Chapter 12 #2
I force my eyes up to his face.
Mistake.
His hair is darker when wet, slicked back from his forehead. Water beads on his jaw, catching light. His expression is unreadable, but something burns behind those dark eyes. Something that makes my stomach flip.
"I'll go," I manage. "I'll just—go. Now. Leaving."
I take a step backward. My heel catches on the closet threshold.
Nico moves.
Fast. Faster than a man in a towel should be able to move. His hand catches my elbow before I can fall, fingers wrapping around bare skin.
Oh.
His palm is warm. Rough with calluses I didn't expect. The grip is firm but not painful, steadying me with practiced ease.
We're close now.
"Careful."
One word.
I look up at him. This close, I can see the individual droplets clinging to his collarbone. The way his pulse beats steady against his throat. The slight tension in his jaw.
"Thank you." It comes out breathy. Wrecked.
His thumb moves. Just once. A small stroke against the inside of my elbow that sends electricity shooting up my arm.
Accident. Has to be an accident.
But his eyes drop to where he's touching me. Linger there. Then travel slowly up my arm, my shoulder, my neck, until they reach my face.
I've been looked at before.
It should feel clinical.
It doesn't.
"The closet is organized," I say, because silence is dangerous. Silence lets me think about how his skin feels under my palm—wait, when did my hand land on his chest?
I yank it back.
Nico's fingers tighten on my elbow. Just for a second. Then he releases me, stepping back in one fluid motion.
"Good."
The word is clipped. Dismissive. But his eyes don't match his tone.
"I'll let you—" I wave at the towel again. At him. At this entire situation I need to escape immediately. "Get dressed. Obviously. Because you're not. Dressed. Currently."
Someone please kill me.
I spin toward the door.
"Kristen."
I stop. Don't turn around. Can't turn around. If I see him in that towel one more time, I'm going to do something stupid.
"Next time, knock louder."
There's something in his voice. Something that might be amusement. Or warning. Or both.
"Yes, of course."
I don't wait for his response.
I'm down the hall and around the corner before I let myself breathe. My back hits the wall. My hand presses against my chest where my heart is trying to escape through my ribs.
What the hell was that?
I cannot afford to notice my boss's body.
You're a mess, I tell myself. A walking disaster with no business looking at men like Nico Sartori.
But I looked.
And worse?
I'm pretty sure he noticed.
Nico
Fuck.
The word loops in my head like a broken record as Kristen's footsteps fade down the hallway. I stand there, towel gripping my hips, water still dripping down my chest, staring at the empty doorway like an idiot.
She looked at me.
Not the polite glance of an employee caught in an awkward situation. No. Her gaze traced down my chest, caught on my abs.
And her lips parted.
Just slightly. Just enough for me to notice. Just enough for my cock to decide this was an invitation.
I grip the towel tighter, willing my body to calm down. The last thing I need is to walk around the compound with a hard-on because the housekeeper saw me half-naked. I'm thirty years old. I have better control than this.
Apparently, I don't.
The thing is, I know what women look like when they want something. I've seen it in club VIP rooms, in boardroom meetings where deals involve more than contracts, in the dozens of short-term arrangements I've had over the years. That look has a particular quality.
Kristen's look wasn't that.
Hers was surprised. Like she didn't expect she would like it. Like desire was a language she hadn't spoken in so long, she'd lost the words.
And that is what's making my blood run hot.
I usually hear the knock. The staff knows my pattern, knows I value privacy, knows to wait for acknowledgment before entering. I should have heard her.
But I was thinking.
The shower had been running hot enough to fog the glass, and my mind was three hours ahead, running through the Vegas meeting.
Pietro's been negotiating with the Marchetti family for six months—legitimate casino investments that could launder money faster than our construction fronts.
The numbers work. The projections are solid. But something feels wrong.
The Marchetti patriarch, Vincent, keeps pushing for a faster timeline. Keeps sweetening the deal. Keeps being too agreeable.
In my world, people who agree too easily are either desperate or planning something.
I towel off, my mind splitting between the meeting and the image of Kristen's eyes going wide. The way her breath caught. The flush that crept up her neck.
