Chapter Nineteen
Victoria
Mario’s house is not what I expect.
I am not sure what I expected.
Something cold, maybe. Vast and intimidating, with marble floors and rooms no one actually lives in. Something that looks more like a museum than a home. A place built to impress guests and remind everyone exactly how much power belongs to the man who owns it.
It is large and secure.
The gates alone made that clear.
When we step inside, the house is quiet but warmer than I expected. Dark wood, soft lighting, wide halls, art that looks expensive without screaming it. There are fresh flowers on a table in the foyer, and a faint scent from them and something savory drifting from deeper inside.
The kind of house that has staff.
The kind of house that also has ghosts.
I feel that without being able to explain it.
Mario closes the door behind us, and the sound echoes softly in the large entryway.
I glance around before I can stop myself.
He notices.
He notices everything.
“The house is empty,” he says.
I look back at him.
“My boys are gone for the evening.”
His boys.
Oh God.
His sons.
He has sons. Adult sons.
Sons who are only a couple of years younger than me.
The thought drops into my stomach like a stone.
For one brief, horrifying second, I see myself from the outside. Victoria Murray, not even thirty, Managing Partner, standing in Mario Conti’s house after letting him do unspeakable things to her in his office while his grown sons exist somewhere in the world.
What am I doing?
This is insane.
This is beyond insane.
This is the kind of decision that should come with a legal waiver, a psychiatric evaluation, and possibly a priest.
Mario’s gaze sharpens on my face. “What?”
“Nothing.”
His eyes narrow slightly.
I force myself not to look guilty.
Which is difficult, because I feel guilty about approximately eighteen things at once.
“Victoria.”
“I just remembered you have sons.”
His expression does not change, but something like amusement flickers at the corner of his mouth.
“Yes.”
“Sons,” I repeat, because apparently I need the full horror spoken aloud. Repeatedly.
“Yes.”
“Adult sons.”
“Also, yes.”
I look away and press my lips together.
Mario steps closer. “Does that bother you?”
Yes.
No.
Maybe.
Not enough.
That is the problem.
“It should,” I say honestly.
His gaze moves over my face, careful now. “Does it?”
I take a breath.
It would be easier if I could lie.
It would be easier if I could say yes, excuse myself, return to my apartment, and resume being a sensible person with sensible boundaries and a sensible understanding of why sleeping with a powerful client who has adult sons is a catastrophic idea.
But I am not leaving.
I know that.
He knows that.
And the heat burning in my stomach definitely knows that.
“It… bothers me that it doesn’t bother me,” I say. “It makes me question my judgment.”
His mouth curves faintly. “Only that?”
I hate that my own mouth wants to curve in response.
“Do not look pleased with yourself.”
“I am trying not to.”
“You are failing.”
“I often do with you.”
That is unfair.
Soft enough to disarm me.
Honest enough to make my chest tighten.
Then he touches my lower back, just a light pressure through the fabric of my coat, and my entire moral crisis takes a step back to make room for wanting him.
Apparently, shame is no match for Mario Conti’s hand on my spine.
“Come,” he says. “Dinner is ready.”
Dinner.
Oh God.
Like normal people.
I thought we were just coming back here to... well, fuck.
But dinner? I don't know if I can do this.
I let him lead me through the house.
The dining room is already set. Not formally, exactly, but beautifully. Two places at the end of a long table, candles lit between them, a bottle of red wine breathing beside the glasses. There is food arranged in covered dishes on a sideboard, steam curling up when Mario lifts one of the lids.
My stomach chooses that moment to remind me that I have not eaten since lunch.
Of course, he hears it.
His gaze shifts to me, and his mouth curves again, doing unspeakable things to my nerves. Damn it.
“Sit.”
I give him a look.
He gives me one back.
I sit.
Mostly because I am hungry.
Partly because the man is impossible.
He pours wine first, the deep red catching the candlelight as it fills my glass.
Then he serves dinner as if it is the most ordinary thing in the world.
Pasta in a rich sauce, roasted vegetables, tender slices of meat I do not ask too many questions about because I am too busy trying not to look overly impressed.
It is excellent.
Of course it is.
Everything about Mario’s life seems designed to make my standards impossible.
We eat.
At first, it is strange.
Not awkward exactly. Just unfamiliar. This is not my apartment with takeout containers and exhaustion blurring my mind too much to think about it. This is his house. His table. His space. A space that tells me pieces of him I am not sure he intended to reveal.
He asks about work, but not too much.
