Chapter 14 Renato
I make it three steps from her door before I have to stop and lean against the wall.
My hands are shaking. Actually, fucking shaking like I'm some inexperienced boy who just touched a woman for the first time. The taste of her is still on my lips, the memory of her skin under my hands burning through every rational thought I have left.
Professional assessment. Quality control. Business preparation.
All fucking lies.
Every goddamn word of it.
Jesus Christ! This is the worst thing I’ve ever done in my life and I’ve done plenty.
I push myself off the wall and force my legs to carry me to my study, where I pour three fingers of scotch and drain it in one burning gulp.
Then I pour another and stare out at the lake, trying to regain the control that Camilla Colombo just shattered with a few strategic responses and one devastating kiss.
If this keeps up, I’m going to end up a goddamn alcoholic before the month is over.
She's playing me.
I know she's playing me. Every gasp, every shiver, every perfectly timed reaction. It's all calculated manipulation designed to make me lose my mind with want.
And it's working.
Fuck, it's working so well I can barely think straight.
I sink into my leather chair and try to analyze what just happened with the cold logic that's served me for years in this business.
She's intelligent, strategic, using the only weapons available to her.
The seduction, the challenge to my control, the way she made me want to prove that her responses were real. It's all part of her survival plan.
But knowing it’s manipulation doesn't make it any less effective.
My phone buzzes. Matteo.
"Boss? Everything alright?"
"Fine. Just checking on some business arrangements." I lean back in my chair, trying to sound like I haven't just spent the last hour completely losing my shit over a woman I'm pretending to prepare for sale. My God, this is so fucked up. "Any word from the buyers?"
"Kozlov's people called again. He's getting impatient about the timeline. Wants to know when he can expect a viewing."
Viktor Kozlov. The man who destroys beautiful things for sport. The man who's offering fifteen million euros for the privilege of breaking Camilla into pieces.
The man who won't touch her. Can't touch her. Because the families will pay before it gets that far.
"Tell him these things take time. Premium merchandise requires premium preparation."
"How much time are we talking about, boss? He's not the only one asking. Al-Rashid's people have been calling too. And that new contact in Dubai—Al-Mansouri—he's very interested in the details too but we don’t have a confirmation on him yet."
Another man throws his hat into the ring. More different types of hell waiting for her if this goes wrong.
But it won't go wrong.
"A few more days or a week. Maybe longer."
"Longer?" Matteo's voice carries surprise. "Boss, that's a long time to keep premium merchandise on ice. The longer we wait, the more chance there is for complications."
Complications.
Like losing my mind every time I touch her. Like running out of time before someone expects me to actually follow through.
"The training requires extensive preparation. Different buyers have different expectations. I need to make this convincing enough that the families break."
"What kind of training are we talking about?"
I close my eyes, remembering the way she felt under my hands. The taste of her skin. The sound she made when I bit her earlobe.
"She needs to believe she's being prepared for sale. That's the only way the families will believe it too. Soon, I’ll let her make phone calls to her families to plead her case."
"And you're handling this training personally?"
"Yes."
"Sir, with respect, is that wise? Getting this involved?"
That's one word for it.
The smart play would be to keep distance. Maintain the professional facade. But I'm in too deep now, and we both know it.
"Someone has to make this look real." I open my laptop, not wanting to examine my motives too closely. "The buyers need to believe I'm serious, the families need to panic, and she needs to think her survival depends on learning what I teach her."
"What do you need from me?"
"Research. I want detailed profiles on all three primary buyers. Sexual preferences, psychological profiles, specific requirements they've had for previous acquisitions." I force the words out. "Everything you can find."
"Everything?"
"Yes, especially any sexual kinks. Kozlov's preferred submission techniques. Al-Rashid's expectations for physical presentation. Al-Mansouri's bondage requirements. I want to know exactly what each man would expect."
"That's very thorough, boss."
"The threat only works if it looks real." I drain the rest of my scotch. "I want those reports by tomorrow morning so she can study them."
After I hang up, I sit in the growing darkness, thinking about how far I've let this go.
I started with a simple plan: threaten the auction to collect the debt. But now I'm training her, touching her, teaching her things that will haunt both of us forever no matter how this ends.
And the worst part? I still don't know what the hell I'll do if the families don't pay.
Compensate the buyers and let her go? Keep her here indefinitely? Let one of those monsters take her?
No. Fuck that. Never that.
But what's my exit strategy if this bluff fails?
I push the thought away. It won't fail.
My phone rings again. This time it's the bastard, Alessandro Rossi.
"Vitiello? I trust Camilla is being well cared for."
"She's receiving thorough preparation."
"Preparation?" His voice sharpens with interest. "What kind of preparation?"
"The kind that ensures you understand exactly what will happen if you don't pay what you owe." I keep my voice professional. "Premium buyers have very specific expectations. I'm making sure she's ready to meet them."
Let him think about that. Let him imagine his almost-daughter-in-law being trained for men like Kozlov.
"I see. And how long will this preparation take?"
"As long as necessary to motivate you to pay."
"Vitiello, let me be clear, we're not paying you to play house with our former future daughter-in-law. We want this situation resolved quickly and quietly."
Former future daughter-in-law. He’s already considering writing her off.
"Then pay the six million euros and resolve it. Otherwise, I'll continue preparing her for sale, and eventually, one of these buyers will take her off your conscience."
"And if we decide we don't like your timeline?"
"Then you'll find out whether I'm bluffing." I let that threat hang. "Are you willing to take that risk?"
The silence on the other end tells me I've landed the blow. Let him sweat.
I hang up before he can respond, satisfied that I've applied enough pressure.
But the satisfaction is hollow.
I pull out a legal pad and begin making notes. Specific techniques, psychological preparation, physical conditioning. A curriculum that looks like I'm preparing her for the worst.
But as I write, I can't stop thinking about the way she looked at me when I kissed her. The challenge in her eyes. The way she turned my desire into a weapon.
She's going to destroy me. Day by day, session by session, she's going to strip away every defense I have until there's nothing left but the truth I can't face.
That I want her.
That I've created an impossible situation.
And I still don't know how this ends.
Tonight, I'll lie in my bed and remember the taste of her mouth, the feel of her skin, the sound she made when I bit her neck.
Tonight, I'll admit to the darkness what I can't say in the light.
That Camilla is right.
I am a sick fuck.
And she has become mine in ways I never intended.