Chapter 8 Gianna
Gianna
My phone buzzes against the nightstand, shattering the silence of my apartment. I check the caller ID, and my heart stops.
Angelo.
"I need you at my penthouse. Now." His voice is all business. "We have a situation with the Hong Kong restructuring."
I try to keep my voice level. "I'll be there in thirty."
The elevator ride to the penthouse feels like descending into dangerous territory. Every floor that passes brings me closer to the man I'm supposed to destroy, the man whose kiss I can't seem to forget.
When the doors open, I step directly into Angelo's sprawling penthouse. It's my first time here, and I am once again reminded of how filthy rich he is.
"Little Auditor." His voice comes from behind me.
I turn to find him standing in a doorway, wearing designer jeans and a simple black t-shirt that clings to his chest in a way that makes my mouth go dry. It's jarring seeing him like this—casual, approachable. Dangerous.
"Mr. Bellanti." I nod professionally, clutching my briefcase.
His eyes rake over me, lingering on my lips. The memory of what happened the last time hangs between us, electric and unacknowledged.
He scowls. “I've been inside you, Sarah, don't insult me by calling me that.”
Heat rises to my face. "I'm here for work.
" I'm painfully aware of how we've been orbiting each other since what happened at his father's estate.
He's seemed on the verge of bringing it up ever since then, but I haven't given him the chance. It’s clear he doesn't like it, so I'm grateful that he doesn't push it.
"Of course you are." He gestures to a dining table covered in papers. "Hong Kong's a mess. We need to restructure before the Kovacs get their hands on our shipping operations."
For the next few hours, we pore over documents. I try to memorize every detail for my report to Kaif. This is exactly what the SEC needs—concrete evidence of the family’s international money laundering operations.
Every time Angelo leans close to point at something, his cologne intoxicates me. When our fingers brush over spreadsheets, electricity shoots up my arm. I catch him watching me when he thinks I'm absorbed in the numbers, his gaze heavy with unspoken desire.
Outside, the sky darkens. Thunder cracks, making me jump. Angelo glances at the windows where rain now lashes against the glass.
"Terrible storm," he mutters, pulling out his phone. He scrolls through something, frowning. "They've issued flash flood warnings. Roads are already underwater in parts of the city."
I check my watch. "I should go before it gets worse."
"Don't be ridiculous." His tone leaves no room for argument. "You're staying here tonight."
My pulse quickens. This is simultaneously the worst thing that could happen and the best opportunity I've had.
"I couldn't impose—"
"It's not an imposition. It's common sense." He runs a hand through his hair, messing it up in a way that makes him look almost boyish. "I won't be responsible for you drowning in a flooded subway tunnel."
I nod, trying to look reluctant. "Thank you."
He steps away to take a call, and I instantly switch into agent mode. This is my chance. I pull a small transmitter from my purse and slip it beneath the edge of the coffee table.
As I approach his bookshelf, looking for another placement opportunity, I hear his footsteps.
"Looking for something?" His voice is casual, but I detect a hint of suspicion.
My heart races. "Reading material," I stammer. "In case I can't sleep."
He studies me for a moment, and I'm certain he's about to call my bluff. Then his phone rings again.
"Kovacs," he mutters, glancing at the screen. "Help yourself to whatever you want. Make yourself at home."
While he was on the call, I strategically placed two more transmitters around his office. Each one is smaller than a dime, virtually undetectable.
Later, Angelo insists I take his master bedroom while he sleeps in the guest room. I protest, but he just smirks.
"Even criminals have manners, Little Auditor."
I slip into his bedroom immediately overwhelmed by his scent—expensive cologne and something uniquely him. I change into the t-shirt he's lent me, which falls to my thighs. Sleep doesn't come. Instead, I stare at the ceiling, listening to the storm rage outside, mirroring the conflict inside me.
Around 3 AM, I give up on sleep and wander the penthouse. I find Angelo in his office, bathed in the blue light of his computer screen, his shoulders tense.
"Can't sleep?" he asks without looking up.
"Too much on my mind."
He finally turns to face me, and his expression transforms. For a moment, his eyes drop to my legs, bare beneath his t-shirt, and something flashes in his expression—hunger, definitely, but vulnerability too. Something raw and unfiltered that makes my breath catch.