I tell him about Ainsley’s payroll findings, Benjamin’s vendor summaries, Lorenzo’s help with department escalation, and all the other little things that go into an audit like this.
Mario listens, occasionally asking questions that are too sharp and too useful.
Then the conversation shifts.
Florence. Naples. Chicago winters. My first office, which was so small I could reach the printer and the doorknob without leaving my chair. His first acquisition, which he describes with enough restraint that I know the real story probably involves a lot more than he's saying.
By the time dinner is over, I am full, warm from the wine, and dangerously comfortable.
Dangerously, because this is not supposed to feel easy.
I am not supposed to like sitting across from him like this.
I am not supposed to notice how his face changes by candlelight. How the severe lines soften just enough to make him look less untouchable. How he watches me over the top of his wineglass.
But I notice it all.
After dinner, he walks around the table and holds out his hand.
I do not hesitate.
The second my fingers slide into his, the air between us crackles.
That easily.
That quickly.
He pulls me to my feet, not roughly, not gently. Just with that certainty that makes my body react before my brain can interfere.
“Thank you for dinner,” I say.
“You’re welcome.”
His hand is still holding mine.
His thumb moves once over my knuckles.
My pulse stumbles.
“This was very civilized,” I add, suddenly feeling awkward and wishing those words had never come out of my mouth.
His eyes lift to mine. “Was it?”
“Mostly.”
His mouth curves.
Then he kisses me.
Not like in his office.
Not like he is trying to ruin me immediately.
This kiss is slower. Deeper. A thorough takeover that starts at my mouth and spreads through every part of me until my hand is gripping his shirt and my body is leaning into his without permission.
His arm goes around my waist.
I melt.
There is no other word for it.
I melt against him as if my bones have completely dissolved.
The kiss turns hotter.
His tongue slides against mine, and I make a small sound into his mouth that makes his grip tighten.
I remember, suddenly and vividly, that I am wearing plain black underwear.
Plain.
Practical.
Fine.
Nothing embarrassing, exactly.
But not the blue lace.
Not the lingerie sitting in the box in my bedroom, because I had not thought I would end up here tonight when I got dressed this morning.
Well.
That is not entirely true.
I had thought about ending up here.
I had just been trying not to admit it.
The thought makes me groan softly, more in frustration than pleasure.
Mario pulls back slightly. “What?”
“Nothing.”
His eyes narrow.
I hate how well he already knows that means absolutely not nothing.
I blow out a breath, nervous and overheated and apparently incapable of leaving bad ideas alone.
“I was just thinking that if I had known dinner at your house was on the agenda, I might have made a different wardrobe choice.”
His gaze drops slowly down my body.
My skin heats under my practical work attire, under the perfectly boring bra and panties beneath it.
“A different wardrobe choice,” he repeats.
“It was a joke.”
“No, it wasn’t.”
My face burns. “Fine. It was a nervous comment disguised as a joke.”
His hand slides to my hip. “About the lingerie.”
I wish the floor would open.
“Yes.”
He studies me for a moment, and I cannot read his expression.
Then he says, “The blue set was not the only option.”
I blink.
“What?”
“It was not the only option.”
I stare at him. “What does that mean?”
Instead of answering, he takes my hand again and leads me out of the dining room.
“Mario.”
He says nothing.
We walk through the foyer and up a wide staircase to the second floor.
I am suddenly, intensely aware that I am in his house and going upstairs with him.
The wine is warm in my blood. His hand is warm around mine.
Every step feels closer and closer like a decision I'm not sure I can take back. One I'm not sure I want to.
At the top of the stairs, he leads me down the hall and through the double doors at the end into his bedroom.
I try not to look too curious.
I fail.
The room is large and masculine without being cold.
Dark bedding on a huge bed in the center of the room.
A sitting area near the windows. A fireplace set into one wall.
No clutter, but not impersonal. His suit jacket lies over the back of a chair, and there is a book on the nightstand, turned facedown.
I catch that detail and hold onto it for some reason.
Then he opens a door to what I assume is the closet.
It is not a closet.
Or at least not something that can only be defined as one.
It might as well be another room.
A beautiful, absurd, ruthlessly organized room lined with suits, shirts, shoes, drawers, and built-ins.
I stop just inside. “Of course.”
He looks back. “What?”
“Nothing. This is exactly as unreasonable as I should have expected.”
His mouth curves, but he keeps walking.
Then he opens one of the wide drawers in the center island.
I step closer.
And stop breathing.
