Chapter Thirty One
Olivia
Traffic moves in fits and starts, the kind of late rush that stacks up near the lights and clears for a block before it clots again. I keep my hands at ten and two and try not to white-knuckle the wheel.
I should blow it off. I should text him and say I’m wiped and reschedule. Two nights in a row would be a pattern, though, and patterns get noticed. I can’t give him a reason to look harder at me.
I think about this morning, about him in my doorway with a paper bag and two coffees like it was any other day.
The way he watched me. The way I had to put my face on and act like breakfast was the only thing on my mind.
I can still feel the heat of that kiss—familiar, warm, easy.
My body answered as if nothing were wrong.
That scared me more than anything I read last night.
I breathe out through my nose and check my mirrors. No one behind me. Just a rideshare and a delivery van. I tell myself to stop being dramatic and grip the wheel a little tighter anyway.
He stood in my office and made normal casual conversation with me, offered to help with any problems. He would have fixed whatever I named. That’s who he is when you’re his: generous, decisive, warm.
Also, who he is: a Conti. Counsel. Loyal to his family first. I can hold both truths, but I don’t have to like the way they rub together.
All day I had waited for a knock that didn’t come.
No one from Security. No Caterina with a too-bright smile.
No quiet request to come upstairs. I kept my head down, sent my emails, checked my lists twice.
When 5:00 rolled around, and I still had a pulse and a job, I decided I’d passed whatever test today was.
If there even was one. Maybe I’m the only one testing anything.
Maybe I’m overthinking this whole thing.
The light changes. I roll forward, turn right, and merge. My phone buzzes in the cup holder with his address pinned from last time. I know the route by now. I know which lane to be in before the exit and which side street is faster if the main road backs up. I wish I didn’t know any of it.
What am I going to do if he touches me tonight? The question sits like a weight in my lap. I want him. That’s not in dispute. Every time I close my eyes, I see his hands on me, remember the way his voice goes low and rough when he’s close to losing control.
I also see Luca walking out of a courthouse while Roberto puts a hand on his shoulder. I see the word “reputed” stamped across a decade of headlines. I see comp codes with initials that shouldn’t have been there.
He’ll know something is wrong if I flinch. He’ll know something is wrong if I don’t. There isn’t a move that doesn’t cost me something.
First dinner. That’s the plan. Sit, eat, talk about work in a casual way. Eat dinner, enjoy it. Be warm enough that he doesn’t feel shut out, careful enough that I’m not swept up in the moment.
After dinner, I can plead exhaustion and an early morning. That’s not a lie. My body feels wrung out from no sleep and too many thoughts.
If he presses? If he kisses me the way he did upstairs at the ball? Runs his hands over me, under my clothes. I clench, the desire automatic. No doubt I still want him. I don’t know how I could after everything I read last night.
But I do. And it scares me.
I picture stepping back, palms on his chest, and saying I want him, but I need a night to reset after the weekend. That’s believable. He’s a reasonable man when it comes to me, at least so far. He’ll take the promise in it and let me go. I hope.
The exit approaches. I signal, shift over, and watch the needle drop as the speed limit dips. The neighborhood changes from strip malls to quieter streets and taller trees. I don’t let myself think about how much I liked waking up in his bed. How safe I felt in the circle of his arms.
Would he hurt me?
The fear is real and bitter in my throat.
I shake the thought away. I can’t think of that tonight.
I rehearse the small talk I can live with.
“How’s Caterina?” “What’s on your schedule tomorrow?
” “Did Bianca sign off on the lounge menu rotation?” Keep it boring.
Keep it real. No questions that open doors I can’t close.
If he asks about my day, I’ll give him the sanitized version: emails, calls, wrap-ups from the weekend.
No mention of my laptop and the spiral I went down.
A car drifts into my lane without signaling and I ease off, let it in, let it go. My heart ticks up and settles. That’s the rhythm tonight: up, down, up, down. Stay level on the outside.
I should tell someone what I found. I should at least write it down somewhere that isn’t my head.
Not yet. Not until I know how much he suspects I know.
If I move too fast, I’ll spook him. If I do nothing, I’ll drown in it.
Dinner, then tomorrow I can make a plan that isn’t just about breathing through the panic.
I turn onto his street and check the time. I’m not early. I’m not late. I’m exactly on time. I don’t need to give him a reason to question me.
I pull in a breath as I wait for the gates to open and let me in. I let the breath go as I make my way up the drive. One step at a time. Park. Walk to the door.
Park. Walk to the door.
I make myself do it and, before I realize it, I’m staring at the solid wood of his door.
I knock before I can change my mind. Not that I can. The gate has shut behind me.
The door opens almost at once. Roberto fills the frame in shirtsleeves, tie off, top button undone. Heat and the faint bite of tomato and basil drift out to me.
“Hi,” he says softly. He leans in and kisses me. I let myself meet it, brief and warm, and pull back with a small smile I hope reaches my eyes.
“Hi.”
“Come in.” He steps aside. I cross the threshold, and he takes my coat, hangs it up. The house is the same as before: tidy and ordered.