"I know the feeling." He rubs his eyes. "There's Scotch in the cabinet."
I don't take the scotch, but I take a seat across from him. "Do you work this late often?"
He laughs softly. "Always. The Bellanti empire doesn't run itself."
"And you have to be the one to run it?"
Something shifts in his expression. "Someone has to.
My father's retired. My older brother handles the.
.. traditional aspects of our business. Isabella handles our legitimate businesses.
Olivia is concerned about her new law firm, and Lorenzo takes care of…
.certain things. While I take care of the money aspect. That's my domain."
"It must be a lot of pressure," I say, and I'm surprised to find I mean it.
He looks at me for a long moment. "You do not know. It's not just about money. It's about family. Employees. People who depend on us."
I wrap my arms around myself, suddenly cold. Without a word, Angelo stands and walks to a closet, returning with a soft blanket. As he drapes it around my shoulders, his hands linger, fingertips grazing my collarbone. Our eyes meet, and the air between us charges with electricity.
"Why are you being so nice to me?" I whisper.
His fingers brush my cheek, trailing fire in their wake. "Maybe I'm tired of fighting with you."
I should pull away. I should remember who he is, what he does. I should remember who I am and why I'm here. Instead, I lean into his touch.
"We haven't talked about what happened," I breathe, hardly recognizing my voice.
His jaw tightens. "What's there to say? I've tried to talk to you about it, and there's only a certain number of rejections a guy can take."
I bite my lip.
He leans down until I can feel the heat radiating from his body. "But I still need to know. So, tell me," he says, his voice a rough whisper. "Tell me you don't feel this too."
My back hits the back of the couch.
"Angelo, we can't—"
“You know, I'm fucking tired of hearing that fucking statement from your mouth,” he growls, placing his mouth on mine.
I gasp lightly, and this gives him the opportunity to thrust his tongue deep into my mouth. His hands bracket my face, thumbs pressing into my jawline as my fingers curl into the soft cotton of his shirt. I can feel his heart hammering against his ribs, matching the frantic pace of my own.
I should stop this. My career, my integrity, everything I've built is at stake. 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. The blanket falls away, forgotten.
"I've been thinking about you," he confesses against my neck, his breath hot against my skin. "Every night since that day in the bathroom. I can't focus. Can't sleep."
His confession tears at me. I have been thinking about him too. In the darkness of my apartment, alone with nothing but case files and the memory of his scent, I've imagined this…wanted this again, even as I hated myself for daring to desire the feel of him inside me again.
I slide my hands under his shirt, needing to feel skin beneath my fingertips.
He groans into my mouth as my nails drag lightly down his back.
In one fluid motion, he lifts me, my legs wrapping instinctively around his waist. I can feel him hard against me as he carries me out of the office to his bedroom.
"Tell me to stop," he challenges, eyes locked on mine as he lowers me onto his bed. "Tell me you don't want this."
The lie dies on my lips as his hands push his t-shirt up my thighs. His fingers trace patterns on my skin, each touch sending sparks through my nervous system.
"Angelo," I gasp as he finds the edge of my underwear. "I don't think..."
“Shut the fuck up or I'll shut you up with your panties,” he snarls, sliding down my panties.
Such a degrading statement shouldn't affect me, but God help me, it does.
He kisses his way up my inner thigh, his stubble creating a delicious friction that makes me squirm. When he reaches my pussy, he looks up at me, eyes burning with an intensity that makes my heart stutter.
"I want to eat you out properly," he says, his voice rough with desire. "I've been dreaming about it ever since I had a taste the last time.”
The first touch of his mouth sends lightning through me.
I arch off the bed, a strangled cry escaping my lips.
His hands grip my thighs, keeping me spread open as he devours me like a starving man.
His tongue is relentless, circling, flicking, building a pressure inside me that threatens to shatter my very being.
When my legs shake, he pulls away, a wicked gleam in his eyes. "Not yet," he growls, crawling up my body to capture my mouth in a searing kiss. I taste myself on his lips and moan.
He tugs at the hem of his shirt, "I fucking love you in my shirt, but I need this off. Now!” he commands.