Inside are boxes.
Several of them.
White, cream, pale gray, black. Different sizes. Different ribbons. All unmistakably expensive.
My mouth opens.
No sound comes out.
Mario reaches into the drawer and lifts one out.
“This one was first,” he says, setting it on the island.
A dark red ribbon.
Another box follows.
“This was too pale.”
Then another.
“This one was nearly correct.”
I stare at him. “Nearly correct.”
“Yes.”
“You bought multiple sets of lingerie.”
His expression says this is self-evident.
“For me.”
“Yes.”
“Mario.”
He ignores me and pulls the ribbon on one of the boxes.
"This one was perfect. More so than the blue even." He opens it to reveal deep green lace. "However, I thought you would object to it."
My words disappear.
This is no ordinary green. It's not exactly an emerald green either. It's deeper than that. Smoky and rich and elegant.
His eyes move from the lingerie to my face.
“This made me think of your eyes.”
Oh.
That is not fair.
That is not even remotely fair.
I step closer despite myself.
The green is beautiful.
Ridiculously beautiful.
More beautiful than anything I own or have ever even considered owning.
I touch the edge of the lace with one finger.
It feels even softer than the blue.
My throat tightens.
“This is…” I stop and try again. “This is a lot of money.”
“Yes.”
I look up at him.
He does not even have the decency to look concerned.
“I mean, a lot,” I clarify. “Like, an irresponsible amount. Like, an amount that makes me want to sit down and breathe into a paper bag.”
His mouth curves faintly.
“You don’t have to worry about that.”
“That is absolutely the kind of sentence only someone with too much money would say.”
“I happen to have too much money.”
I give him a look.
He does not appear sorry.
Not even slightly.
I look back at the boxes. “I can bring the blue one back.”
His expression changes to a stern one.
“No.”
“It’s still in the box and everything."
“No.”
“I tried it on, but I didn’t wear it-wear it.”
His eyes darken at that.
I realize what I said one second too late.
Mistake.
“My point,” I say quickly, “is that I don’t need multiple sets of lingerie that cost more than my first car.”
“Then do not think of them as something you need.”
“What should I think of them as?”
“Something I want.”
My stomach flips.
He reaches into the box and lifts the green bra from the tissue paper.
The lace drapes over his fingers.
“I would like to see this on you.”
My breath catches.
The image is immediate.
Me in that green lace.
Him looking at me.
His hands taking their time.
Or no time at all.
“You can say no,” he says. "To it all."
I look at him.
His voice is low now.
Serious beneath the heat.
That somehow makes it worse.
Better.
More dangerous.
“I know,” I say hoarsely.
Can I, though?
Can I really say no?
I reach for the bra.
His fingers brush mine as he hands it over, and the contact sends a shiver up my arm.
“There is a bathroom through there,” he says, nodding toward another door.
My fingers curl around the lace.
I look at the green set in my hands, then at the other boxes still sitting open, then at the man watching me like the rest of the world has stopped mattering.
“This is insane,” I whisper.
“Yes.”
“You agree too easily.”
“Only when you are right.”
I let out a shaky laugh.
Then I take the matching panties from the box and go into the bathroom before I can overthink this into paralysis.
The bathroom is nearly as unreasonable as the closet.
Marble. Glass shower. Soft towels stacked with military precision. Lighting over the mirror that is incredibly flattering, even with my current pallor.
I set the lingerie carefully on the counter and look at myself in the mirror.
My cheeks are flushed.
My eyes are bright.
I look nervous.
I look excited.
I look like a woman about to walk out of a really rich man's bathroom in green lace, chosen specifically by him because it reminds him of my eyes.
My eyes aren't even fully green, but I understand what he means when I look at the lacy green again. It'll complement for sure.
I laugh once under my breath.
Definitely not sane.
I freshen up quickly, hands not entirely steady. Then I undress, folding my clothes with extreme care because I need something practical to do with my hands.
The green lace slips over my skin like water.
The fit is perfect.
Again.
I should expect nothing less.
I hook the bra, adjust the straps, then slide the panties up my legs. They settle low on my hips, delicate and devastating.
For a moment, I simply stare.
The woman in the mirror stares back.
She looks nothing like the woman who walked into Conti Headquarters this morning, trying to convey calm and authority.
This woman looks like trouble.
Expensive trouble.
I take one breath.
Then another.
Outside the door, Mario is silent.
Waiting.
I muss up my hair just a bit, lift my chin, open the bathroom door, and step out.