Chapter 7 Gianna #2
"Why?" His voice drops lower, vibrating through the scant inches between us. His eyes—a forest of green with flecks of gold I've never noticed before—search mine relentlessly. "Give me one good reason this can't matter."
The reason is that I'm lying to you. Because my real name isn't Sarah Bennett. Because after all of this, I'll be testifying against your family in a federal courtroom.
A dozen damning truths crowd my throat, but none make it past my lips.
"Because," I finally manage, "we both know this ends badly."
Angelo's laugh is sharp and without humor. "Life ends badly, Sarah. We all die. It's what we do before that matters."
I shake my head slightly, my tongue darting out. His heated gaze falls on my mouth.
I take a step back, my back hitting the bookshelf. There's nowhere to go. Nowhere to hide—from him or from myself.
"Angelo, we can't—" My voice sounds foreign to my own ears, breathless and uncertain.
We can't what?" He steps closer. "Can't acknowledge that every time we're in the same room, the air gets so thick I can barely breathe? Can't admit that you've been running from this—from us—since that kiss? "
His cologne—sandalwood and something darker, more primal—envelopes me. I inhale sharply, trying to clear my head, but it only fills my lungs with more of him.
"There is no us," I insist, pressing my palms flat against the shelf to stop them from reaching for him. "I work for you. This isn't a line that we should cross.”
“The line was fucking crossed when I kissed you." His eyes darken, pupils expanding until only a thin ring of green remains."Stop fighting it."
"This is a mistake," I whisper, even as my body betrays me, leaning toward him.
"Then make it mine," he growls, and then his mouth is on mine.
The kiss isn't gentle like our first. It's hungry, desperate—weeks of tension exploding between us. His hands bracket my face, thumbs pressing into my jawline as my fingers curl into the expensive fabric of his shirt.
I should stop this. My career, my integrity, everything I've built is balanced on a knife's edge. But when his teeth graze my lower lip, rational thought flees.
He presses closer, one thigh sliding between mine, and a sound escapes me—half protest, half surrender.
"Not here," I say, breaking away. "Your family—"
"Bathroom," he growls against my neck, sending shivers down my spine. "End of the hall."
We separate like guilty teenagers, straightening clothes, checking the corridor before I slip out. The ten steps to the bathroom door feel like walking through quicksand, my legs heavy with both want and dread.
The moment the heavy oak door closes behind us, Angelo's on me again, kissing me hard. The marble countertop is cold against my bare thighs as he lifts me onto it, pushing my skirt up around my waist. His eyes never leave mine as he drops to his knees, hands spreading my legs wider.
"Angelo," I protest weakly, too aware of the garden right outside the window. "We shouldn't—"
"You keep saying that," he interrupts, pressing a kiss to my inner thigh that makes me shiver. "Yet here we are."
When his mouth finds my center, my head falls back against the mirror with a dull thud. My hand flies to my mouth, stifling the moan that threatens to escape as his tongue works against me.
“Oh God,” I moan, clutching his hair.
When my hips rock against his face, chasing the building pressure, he pulls back. I bite back a whimper of protest as he rises and licks the remnants of my juices. The gesture is obscene and erotic and makes my stomach clench with desire.
"Turn around," he commands, voice rough. "I want you to see."
He spins me to face the mirror, and the woman reflected is a stranger to me. Flushed cheeks. Swollen lips. Wild eyes bright with a reckless hunger I've never allowed myself to feel, let alone show.
Behind me, Angelo's gaze meets mine in the reflection as he positions himself. There's something almost angry in his expression—frustration and need boiling over after weeks of denial.
"Say my name," he demands, one hand gripping my hip, the other tangled in my hair.
"Angelo," I whisper, and he enters me in one powerful thrust that steals the breath from my lungs.
My gasp echoes off the marble and tile. He covers my mouth with his hand, his other arm banded around my waist to hold me steady as he thrusts so deep I feel him in my stomach.
"This is what you've been running from," he growls in my ear, his breath hot and damp against my skin. "This terrifies you. Not me—us. What we could be."