I raise my arms, letting him pull it over my head. His eyes darken as he takes in my naked form, a muscle jumping in his jaw. "You're even more beautiful than I imagined."
Before I can respond, his mouth is on my breast, tongue circling one nipple as his fingers tease the other. I arch into him, desperate for more contact. My hands tangle in his hair, holding him to me as pleasure courses through my veins.
"Angelo," I plead, not even sure what I'm asking for.
He seems to understand, though. In one smooth movement, he sits back on his heels and pulls his own shirt over his head.
His chest is a work of art—sculpted muscle dusted with dark hair that narrows to a trail disappearing beneath his sweatpants.
I reach out, tracing the contours with trembling fingers.
"You're overdressed," I whisper.
He smirks, with that arrogant expression that simultaneously infuriates and arouses me. "Patience, Little Auditor."
But I'm done with patience. I sit up, hooking my fingers into the waistband of his pants, tugging him toward me. "Now," I demand.
A flash of surprise crosses his face, followed by a grin that can only be described as wolfish. He stands, shoving his pants and boxers down in one swift movement.
My breath catches. He's magnificent—all lean muscle and tanned skin. And he wants me. The evidence of that desire stands proud between his legs.
"Like what you see?" he asks, but the cockiness in his tone is belied by the vulnerability in his eyes.
"Come here," I answer, holding out my hand.
He joins me on the bed, covering my body with his own. The feeling of skin on skin is electric, setting every nerve ending ablaze. His mouth finds mine again as his hand slides between us, fingers exploring, testing, preparing.
"Angelo," I gasp as he hits a spot that makes my vision blur. "Please."
He reaches for a condom in the nightstand drawer, sheathing himself. Then he's positioning himself at my entrance, his eyes locked on mine.
“Fuck!” I breathe as he enters me in one powerful thrust.
The sensation is overwhelming—pleasure edged with the perfect amount of pain. He stills, giving me time to adjust, his forehead pressed to mine, breath coming in ragged pants.
"You feel incredible," he groans, and then he moves.
His rhythm is deliberate at first, controlled. But as I match his movements, raising my hips to meet each thrust, that control fractures. One of his hands grips my hip, the other braced beside my head as he drives into me with increasing urgency.
“If it's going to feel this much better every time we fuck, I will not let you out of my bed,” he growls, his voice strained.
He rolls his hips, grinding against my clit, and a whimper escapes my mouth.
"Look at me," he commands as he feels me tightening around him. "I want to see your eyes when you come."
It's his undoing that triggers mine. The moment his rhythm falters, his body tensing above me, I let go. Wave after wave of pleasure washes over me, his name a chant on my lips.
He follows seconds later, my name—the wrong name—a groan against my neck as he shudders inside me.
We lie tangled together as our breathing slows, his weight a comforting pressure. Eventually, he rolls to the side, pulling me against his chest. His heartbeat thunders under my ear.
"Stay," he murmurs, pressing a kiss to my temple.
I should say no. Should make an excuse and retreat to the guest room. Instead, I nod against his chest, letting his steady breathing lull me toward sleep.
Just before consciousness slips away, I feel him trace patterns on my bare shoulder. "What are you doing to me, Sarah?" he whispers.
My heart shatters into a million pieces.
A few minutes later, Angelo falls asleep beside me, one arm still draped possessively across my waist. In sleep, he looks way younger, unburdened.
Almost innocent.
My chest aches with the weight of my betrayal.
I ask myself again: What have I done?
I've crossed a line I can't uncross. I've compromised everything—my mission, my career, my integrity. And for what? To spend a night with a man who would hate me if he knew the truth?
Yet as I watch him sleep, I can't bring myself to regret it. Not yet. My waist is held close when his arm is wrapped around me. Not when his breathing is steady against my skin.
Later, I'll have to face the consequences. Later, I'll remember who I am and why I'm here. Tomorrow, I'll be Special Agent Gianna Rossi again.
But today, at least in my heart, I’m just Gianna.
A woman falling for a man she shouldn't want. A woman caught between duty and desire.
A woman who's placed surveillance devices in the home and office of the man she's falling for—and who does not know how to reconcile these two realities.