Chapter 9
“The world can be cruel, sweetheart. Don’t let it talk you out of being the person you want to become.”
— ROBERT MONROE
Constance
God, I’m still feeling drunk off Maximo’s nickname even days later. One little slip and the word is stuck in my head on nonstop repeat.
Firefly.
It’s a silly term of endearment, one that implies I’m delicate, weak even, but it’s the one the handsome bastard gave me, so I like it way more than I should. And I want to hear it again, potentially when Maximo’s lips are next to my ear.
Dammit, I like the name so much that I’ve even been getting up early to shower and get ready to have breakfast with him and then eat dinner with him every night. In fact, we’ve spent nearly every moment together this week, like it’s a choice we both keep making.
And at night, well, at least my dreams are no longer nightmares about the fire.
They’re hot, just in a completely different way, and all unfortunately star a certain Italian mobster.
In my fantasies, our power dynamics are flipped.
I’m usually the one in charge, sitting in the chair behind Maximo’s commanding desk, giving him orders and teaching him how I like it while he’s on his knees.
I wake up with my entire body flushed, feeling guilty and embarrassed before I take a cold shower and head down to see the real Maximo at breakfast. An uptight man who has never offered to eat anything except what Chef Francis serves him on his plate.
God, I’m such a fucking fool.
I’m not supposed to be attracted to the man who let my father die.
The man who rules the city through fear and blood. The man who hands me a gun in one breath and offers me a knife in the next.
And yet, here I am, wanting his arrogant mouth and his giant hands on me.
Every inch of me is well aware of the way Maximo looks at me when he thinks I’m not watching. The way he constantly eye-fucks me lately is like a foreplay all on its own. With just a lingering glance, he can make my heart hammer and get my panties wet.
Both of us have been breathing heavier than normal after our morning hand-to-hand combat training.
I’m not sure which is more enjoyable, the way he sometimes sniffs my hair when he’s standing behind me or intentionally brushing the front of his pants with my ass to feel his erection when he does it.
Maximo covers his groans with a cough every time, then immediately declares he has somewhere else to be, somewhere far away from me which is disappointing.
So fine, I want him. Fiercely. Shamefully. It’s the kind of attraction that burns through every reasonable thought.
But nothing can ever happen between us.
I still blame him for failing my father, for letting his men fail my father.
That’s why I do the only thing that keeps me sane. I tease him, deny him, throw guilt in his face every chance I get. Because if I don’t keep him at arm’s length, I’m afraid I’ll give in and beg him for things that I have no business wanting.
If I can’t have distance from him, then I can at least pretend I have some control.
The two of us are relaxing in his library after our second week of training sessions that have left my muscles aching and my fingers twitching for more. Every day we work with knives, guns, and bare fists, all while trying to ignore the tension that’s been building between us.
Maximo is at the far end of the dark, heavy wood table, reviewing surveillance footage on his laptop. I’m pretending to read a book on the other end, but the truth is, I haven’t turned a page in twenty minutes.
Because I can feel him.
I can feel his attention, even when his eyes aren’t on me. The tension in the room changes whenever he’s near. It’s thicker, more charged, like a storm you haven’t seen yet but know is coming.
I hate how much I crave the heat of his attention. The same attention I keep pretending I don’t want.
I need comfort, human contact, something to silence the grief clawing at my insides, but I’ll be damned before I let him see that weakness.
Maximo unfortunately looks up, catching me watching him before I can glance away.
“You’re staring,” he says.
“No, I wasn’t, you arrogant bastard,” I protest with an indignant scoff.
He smirks and leans back in his chair. “You’re a terrible liar.”
I snap my book shut. “I haven’t had any reason to practice, unlike some people.”
Maximo closes his laptop and stands, walking slowly around the table. Every step is measured, deliberate. A proud predator, stalking me in plain sight.
“I’ve never lied to you, have I?”
“How would I know if you had?” I retort.
Maximo’s dark eyes narrow. “What do you see when you look at me, Constance?”
My throat goes dry at his question; his intensity focused solely on me. Still, I lift my chin, meeting his stare head-on, daring him, tempting him, knowing full well that every barb I throw is just me trying to hold the line I already crossed days ago. “I see a man who got my father killed.”
I swear he ever so slightly flinches before he nods. “What else?”
Fuck. He’s going to make me say it.
“A man who feels guilty and wants to own his failures.”
Maximo takes another step closer. The edge of the table digs into his thighs, momentarily drawing my eyes to the crotch of his pants. “That’s also true.”
“You think taking care of me will somehow make amends for failing my father.”
A muscle jumps in his cheek, but he doesn’t deny it.
“I don’t want to be another responsibility you shoulder because it makes you feel better,” I tell him.
Maximo leans over, planting both of his palms on the table in front of me, his darkening eyes locked on mine. “That’s not what this is between us, and you fucking know it,” he replies.
“Then tell me what it is,” I challenge, refusing to look away.
“I want you.” His voice roughens. “And it has nothing to do with my guilt that you can’t go a goddamn hour without throwing in my face.”
Silence follows his declaration that leaves me breathless.
