Chapter 7 Emilio
Emilio
The private elevator to Il Lusso requires a key I designed myself—encrypted, changing its signature every thirty seconds. Security beyond most government facilities. My family's exclusive club houses secrets that could topple empires. Including mine.
With Mara, the three are often indistinguishable.
The VIP room is empty. I cleared it with one call to Domenico. My brother knows better than to interfere when I'm hunting, though he assumes I'm tracking Callahan movements rather than orchestrating a reunion with the woman who's consumed my thoughts for three years.
Thinking of her on silk sheets, fingers between her thighs, gasping my name makes me hard. Days of tracking her and building a network of information to find her, and nothing prepared me for seeing her unravel at my command. But I can't let myself get distracted. Not now that I have her cornered.
I position myself in the shadows where cerulean lighting barely reaches, optimal vantage point for assessing threats while maintaining tactical advantage. From here, I can see every entrance, every exit, every angle of approach.
My phone vibrates. Facial recognition has tagged her entering the main floor.
The algorithm I built to track her movements shows ninety-three percent probability she's operating under duress—elevated stress indicators, hypervigilant scanning patterns, the particular way she holds her shoulders when someone else is pulling her strings.
She's not here by choice. The question is whose choice it is.
I watch her navigate through the crowd via security feeds, navy dress, dark hair styled with precision that speaks to armor rather than seduction.
In public, she moves differently than in private.
Every gesture is planned, every step measured.
She smiles at security, white teeth against red lips, showing a fake ID that will scan as real. Another carefully crafted identity.
The elevator ascends. My pulse quickens despite years of conditioning that's taught me to control physiological responses under pressure.
Three years of digital pursuit, and she's finally within reach again.
Close enough to touch, to claim, to demand answers for the questions that have haunted every surveillance algorithm I've built.
Desire coils through me as I remember how she looked, thighs spread, fingers glistening. How she responded to my commands across the digital divide. How she arched when she came, my name a desperate whisper on her lips.
The memory makes me want to pin her against the wall as soon as she arrives. Remind her who she belongs to. But that's not the plan. Tonight, I need information more than release.
I stand straight, putting on the emotionless, calculating face my family knows. Not the man whose hands tremble with the need to touch her after years of online pursuit.
The doors open, and there she is, Mara, framed by golden light. Time stands still. Three years of searching, an empire built just to find her, and nothing prepared me for the impact of seeing her in person. Surveillance footage didn't capture her reality.
She steps into the lounge, and I forget to breathe.
Her navy dress hugs curves I've memorized but haven't touched in years.
Her movements are precise, the careful grace of someone who knows the value of control.
Her short hair frames her face differently, showing off sharp cheekbones, full lips, and wary eyes that were once trusting.
My blood pounds in my ears. She must hear it across the room. My throat is dry, skin warm, muscles tense with the primal need to reclaim what was taken. The calculating machine my family relies on, all stripped away by her presence.
I force myself to breathe as she scans the room, noting exits before finding the bar. Her eyes pass over my corner without stopping, but something in her posture says she senses me. She's too well-trained not to.
She orders something I can't make out. The bartender, who's on my payroll, nods and leaves via the service elevator. Now alone, her shoulders drop slightly. Exhaustion, or maybe relief at being alone for a moment.
"No cameras in this room," I say, my voice steady despite my racing heart. "No surveillance except what I bring. You're off the grid, Mara."
She doesn't flinch. She takes a slow sip, sets her glass down carefully, then turns to face me.
"Emilio." Hearing my name from her still affects me. "I was wondering when you'd stop hiding in shadows."
"Rich, coming from someone who's been running." I step into the light. "I've been following the trail you left."
Her lips curve into a sharp expression. "Is that what we're calling it? Following trails? Not stalking me? Not watching me through cameras I didn't consent to?"
I move closer, drawn to her, until we're only feet apart. Her scent reaches me, new perfume, sharper, with metallic notes that show how much she's changed.
"You consented this afternoon. Quite enthusiastically."
Her cheeks flush, but her gaze stays steady. "That was a calculated risk."
