16. Pietro
PIETRO
SHE ARGUES LIKE SHE BELONGS TO ME
A fter spending time with my brother before he jets out to meet contractors, I return to my penthouse. My heart races as I approach the door, even though I know she won’t be here.
She either followed my instructions or was hungry, judging by how much she ate. The table is covered with plates, and most of the food has been eaten. I see a note.
Thanks for breakfast. A.
I chuckle. It appears we can communicate after all.
I enter the bedroom and am surprised to find the bed made.
She left her shirt, which means she took mine.
My heartfelt smile emerges. I pick up her garment and sniff it before I tuck it under my pillow.
Then I find her panties and smile. I pick them up and sniff them before I place them in my dresser drawer.
I listen to Italian music on the vintage record player, tidy the dining room, and put the trays outside the door. I contemplate Amara and I working together. Even now, I wonder what we’re going to argue over tonight. I have to admit, she has fire. And I love a passionate woman.
I walk into my office and pull my laptop out of the safe. I review the investments for the family and make phone calls. Renalto sent me pictures of the two of them on the Amalfi coast, and for a minute, I’m homesick. I’m happy for him, and it appears he thwarted the Borrelli curse.
I eat a large steak and pasta for dinner, sipping on an expensive bottle of Sicilian wine, but I miss Amara.
I shave and shower before I dress in a Brioni suit and Italian loafers.
I’m more at home in jeans and sneakers, but this is what the job requires.
One can’t be commanding while walking around in everyday streetwear.
I slide my laptop into the safe and close it before I head out for what I assume will be an interesting evening.
The night at work was not as smooth as I had hoped. The club hums with energy, but there’s an edge to it, something simmering beneath the surface. It doesn’t help that Amara keeps challenging me at every turn, and I swear she does it just to piss me off.
She storms toward me as I lean against the VIP bar, looking like she’s ready to throw something. “Did you seriously book two VIP tables for those guys without running it by me?”
I barely glance up. “They’re high rollers.”
“They’re dangerous.” She stands authoritatively and my cock twitches. She’s adorable when she’s riled up.
I smirk, knowing it’ll piss her off more. “So am I.”
She exhales sharply, crossing her arms. “This is a business. I make the calls on events, and you’re a control freak who doesn’t understand the concept of compromise.”
I finally gave her my full attention, my eyes locking onto hers.
“Compromise? You mean letting you decide who walks through those doors while I sit back and hope you don’t piss off the wrong person? What if someone comes in with a gun or a knife? I supply the protection.”
She throws her hands up. “Oh, so now you suddenly care about safety?”
“Only when it involves you,” I say smoothly, and I see the way her breath catches. Not with fear. Something else. Something I want to push until she admits what’s between us is real.
She moves closer to me. “And what is it with your family anyway? I’ve heard things,” she says in a low voice .
“What have you heard?”
“Things. Your family has a reputation. Most of the celebrities on Page Six, as are their cronies, are as corrupt as politicians.”
“Not all of us, I hope.” I assume she is referring to the wedding. I’m sure it’s worthy of Page Six.
“I’ve heard your name whispered in certain circles, the kind of circles you don’t want to be associated with if you don’t want trouble.” Her voice is suddenly filled with concern, not attitude.
Does my little Princess care about me?
But before I can fire back again, some drunk asshole slides up beside her, too close, wearing a sloppy, intoxicated grin. “Hey, sweetheart, you got a minute?”
She takes a step back, already irritated. “Not for you.”
The guy is bold or stupid because he reaches out, running his fingers down her arm. “Aw, don’t be like that.”
I don’t even have to think. One second, I’m next to her, and the next, I have the guy shoved against the bar, my hand gripping his throat just hard enough to make a point.
“She said no.” My voice is low and lethal, and my patience is nonexistent. He touched her, and he’ll answer me.
The man chokes out something close to an apology, and I release him with a shove. He stumbles away fast, disappearing into the crowd. I let him go, realizing I can’t kill patrons while they are in my club.
I expect Amara to be pissed, or to throw some smart-ass remark about how she can handle herself. But when I turn to her, something else in her expression makes my blood heat.