I should get up and walk away. I should remind him what this is.
Vengeance. A partnership born from my father’s murder and necessity.
Not...whatever this growing heat is. It started as a pressure low in my belly days ago, but now I feel it yearning in my chest, down my arms, practically crackling from my fingertips.
I should set boundaries with Maximo now, let him know that I’m just here to find my father’s killer.
“I think you want me too, firefly,” he says softly, using that damn term of endearment before his hand lifts slowly, brushing a piece of hair from my cheek. It’s not a possessive move, and it’s not even seductive.
It’s worse, it’s…tender.
God help me.
How can one gentle touch from him melt every place inside me I swore was frozen?
I lean into it, just a fraction. It’s enough. Maximo cups my jaw, pulling me up from my chair. His lips crash against mine, sealing the two of us together like a vow.
I should push him away. Remind him, both of us, why I’m here. That whatever is spiraling between us is a mistake waiting to happen.
But I also stupidly want to see him lose control because of me. To watch the arrogant bastard want something he can’t have. To see if he’ll get on his knees for me...
So, I kiss him back. For now.
It isn’t a rushed kiss. It isn’t even hungry. It’s reverent, and it destroys me.
Because it soon begins to feel like surrender.
I didn’t come here for this, but I desperately need it. After all the grief and fury of the last few weeks, I need the comfort of his touch.
My hands slide up his chest, curling into Maximo’s shirt. He moves around the table without breaking our kiss, pulling me to him slowly, like he’s giving me time to run. When I don’t, he deepens the kiss, pressing our bodies together, his hand anchoring at my waist to keep me there.
This time, he doesn’t cough to cover up his groan when I rub against the long, hard proof of his arousal.
Heat coils in my stomach. We’re no longer being careful or calculated. We’re just two people who’ve spent too long holding everything we felt inside.
And this?
This is what it feels like to finally let it all go.
Maximo lifts me up onto the edge of the table, settling himself between my legs, mouth still on mine. I tug at his shirt, wanting it off, needing to feel his skin on mine, to see his massive chest again, scars and all. He growls softly in approval, hands skating up my bare thighs.
“Did you wear this dress just to taunt me all day?” he asks as his lips move down my neck.
“Yes,” I answer truthfully. I gave up wearing jeans in the afternoons days ago because I enjoy his reaction to seeing them.
“I fucking knew it,” he replies. “Take it off. Now.”
I’m debating grabbing the hem or telling him to take it off himself when there’s knock at the library door.
One that shatters the heated moment and my temporary insanity.
I jerk back as if I’ve been stung. Maximo fists the bottom of my dress and turns toward the door like he’s ready to shoot whoever is on the other side.
“What?” he snaps.
“We found Pellegrini,” Enzo’s voice replies.
My heart slams into my chest. The reality of my situation crashes back into me at the mention of one man’s name.
What the hell was I thinking?
Maximo doesn’t look at me as he removes his hands from me and walks over to the door. “Stay here.”
I slide off the table, my legs still trembling just to defy him. “That was a mistake,” I manage, breathless. “One that won’t happen again.”
Maximo pauses and looks over his shoulder. There’s nothing but cool confidence on his face when he says, “You’re a terrible liar, firefly,” repeating his earlier assessment and easily calling my bluff.
It is stupid to even try to deny the heat that’s still building between the two of us, and the hunger, even when he’s all the way across the room. I can still taste him on my lips, and all I can think about is how I crave more.
We crossed a line, one we can’t uncross, and we both felt it.
And I don’t think either of us is ready for what comes next.
I don’t wait like Maximo told me to. He probably knew I wouldn’t.
I immediately leave the library and walk the halls until I find a window overlooking the courtyard where a black SUV is idling. I see Enzo in the driver’s seat. There are two more men in the back. Maximo climbs into the passenger seat without hesitation.
A part of me wants to follow him, because distance doesn’t cool what just happened between us. It makes it worse, sharper, brighter, and impossible to ignore.
Whatever that kiss was, it’s not gone. It’s lingering and burning on my lips, unfurling into something I don’t even have a name for.
My body hasn’t forgotten a single place he touched me.
Not one. I can still feel the weight of him against my breasts, between my legs, his fingertips gliding over my face.
I walk back to his office with my book intending to read it this time, but I still can’t focus on a single word on the page.
So, I stand up and pace. I finally pour myself a glass of water, hoping it will cool the flush still lingering in my cheeks.
I try to rationalize my actions by telling myself I was caught up in the heat of the moment.
That grief makes people do reckless things.
That wanting someone dangerous is just another symptom of losing everything.
But my pulse doesn’t slow. My thoughts don’t settle. None of those lies hold.
Maximo was right. I do want him. Not for protection, not for answers. Just for him.
I’ve started to want him in a dark, aching, soul-deep way that terrifies me because it feels like the beginning of a downfall I’d walk into with open arms.
Ever since he handed me a gun for the first time, I’ve wanted to kiss him.
And the real thing wrecked me, because now I know I want more as I take a seat in the chair behind his desk and wait for him to return.