throat before adding to the awkwardness lingering in the air. “And the exact reason we’re here. Lucia has access to a heap of slutty, heart-attack-inspiring dresses.”
Lucia narrows her eyes, ready to bite back. Before she can react, Dante says, “If you ever use Lucia’s name and slutty in the same sentence again, I’ll gut you where you stand.”
His tone is too smooth for me to know if he’s being playful or serious.
I assume the former when Matteo winks, loving that he’s ruffled his feathers.
Lucia laughs softly, touching Dante’s arm. “Ignore them. Dante thinks any dress that isn’t ankle-length is scandalous.” Dante mutters something that sounds suspiciously like agreement. “And Matteo thinks a handkerchief is classy.”
Matteo’s agreeing murmur mimics Dante’s, and I stop looking for similarities. Aside from their eye color, they share many qualities. If they’re not brothers, I didn’t pledge earlier to take care of the tingles still running rampant through me the instant I’m alone in the shower.
“I also had access to…”—Lucia chooses her words wisely—“a slew of enticing dresses. I don’t anymore.”
Dante gleams like a pig in mud as he tosses a key to Matteo. “There are plenty of suitable clothes in Camille’s room. Closet’s full.”
Camille? As in his daughter, who can’t be older than five?
Lucia cuts in before I can get over my shock. “Actually, I got rid of the clothes you bought me, remember? I gave them to that homeless lady.”
She’s a terrible liar. Truly awful. Her eyes dart, and her voice hitches. Dante, however, doesn’t call her out. Surprisingly, he goes along with her deception.
“That’s right. I forgot about that.”
Lucia gives him a butter-wouldn’t-melt-in-my-mouth look before she locks eyes with Matteo. “But there’s a boutique in town that’ll be perfect to get Azra some new outfits. It’s high-end and discreet.”
Dante tries to pluck the key out of Matteo’s hand when he slowly bobs his head, on board with Lucia’s plan, but Matteo slides it into his jeans pocket before he can.
“We’ll visit the boutique after breakfast.”
Before I can respond, he pulls out a chair and places it beside Camille, near the end of the table.
A place of honor and visibility.
No one has ever invited me to sit in this spot before.
“Sit, micina,” Matteo instructs sternly, and I sense the pressure of every eye in the room and the strange, unfamiliar warmth of being included.
I lower myself into the seat. For the first time ever, I forget the etiquette that my upbringing instilled in me.
I am unsure where to place my hands.
Or my thoughts.
Or myself.
Matteo catches my eye from across the table.
“Eat,” he says quietly, nudging a plate a maid recently placed down toward me. “We’ve got a long day ahead.”
At the head of the table, beside a child who smiles as if the cruelty of the underworld will never harm her, surrounded by people who look at each other with something oddly similar to love, I stupidly believe him.