“He was just some idiot,” she mutters, looking anywhere but at me.
My jaw clenches. “Doesn’t matter. He doesn’t get to touch what’s mine.”
She scoffs, shaking her head like she wants to argue, but a flush creeps up her neck. “Oh, so now I’m yours?”
I step closer, my fingers brushing her wrist, my touch is possessive even in its softness. “You were from the minute I saw you.”
The words slip out before I can stop them, and she doesn’t pull away. The air between us crackles, but before either of us can break it, Matteo appears, laughing like he’s been watching the whole damn thing.
“So, this is her,” Matteo says, amused. “The woman from the bachelor party.”
I shot him a warning look. “Shut up.”
Matteo smirks. “Man, you’re screwed.”
Amara arches a brow. “What’s he talking about?”
I sigh, rubbing my jaw. “Nothing. This is my brother, Matteo.” I introduced him matter-of-factly, and I wonder what she heard about our family. We’re not publicly connected to crime. Where is she getting her information? More importantly, what else does she know?
She glances at me, curiosity flickering behind her eyes, but I change the subject before she can push.
“Excuse us,” I murmur and disengage from Amara as I steer my brother to the office.
“So that’s what’s has you excited,” Matteo smirks. “I have to admit, she’s a beauty.”
“She’s not a beauty product,” I snap. “And you’re happily married.”
“Touchy, aren’t you?” he smirks.
I huff with angst as I sit. Matteo decides to lean against the doorway.
“What did you find out?” I hastily reply.
“She’s Amarita Moretti.”
I let this sink in for a minute.
Morretti?
How can she be a Moretti?
“Obviously, I didn’t know,” I murmur, but his pensive look concerns me.
“What do I do now?”
“I say you string her along. Find out what she’s up to.
She may be spying on us. She’s changed her name, but it was easy to find.
She didn’t hire a professional. Otherwise, it would have been hidden better, and her age would have been changed.
Whoever is looking for her won’t have difficulty finding her—if that was what she wanted to gain from it, anyway. ”
It makes sense. Anyone wanting to disappear from the mafia has to burn their past and take a new identity completely opposite to their own.
“We both know it costs hundreds of thousands of dollars,” I say. “However, I doubt she’s spying on us. It just doesn’t track. She wouldn’t have known we’d be at that club for the bachelor party. Even if she knew who I was, I’m not that green.
Something else is going on with her. “I don’t think she’s a mole.” Matteo sends me a guarded look, and his eyebrows lift. “But it’s our family and we can’t take chances,” I add.
“Exactly,” he replies as if he anticipated I’d come around to his point of view on the situation.
“My gut instincts tell me she’s been abused. But she hasn’t verbalized anything.”
“Her father is Stefano, and since the family is involved in human trafficking with Petrovi?, it’s not unreasonable to make the leap that her father might be abusive to women.” Matteo straightens in the doorway, adding, “It’s just a thought.”
“No, it makes sense. And Petrovi? may want the Moretti’s to make amends for the money he lost with the shitshow that went down over Trey. What if he wants something from Stefano that’s not his to give?”
“Like what?”
“I’m not sure. Money, a territory? Maybe a piece of our territory. The Morettis are notorious for trying to take what’s ours.”
“True.” Matteo straightens. “Well, I have to go,” he says as he pushes off the doorframe, “Keep your friends close…”
“And your enemies closer,” I finish the sentence for him.
“I don’t think you’ll have a difficult time keeping her close. I have men on her. We’ll know more soon.”
I want to say it’s not necessary, but I can’t show weakness. We’re in a dark world, and everyone wants something. What does Amara want from me? Is it impossible to think that she likes me for me and that there’s no ulterior motive?
Women always want something from me, and that’s what has me confused. Amara isn’t like other women. She’s not walking around in thousand-dollar dresses with fake nails, weaved eyebrows, and Botoxed lips. Those things cost money.
Her clothing is minimal. I’ve noticed her recycling the same outfits. The only thing she wore that cost money was the red-bottom shoes she wore the night we met.
