Chapter 17 Nikki
NIKKI
Today, we're in the car, gliding through the bustling streets of Milan. Tinted windows, soft leather seats, and enough silence to choke on. He hasn't spoken since we left his villa at Lake Como. Not since he furiously walked away from me as if I'd crossed a line.
Which, to be fair, I probably did. But I'm not sorry.
Not even a little bit.
I sense him watching me again. Not in a fun way, not in a "I want you pressed against this back seat of this car" kind of way, which honestly, I could totally work with. More like a "I'm calculating whether to kiss you or kill you" way.
Honestly, though? I could work with either because this 'in between' state is driving me absolutely insane.
The silence stretches between us, thick and suffocating. My skin is crawling with the silence. He thinks this quiet intimidation works on me. He's wrong. It makes me want to scream, or better yet, make him scream.
“Do you hate me?” I ask. The words come out quieter than I intended, like they’ve been scraped raw from someplace real.
“No.” Just one syllable, and somehow worse than silence.
It’s a lie.
Or maybe it’s a truth too cold to warm me.
"Liar," I reply. "Your mouth says one thing, and your entire body language screams 'I want to throw her out of this moving car but I can't because she's a valuable asset.
' I have to tell you, Rafe. This is getting to be exhausting, trying to keep up with your internal monologue.
Just admit it. I annoy the crap out of you.
Probably more than anyone else in your entire criminal empire. You would love to be rid of me."
"I don't hate you," he repeats. He finally turns his head to look at me. "But I do think you're reckless and unpredictable. You remain a variable that threatens to disrupt every carefully laid plan I have. You're a massive headache to me."
"Yeah, yeah…I know and I've heard it all before.
This was all your idea, remember? Didn't you say yourself that you needed a new story, a way to kill the mystery of MafiaBae?
Well, guess what? This is the story. And it's pretty damn entertaining, if you ask me.
We're giving the people what they want. Drama with a touch of scandalous romance. "
He doesn't answer. The car feels smaller and more uncomfortable. I feel the heat radiating off him, even across the divide of the luxurious leather seats and the scent of his cologne. It's a dangerous situation.
We pull up to a luxury hotel and I realize I don’t even know exactly why we’re here.
Press dinner? Paparazzi parade? Or another fake lovers' photo op? Nobody tells me anything except what to wear and when to smile.
There's paparazzi waiting, of course. The photographers swarm the car, a hungry, flashing horde of vultures.
He turns to me before the door even opens. "No surprises, Nikki. Not tonight, not here. Stick to the script. We need to project a united front."
"Got it," I reply, batting my eyelashes. "I'll stick to the lover’s script. But I never said whose script, did I? My script's way more interesting than yours. It has actual plot twists and character development."
The moment I step out of the car, the flashbulbs explode in my face, blinding me for a moment. But then it's like a switch flips, and I'm on. My dress is clinging, a slinky, dark green number that shows just enough.
This is my stage now and for this moment, I own it.
Rafe exits behind me. The cameras flash, a relentless strobe of light. The crowd buzzes, a low, excited murmur that rises into a crescendo of shouts. "Nikki! Rafe! Look over here! Over here!"
I make a choice.
A deliberate, calculated act of defiance wrapped in a gesture of affection.
I slide my hand into his and interlace our fingers.
It's a performance for the cameras, sure, but more than that, it's a calculated move.
A test. A jab beneath his armor. I want the world to see it, and I want him to feel my touch.
And he does.
His whole body stiffens. But he doesn't pull away. Not when I lean into him, my shoulder brushing his, my hip pressing lightly against his side. Not when I whisper, "Smile for the cameras, babe. They love to see you happy. They love to see us. Pretend like you're actually enjoying this."
I tilt my head barely enough to press a soft, slow kiss to his jaw. Just enough pressure to leave a lingering warmth, a ghost of a touch. His skin is warm beneath my lips, surprisingly smooth. It's a performance for the cameras, yes, but also a private test.
He doesn't flinch. Not outwardly. His expression remains a mask of suave indifference.
But I feel the ripple. Like something subterranean shifting beneath his skin.
And I know, once again, with absolute certainty, that I've hit something deep and dark.
His tight grip on my hand is his only warning to cut it out.
When we finally get inside the elevator, the tension is nuclear. The doors begin to slide shut, cutting off the world, leaving us in a stifling silence that screams louder than any crowd. He doesn't speak until the doors finally close with a soft hiss, sealing us in.
"You're playing a dangerous game, Nikki," he says. "You're taking liberties that aren't yours to take and overstepping boundaries."
My heart is thundering, a wild drumbeat against my ribs. "So are you. This whole thing. It's a dangerous game. And I'm just trying to make it convincing. For the audience, remember. You said it yourself."