She tried to hide it. Her face went neutral so fast I almost believed I'd imagined the whole thing. But her voice came out too high when she apologized.
Kristen Thomas is not as unaffected as she wants me to believe.
Neither are you, a voice in my head points out. So what's your excuse?
I pull on slacks, then a white button-down, leaving it untucked while I check my phone. Three messages from Pietro about the Vegas meeting. One from Liam with an update on Jack Walker's finances. One from Giulia reminding me about tonight's departure.
Tonight.
My mother leaves for Sicily with Giulia, Valentino, and Carmela. The compound will feel emptier.
And Kristen will be here.
Managing the household. Walking these halls. Existing in my space.
She's an employee, I remind myself. Temporary. Two months. She has a daughter. This is not someone you pursue.
My cock doesn't care about logic.
I finish dressing and head for the kitchen, keeping my steps slow. I won't chase her. Won't corner her. Won't acknowledge what just happened unless she brings it up first—which she won't, because Kristen Thomas is too smart to poke that particular bear.
The kitchen smells like Giulia's lemon cookies. Voices drift from the conservatory—Nora and Sophia, probably, planning something that will inevitably require Vittoria's energy and Lorenzo's patience.
I pour coffee when Dante walks in.
Dark hair swept back, a few strands falling across his forehead despite the styling product he uses. He has a scar through his left eyebrow. His knuckles are healing from whatever business he handled last week.
Lorenzo's consigliere.
Dante and Liam are the only men outside the Sartori bloodline who sit in our inner circle. They earned that place with blood and loyalty.
While Lorenzo runs the restaurants, Dante manages the darker underbelly—debts collected, territories respected, problems disappeared.
"Coffee." He doesn't ask. Just reaches past me for a mug.
I step aside. "Help yourself."
"Already am." He pours, then leans against the counter.
"Didn't sleep?"
I take a sip instead of answering.
Dante doesn't push. That's one thing I appreciate about him.
"The Thomas woman," he says finally. "How long am I playing chauffeur?"
I set my mug down. "The contract is two months."
Dante's laugh is low, rough. "That's not happening."
"What?"
"I'm going to Sicily in a week. Valentino needs help managing some things in Palermo." He takes another drink. "Lorenzo already signed off."
Fuck.
I keep my face neutral, but my jaw tightens. "Then we'll assign someone else for pickups."
"Dario's available. Or Santos. Both solid."
Both solid. Both loyal. Both men who've worked for the family for years without a single mark against their records.
Both men I don't want anywhere near Kristen Thomas.
I turn away, pretending to check my phone so Dante can't read whatever's on my face.
Dario is forty-three, married, three kids. Santos is engaged to a woman he's been with since high school. Neither of them would look twice at the new housekeeper.
But someone might.
Kristen is beautiful.
She's been single for eight months. What if she wants that to change?
What if one of my men—someone who drives her every day, who sees her smile, who hears her laugh—what if he decides to be charming? To offer comfort? To remind her that she's young and beautiful and deserving of attention?
My hand curls into a fist around my phone.
She's an employee. This is none of your business. Let it go.
"Nico." Dante's voice cuts through my spiral. "You still with me?"
"I'll handle the transport myself."
The words come out before I can stop them.
Dante's eyebrows rise.
"You," he says flatly. "Are going to drive the housekeeper back and forth every day."
"Problem?"
"You hate driving."
"I don't hate it."
"You once made Lorenzo circle the block four times because you wanted to finish reading a quarterly report."
I take another sip of coffee. "That was important."
Dante sets his mug down.
"What's going on?" he asks quietly.
Nothing.
Everything.
I don't fucking know.
"She saved my mother's life," I say. "The least I can do is make sure she gets here safely."
It's not a lie. It's also not the truth.
Dante watches me for a long moment.
"Alright," he says finally. "Your call."
He pushes off the counter and heads for the door and then he's gone, leaving me alone with the uncomfortable awareness that Dante Castellani just saw straight through me.
Why do you care?
I don't have an answer.
That's the problem.