The fact that she ate all her breakfast tells me she either liked the food or it was a splurge for her, and she doesn’t need a diet. She’s too thin. What are you hiding, Amara?
Maybe Amara likes the finer things in life, but doesn’t have money. Why would that occur? Is Daddy punishing her? Did he cut her off? Or does he want something she’s not willing to give?
The night continues, and I can’t stop staring at Amara as she works.
She has a bachelor’s party in a VIP room, and they are getting loud.
I see a stripper heading that way, and I run interference, calling Amara aside on a bogus errand to check the champagne so I can let the stripper slip by undetected.
The night is already halfway to hell when Amara finds me in the VIP lounge, eyes blazing, shoulders squared like she’s ready to go twelve rounds.
I lean against the bar, swirling the last of my drink, pretending not to notice how her hands are clenched into fists at her sides. “Something on your mind, Princess?”
Her laugh is sharp, humorless. “Don’t call me that, and you’re really going to act like you don’t know?”
I take my time setting my water glass down as I look her over. She’s furious, but beneath it, there’s something else. Betrayal.
“I’m gonna need a little more to go on,” I say lazily. “You get mad at me at least three times a night, so you’re gonna have to be more specific.”
She steps closer, tilting her head. “Okay, let me spell it out for you, boss. You had me track down a ridiculously expensive case of champagne, kept me talking, and you had me try the champagne to test it just so you could let a pack of strippers into the VIP room for that bachelor party.”
Ah .
She’s pissed I got the upper hand—and she didn’t see it coming.
I smirk. “That sounds about right.”
She exhales sharply, and her nostrils flare. “And you didn’t think to consult me? You know, since I actually help run this place?”
“I made a judgment call.”
“You made a bullshit call,” she huffs. I love the way her anger makes her hot and bothered as her breathing is rapid and her boobs are prominent as she thrusts back her shoulders.
I’d love to make her shoulders thrust back, but it would entail her being under me or sitting on my cock as she screams my name, arching her beautiful back in ecstasy as we come together.
I tilt my head. “Come on, don’t be dramatic. It’s a bachelor’s party, Amara. What did you think they were gonna do in there? Play board games?”
She throws her hands up. “I thought they’d drink, maybe get wasted, and embarrass themselves. Not turn the VIP area into a goddamn strip club.”
“They’re paying for the experience.”
“And I’m paying for the headache of keeping this place reputable.”
I push off the bar, stepping closer to her and lowering my voice so that only she can hear. “Reputable is not fun. And yet, you’re more angry that I distracted you so easily.”
She stiffens. “You’re unbelievable.” She throws her hands out like she’s giving a sermon, and perhaps she is.
“I never pegged you for being an uptight person. You’re anything but in bed. And you’re adorable when you’re mad.”
She glares at me. “And you’re an arrogant ass.”
I grin because I love it when she gets like this—fired up, sharp, all sharp edges and glowing like a winter fire. “If it makes you feel any better, I picked the champagne myself. Only the best for my favorite pain in the ass.”
She folds her arms. “Oh, that makes it so much better.”
“I knew it would.”
She shakes her head, muttering something under her breath. “If you pull this kind of shit again?—”
“What? You gonna fire me?” I smirk. "Hate to break it to you, but I own the place."
“And I run it,” she shoots back, eyes flashing. “And the next time you pull something like this, I’ll make sure you regret it.”
I don’t doubt that for a second, and fuck, I love that about her. She stands her ground, even when she’s up against me. Maybe especially then.
“Noted,” I say, dragging my fingers along her wrist, feeling how her pulse jumps before she jerks her hand away.
She points a finger at me, voice firm. “No more distractions.”
I nod, trying to look sincere. “No more distractions,” I lie.
She narrows her eyes. “You’re lying.”
“Yeah,” I admit readily. “But you already knew that, so it doesn’t count,” I chuckle. I love how she calls me on my bullshit.
She takes a sharp breath, then turns on her heel and storms out of the VIP lounge, leaving me grinning like a bastard.
I love it when she fights me.
Because sooner or later, I will win. It’s only a matter of time before I’ll have her bent over my office desk, screaming my name.