"I told you no surprises," he reminds me. He takes a step closer, reducing the already small space between us.
"And I told you people love romance. We gave them a brief moment. A moment that'll be clipped, replayed, analyzed a million times over. A moment that says exactly what you want it to say, but also, what I want it to say."
He steps closer again, forcing me against the mirrored wall of the elevator.
My back presses against the cool surface.
His body is a solid, intimidating presence, blocking out the world.
His hand reaches out, resting on the wall just beside my head, trapping me.
His eyes are dark, intense, burning into mine, his breath warm on my face.
"You gave me a problem," he murmurs. "And I don't know what to do with you."
My lips part, heartbeat slamming in my chest. I don’t flinch. I meet his gaze and raise my chin, challenging. "Then stop thinking," I whisper. "And be a man and do something about it for once."
That’s all it takes.
He slams me back against the mirrored wall with a force that knocks the air from my lungs, his mouth crashing into mine like he’s trying to punish the need out of both of us.
It’s not a kiss, it’s a goddamn declaration of war.
His hands find my hips, grip hard, pulling me up until my toes barely skim the floor. I lock my arms around his neck, clinging, matching his hunger with my own.
His tongue claims mine, rough and relentless, no rhythm, just need.
Pure, filthy need. His thigh wedges between my legs, presses up hard, and I can’t stop the strangled sound that escapes me.
He swallows it down like a man starving, kissing me harder, deeper, until I forget my name and forget why we’re supposed to hate each other.
One hand fists in my hair, yanking my head back so he can drag his mouth down my throat. Teeth scrape the delicate skin, followed by the searing heat of his tongue, and I arch into him, gasping.
"You're playing a dangerous game," he growls against my neck, biting just hard enough to make me flinch, to remind me who holds the power.
"So are you," I pant, grinding down on his thigh. "But I play to win."
He grabs my wrists and slams them above my head, pinning them to the mirror with one hand while the other explores, skimming over the silk of my dress. His rough palm cups my ass, hiking my leg higher as he pushes his thigh further between my legs, grinding against my soaked panties.
A low growl rumbles in his chest as his thumb hooks under the hem of my dress, tugging it up, higher and higher, until it bunches around my waist. The cool air hits my bare skin, a stark contrast to the burning heat of his touch.
His fingers dig into my bare ass, lifting me higher still, pressing my crotch firmly against his grinding thigh.
He nips at my jaw, then sucks a bruising mark into the sensitive skin just behind my ear.
"You think you're so smart, don't you?" he rasps, his voice thick with a raw desire that matches my own. "Playing with fire."
My hips buck instinctively, pressing harder into him, trying to ease the unbearable ache he's building inside me. "And you love to burn." My nails dig into the muscles of his neck, desperate for an anchor in this swirling vortex of sensation.
He lets out a harsh laugh, a ragged sound of pure animalistic pleasure. His mouth attacks mine again, hotter, more demanding than before. He plunges his tongue deep, invading, conquering, tasting every inch of my desperation.
The kiss is a brutal, exquisite punishment, stripping away any last pretense of control. My body is on fire, every nerve ending screaming for more, for him to take what he’s so fiercely offering.
His free hand, still pinning my wrists above my head, releases them just long enough for me to wrap my arms around his neck again, my fingers tangling in his damp hair.
His other hand drops from my ass, sliding down my exposed thigh, his calloused palm tracing the curve of my hip, then dipping lower.
He hooks a finger under the waistband of my panties, stretching the wet fabric taut, then slowly, agonizingly, begins to tug them down. My breath hitches. The thin silk slides over my skin, pooling around my knees, leaving me utterly exposed to his searing touch.
He breaks the kiss, pulling back just an inch, his eyes blazing, black pools of desire.
His gaze drops to my exposed flesh, lingering, possessive.
His fingers find me, pressing against the throbbing heat, a feather-light touch that sends a lightning bolt straight through me.
I whimper, arching into his hand, desperate for more.
"You drive me fucking insane," he breathes, forehead pressed to mine. His eyes are wild, pupils blown wide, lips red from kissing me like a man possessed. "And I don't know whether to lock you up or keep letting you in."
I lean forward, barely brushing his mouth with mine. "Why not both?"
The elevator dings and the doors slide open with a cruel hiss of timing. He holds my stare for one blistering second longer, then lets me go.
I stumble as my feet touch the ground again, dress halfway off, lips swollen, body aching. He adjusts his jacket with precise, practiced control, the mask sliding back into place.
“Let’s go,” he says, voice raw but composed.
But I know what just happened.
And so does he.
The real problem?
We’re past pretending now.