“Wine?” he offers as he walks with me back to the kitchen.
“Better not,” I say lightly. “If I do, I’ll fall asleep in the middle of dinner. I feel like I barely slept all weekend.”
That gets the half-smile I was aiming for. “Water it is. Sparkling?”
“Please.”
He grabs two tumblers and opens a bottle with a hiss, a wedge of lime on the rim of each. I focus on the details I can talk about without shaking. The scent of garlic. The way the light pools over the table. The clink of silver when he sets a glass down on the counter in front of me.
“Smells amazing,” I say.
“Eggplant parm,” he says. “I thought you might like a little comfort food tonight. Salad and bread to go with it.”
“Sounds perfect.” I pick up the glass and sip.
Be normal, Olivia. Sit. Smile. Ask about the day. Do not think about comp codes. Do not think about the Conti freakin’ crime family. Breathe, sip, swallow.
He gestures toward the table. I take a chair at one of the place settings. I realize this is my first time having an actual meal at his house. The only other time I’ve been here was the morning after he came to my office.
I fight the blush as I think of that night in my office. The way he marked me, used me, made me his. The way he finished all over my body, then cleaned me up gently, held me all night, brought me breakfast in bed.
“Penny for your thoughts?” he says.
I blush even harder and clear my throat.
“Uh, nothing,” I say. “It’s nothing.”
He lifts a brow but says nothing.
“I was just thinking,” I start quietly, “about the first time I was here.”
“Ah,” he says with a little smirk. “Memorable night, don’t you think?”
He gives the ends of my hair a playful little tug as he passes me into the kitchen.
I take a second to compose myself as he brings the baking dish over and plates for both of us.
The top of the eggplant parmesan is burnished, edges bubbling. Steam pours into the air as he cuts into it and spoons a square onto my plate, the cheese stretching in slow threads. I wish my stomach didn’t flip at the same time my mouth waters.
“Careful,” he says. “Hot.”
“I see that.” My voice is steady. Good.
He sits across from me. “Let’s get the business out of the way. How did your afternoon shake out? Any fall-out from the weekend?”
“Mostly thank-you emails and a few ‘we’ll be back soon’ notes.” I spear a leaf of basil and drag it through the sauce to buy a second. “Packages tracked the way we wanted. Midweek is going to be stronger than projected if the chatter holds.”
He nods once, approving. “Good. That’s the play.”
He tears a little bread, passes the basket. “Eat.”
I do. The eggplant is tender, the sauce bright, the cheese rich. It’s familiar and comforting in a way that makes my chest ache. This is what I wanted last night before everything went sideways—food, conversation, a night that didn’t feel like stepping through a minefield.
“You?” I ask.
“Lawyer things,” he says. “Permits, insurance, a dull lunch with someone important.” A beat. “I’d rather be here.”
I press my fork into the crust and cut a neat corner. “Flattery will get you everything,” I say, because banter is a muscle memory.
“And I do want everything,” he says, his voice husky.
I feel the ache between my legs.
What are you doing, Olivia? Stop flirting.
“Greens?” he asks, and reaches for the salad.
“Please.”
He serves me first, then himself, and sets the bowl back exactly straight. He’s always precise. I used to think it was about control. Maybe it still is. Maybe it’s also what keeps a hundred moving parts from slipping.
Normal. Stay with normal.
“Caterina texted me,” I say, picking something neutral and true. “She’s still riding the high from the weekend.”
“She earned it.” He takes a bite, chews. “You did too.”
“Team effort.”
“Mm.” He lets it go, not in the mood to argue me into taking credit. I’m grateful.
We eat. The quiet is companionable. My thoughts run, and I keep them in my head. Every so often, we speak about something or other, keeping it simple.
“Bread?” he offers.
“I shouldn’t,” I say, then take it anyway, because it gives my hands something to do besides shake. “Okay, twist my arm.”
He huffs a laugh.
I tear a piece and mop sauce. “This is really good.”
“Good ingredients,” he says. “That’s the secret.”
And before I know it, dinner is over.
He clears when we’re done, and I help despite his insistence that I sit. He sets two espresso cups on the counter, looks at me over the machine.
“Half or whole?”
“None,” I say quickly, and smile to soften it. “If I have any, I’ll be up all night doing spreadsheets in my head.”
“Fair.” He pulls a single for himself, stirs, tastes. “Dessert?”
“I really shouldn’t.”
“Gelato. Pistachio.” He lifts an eyebrow.
“A few bites,” I say, making him smile at my weakness.
He plates two small scoops, brings them to the table, and sits. We trade the same spoon back and forth. It’s intimate without being a test. I let myself enjoy it.
When the last smear melts into the dish, he sets the spoon down. “Stay tonight,” he says, easily.
I meet his eyes and keep my voice light. “I can’t,” I say. “I promised myself eight hours tonight.”
He tilts his head. “You can have eight hours here.”
“I think you know that’s not going to happen.”
His smile turns a bit wicked. “Maybe it won’t be eight hours, but I can guarantee you’ll sleep very well.”
He reaches for my hand, draws me closer, touches his lips softly to mine.