"Is that what you tell yourself?" I lean in until my breath mingles with the air between us. "That it was strategy, not desire? That you weren't thrilled knowing I was watching?"
Her breathing quickens, but she doesn't back away. "I didn't ask you to meet me so we could discuss desire."
The word desire on her lips is a fucking aphrodisiac, and it's all I can do to keep the distance between us. "What you want isn't important right now. The question you should be asking is, what do I want?"
She looks up. "What do you want, Emilio?"
"You know exactly what I want." I circle her slowly, a predator. "Answers. Starting with why you're working for the man trying to destroy my family."
"It's complicated."
I laugh, the sound harsh even to me. "All this silence, and that's your best? 'It's complicated'?" I stop behind her, close enough for my breath to move her hair. "Try again."
She doesn't turn, but I see her pulse quickening at her throat. "I don't owe you explanations."
"You owe me everything," I growl, words raw with obsession and hurt. I try to regain control. "But we can start with why you're dating Connor Callahan, the man who had Maddy Torres killed, who started this war."
She spins to look at me. "We need to talk about what you did to Connor."
"Do we?" I stop just outside her personal space, close enough to catch jasmine perfume mixed with something sharper. Fear, perhaps. "Because he got exactly what he was begging for when he asked you out on a date."
Her pupils dilate at the possessive certainty in my tone, body responding to dominance she's spent years trying to forget. But underneath the involuntary attraction, I read something else: genuine distress.
"Connor told me to arrange this meeting," she says, the admission emerging like confession torn from reluctant lips. "He said you'd want to discuss terms."
Ice crystallizes in my veins. "Terms?"
"For my safety. For avoiding further escalation." Her voice drops to barely above a whisper. "He said you'd be reasonable if approached correctly."
The pieces fall into place with sickening clarity. He wants me to hand myself over to protect Mara. He's relying on my emotions to keep her safe, using her as bait to draw me out. Connor's revenge for broken fingers and wounded pride.
"And you believed him?" I ask, though I can see from her expression that she didn't. "You thought Connor Callahan wanted to prevent escalation after I marked him in front of you?"
"I knew it was probably a trap." The raw honesty makes something crack open in my chest. "But Chase will kill me if I don't comply. And I thought... I hoped you'd be smart enough to see it coming."
"I did see it coming." I move closer, drawn by magnetic force that's defined us since the beginning. "The question is why you came anyway, knowing it would put us both at risk."
Her laugh is bitter, cutting. "Because I'm tired of being chess pieces in other people's games. Because maybe I'd rather face whatever trap they've set than keep running."
"You need to leave New York," I say, surprising myself. "Tonight. Before Chase realizes you've been compromised."
"I can't." Two words, full of meaning.
"Can't or won't?" I close the gap between us until I can feel her warmth. "What's keeping you here? What's worth risking your life for?"
Her eyes lock with mine, a flash of vulnerability before her mask returns. "You wouldn't understand."
"Try me." I raise my hand, not quite touching her face but close enough for her to feel my warmth.
For a second, I think she might tell me. Her lips part, eyes searching mine as if deciding if she can trust me with her secret.
Then her gaze shifts past my shoulder, focusing behind me. Her expression changes instantly, turning alert. "We need to go. Now."
I don't question it, don't turn around. Instead, I check the reflection in the mirrored wall. Three men enter the VIP area. Not my security, not Rosetti men. Their posture, the bulges of concealed weapons under their designer jackets, the way they scan the room. Professionals. Callahan men.
My mind races. The VIP floor needs my custom key, technology even government agencies couldn't copy. Someone downstairs inside let them in. Some idiot employee who will lose his job, and probably a couple of fingers, when I'm finished with him.
"Service exit," I say softly, moving to shield her from view. "Behind the bar, through the kitchen. I have a car waiting."
She nods, picking up her purse with calm confidence. "On three. Don't look back."
We move together, slipping behind the bar as men approach from the other side of the lounge. I guide her through a hidden door disguised as wall paneling, down a narrow corridor staff use for bottle deliveries.
"They'll check cameras," she says as we go down the service stairs, her heels softly clicking on the concrete.