14. Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fourteen
D om
The files on my desk, the photographs scattered around, and the contents of the papers piled in a corner tell me nothing I want to know.
“That’s all?” I face the private investigator I hired.
He nods. “For now, sir. He’s maintained a low profile since his brother died fifteen years ago. Although he has a couple of companies, he only owns majority shares in one.”
Enzo Bellini. I zero in on one of the pictures—he’s sitting in front of the cafe, a cap drawn too low over his head to avoid being recognized. But the woman seated across from him makes it impossible to keep the attention away.
Even if I didn’t have eyes on him, Sophie’s auburn hair lights up like a halo.
“Is there anything specific you’re looking for?” he asks.
I lace my fingers as my elbows rest on the desk. “I don’t know.” I’m still in the dark about Sophie’s true intentions and how she plans to execute them.
Is she here because she wants to finish what her father couldn’t? Is there something she’s been asked to find?
More importantly, the car accident. Raffaele hasn’t found anything new, even with the connections within the police force.
All we know is that it was premeditated. There were no signs that the truck had spun out of control , and it was found abandoned an hour from the accident scene.
The plates were also fake, and the vehicle had been reported stolen some days back. Someone knew Sophie would be on that road at that time, or they’d been watching her and waiting for the right moment.
“It’s impossible,” I mutter under my breath. I would’ve spotted it from a mile away if someone was after her.
Unless…
I had considered it before, but I dismissed it. Now, it’s returned as the only plausible explanation.
“She planned it.”
“You—what?”
I lift my eyes to find the investigator staring at me quizzically. I shake my head. “It’s nothing. Ignore that. Get me everything you can find on Enzo Bellini. I don’t care if it’s a traffic ticket or a receipt he threw away on the road. If you can find it, bring it to me.”
He nods briskly. “Noted.”
As the door closes, I lean back with a heavy sigh. Sophie. The one factor I didn’t want to consider was that she set herself up. The incident could’ve been fatal if she hadn’t avoided it at the last minute, making it less likely that she would put herself in harm’s way.
Then again, she’s working undercover under a fake name at a company where every move she makes is scrutinized.
Would she really risk her life to keep her cover?
God knows I’ve seen people do worse for less.
Still, no matter how much I try to piece the logic together, it doesn’t explain the fear I saw in her eyes when I rushed into the hospital and how she fought to hold it in. The look in Sophie’s eyes felt familiar, as did the rush in my chest… the urge to protect her.
She might’ve had a brush with death—but it feels like I’m the one on the fucking edge.
A brisk knock jolts me from my thoughts. I sit up, pressing a hand to my face as the door swings open without waiting for permission.
“Morning,” Raff says, already halfway inside before he speaks. “You look like hell.”
“I feel worse,” I admit without a thought.
“Is it weird if I say that I’m enjoying this?” he grins, dropping into the chair opposite me without an ounce of shame. “I’ve never seen you drive up the walls for someone else. Not to mention taking her into your home.”
I shoot him a look. “Do you ever knock?”
“I did. You were too busy brooding to notice.”
Busy thinking about Sophie. It’s been two days since the incident, and she’s still in my house, in my space. I’m not sure why I haven’t let her go—the injuries or to keep an eye on her every move.
“Are you worried that they might try something else? The person who almost killed her?” Raffaele asks.
That too. “I don’t know.” The words are quiet, but true. I’m on some kind of honesty streak today, and it tastes bitter on my tongue. “I haven’t found anything new. Neither have you.”
He clicks his tongue and leans back. “I don’t know what’s more worrying—knowing she was targeted, or that the person who did it is still in the wind.”
I glance up and give him a long, steady look. “Thank you for your astute observation.” Sarcasm bleeds through my tone.
Raffaele grins as he links his hands behind his head. “Thank you.”
“It’s not a compliment,” I say.
He shrugs, closing his eyes. “But I’ll take it anyway.” I sigh as I ignore him, gathering up the papers and photos. I’m surprised he didn’t see them when he plopped down on the chair, but the last thing I need is to explain why I’m looking into Enzo Bellini.
Raffaele doesn’t know about my family’s dark history, and I intend it to stay that way.
One eye opens as he peers at me. “You do like her, don’t you?”
I refuse to answer. He plants his hands on the desk. “You like Sophie Greco and not in a friendly, professional way.”
“What’s your plan for onboarding the next set of artists?
I assume the ones topping the charts will be going on tour—have you confirmed the countries?
Worked with the ticketing companies? I remember talking about a documentary some months ago,” I dump the questions rapidly, not stepping when he shifts nervously in his chair. “Have you gotten the rights for it?”
“Fine,” he blows a disgruntled breath. “I get the point. You don’t want me poking around in your head because you’re scared of your feelings, then I won’t.”
“Good.”
His eyes narrow as he points at me, and I mutter “Jesus” under my breath. “But let me be the first to say that because you choose not to talk about it doesn’t mean it will magically disappear. I’ve been there before.”