And God help me, he's right. But not for the reasons he thinks.
I'm terrified because in this moment, with him buried deep inside me, I'm not Agent Gianna Rossi. I'm not even Sarah Bennett, financial consultant. I'm just a woman losing herself in pleasure.
His lips brush the sensitive spot behind my ear, and his fingers dig into my flesh, leaving marks.
“Fuck, your pussy was custom made for me,” he groans deeply, the sound reverberating against me.
And that's what sends me over the edge.
My orgasm builds like a gathering storm, tension coiling tighter with each thrust. When it finally breaks, it tears through me with such force that my vision blurs around the edges.
His rhythm falters as I tighten around him. "Fuck, Sarah," he groans, and the name—the wrong name—is like a slap.
This isn't real. None of it is.
Angelo drops his head in the crook of my neck, his control finally slipping as he follows me over the edge with a muffled groan against my shoulder.
For several heartbeats, we remained frozen in place, his forehead pressed to my shoulder, my hands white-knuckled on the edge of the counter, both of us breathing hard in the aftermath.
The bathroom smells of sex and expensive cologne and the faint lemon of cleaning products. An obscene combination that somehow perfectly encapsulates the moral tangle I've gotten myself into.
I wince slightly as he removes his cock from me, and the weight of what I've just done settles on my shoulders like a dark shroud.
I turn around and watch as Angelo straightens first, adjusting his clothing with no sign of shame about what we've just done. It makes me wonder how many similar encounters he's had in inappropriate places.
He reaches to help smooth my skirt down and locks his gaze on mine. "Don't look so terrified," he says, tucking a strand of hair behind my ear. "I will not announce what just happened to my family over tiramisu."
I manage a weak smile, carefully tucking away the chaos of emotions threatening to overwhelm me. "Your sister already knows.”
His eyebrow arches. "Olivia? What did she say?"
I hesitate, then repeat her warning. His face darkens momentarily before smoothing into a grin.
"She's protective." He shrugs. "But she's not wrong."
"About what?"
"About my making people live with their mistakes." He holds my gaze, something unreadable flickering in his eyes. "I don't forget. And I don't forgive easily."
A chill runs through me that has nothing to do with the coolness of the bathroom tile beneath my feet.
"Is that a threat?" I ask, my professional mask slipping back into place.
"Not for you." He presses a kiss to my forehead. "Not unless you give me a reason to make it one."
He leaves first, straightening his tie as if nothing happened. I remain staring at my reflection in the mirror. My lips are swollen, cheeks flushed. I look like exactly what I am—a woman who just had sex in a bathroom during a family dinner.
But it's my eyes that disturb me most.
They hold a question I'm not ready to answer.
What have I done?
I think of the evidence I've gathered. These are the files I've documented. I have recorded the conversations. The meetings I've documented in reports to Kaif.
I think of Angelo's hands, his mouth, the way he felt inside of me, his green eyes, his lazy smile.
I think of Olivia's warning.
If you're hiding anything from him, make sure it's worth the cost.
Is it?
As I smooth my hair and adjust my clothing, preparing to return to the room full of criminals who've welcomed me into their home, I wonder for the first time since taking this assignment:
Is bringing down the Bellantis worth losing the woman I'm becoming when I'm with him?
Is justice worth what I'll see in Angelo's eyes when he learns that Sarah Bennett doesn't exist—that she's nothing but a fabrication designed to get close enough to destroy everything he loves?
And the question that terrifies me most, the one I don't dare articulate even in the privacy of my mind:
When this is over, will I be able to live with what I've done to him?
I shake my head and straighten my spine. I reapply my lipstick, and smooth my hair. Agent Gianna Rossi doesn't have the luxury of doubt. She doesn't have the freedom to fall for her target or question her mission.
When I go back to the garden and I see them laughing and strengthening their bonds over dinner, something plummets within me. It gets worse when I lock eyes on Angelo and he gives me a wide smile, showing his dimples.
I manage a weak smile in return, but I can't silence the whisper in the back of my mind:
What if Angelo Bellanti isn't the villain in this story?
What if I am?