I cross my arms, irritation flaring beneath my skin. “This is different.”
“Is it?” Raff lifts a brow, clearly not buying it. “Because from where I’m sitting, it looks a lot like denial. You can manage billion-dollar deals, predict market trends, sign global talent before they blow up—but feelings?” He laughs under his breath. “Apparently, that’s where you draw the line.”
I’m one more misspoken statement from tossing him out of my office, even though it’ll make me look like a jerk.
But as long as he doesn’t know the whole truth, there’s no telling how far Raffaele will go to force an admission from me. “We’re not talking about this.”
“We never do,” he fires back, leaning forward, voice lowered but direct. “You keep telling yourself that everything’s part of a plan. That she’s just your employee. But why don’t you treat her like the rest if she is just that?”
“Okay.” He purses his lips. “Maybe you don’t like her that way. But I know when something’s going on, Dom, and this smells like a cover-up.”
Maybe I shouldn’t have played it too close to the vest.
“You’re either trying to prove that you won’t cross a line by keeping her close,” he says, watching me. “Or you’ve crossed the line and don’t want to admit it, so you’re keeping the evidence by your side.”
My jaw tenses as I look away. “Focus on the artists, Raff.”
He nods slowly, pushing up from the chair. “Sure. Because drowning yourself in work is the perfect way to ignore the thing eating you alive.”
As he reaches the door, he throws one last hit over his shoulder. “Just don’t take too long to figure it out. Or someone else might get there first.”
I try not to think about Sophie in the silence he leaves behind.
I don’t last a minute.
***
When my car rolls into the parking garage, it’s darker than dusk. I let the engine run for a minute, tapping my fingers on the wheel while I watch the house from my sitting position.
The lights are on, but it could mean anything. Since Sophie’s staying with me, I’ve changed Patrice’s schedule so she comes every day, and she might have stayed late this time.
Or it’s Sophie, finding her way around in my house.
In my head.
I turn the ignition off, stepping out of the car with an inside sigh. The door swings into silence as I walk in, and my steps are the only sound that carries with me through the living room and into the hallway leading to the kitchen.
A half-drunk bottle of brandy stares at me through frosted glass, and I run my tongue over my lip, thinking of the good a glass would do.
I shake my head.
I’m gradually turning into an alcoholic—a glass or two a day to keep the thoughts away. And it hasn’t been up for a week yet.
“I need to sleep, that’s what,” I mutter, heading further down and turning towards the stairs. Sophie’s room is on the first floor, while mine is on the second, but it hasn’t stopped my thoughts from wandering.
It makes it worse… sleeping under warm sheets that remind me of her scent, even though she’s never stepped a foot beyond my door.
Staring up at the ceiling because I can’t sleep brings to mind the image of her straddling me, her eyes glazed over and her thighs trembling as she rides me. The way her lips parted—like she was trying to breathe and let go at the same time—still plays on a loop behind my eyes.
I should be over it by now. I should’ve moved past the taste of her skin, the feel of her body locking around mine.
But I haven’t.
“I might need that drink after all.”
A glass or two might not send me to sleep, but at least it’ll help speed up the process by the time I’ve tired myself out.
I choose the bottle and a bigger glass, then ditch my bag on the counter while I make my way to my study to catch up on some more. Killing two birds with one stone.
“ Because drowning yourself in work is the perfect way to ignore the thing eating you alive.” Raff’s words nudge me like a sore thumb sticking into my side and a taunting “I-told-you-so.”
I ignore it.
The door to my study is closed, but a noise from inside snaps my focus. It’s faint, and I might not have noticed if I hadn’t been thinking about her already. But the caramel and honey notes that slip through the tiny gap between the door and the wall.
I stop mid-step.
Sophie.
Twisting the handle soundlessly, I push the door open just enough to see inside. The lamp on my desk spills light over stacks of documents, casting soft shadows. And in the middle of it all is Sophie.
She doesn’t notice me at first. I lean away, my back against the wall, watching her.
So much for someone who’s supposed to have her guard up. She doesn’t look like she’s meant to be snooping either.
Not with the silk night shorts that ride high as she bends over my desk, or the pads of her foot that lift off the floor. My throat warms as I watch, mimicking the effect of liquor running down and losing its coolness.
Her fingers skim across the top page of a confidential acquisition file, one I left out because I assumed no one in this house would dare touch it.
She leans closer, eyes narrowed, lips slightly parted as she reads.
“Snooping through someone’s private documents,” I say coldly, “usually requires more stealth.”
She jumps—visibly startled—as she slams the file shut, the sharp clap echoing in the room. Her head whips toward me, guilt flickering across her face before her expression smooths into defense.
“I wasn’t—” she begins.
“Don’t lie to me.” I shut the door behind me. The bottle and glass dangle from my fingertips. “You’re in my office, Sophie. That negates the argument you’re about to make, so I suggest you think wisely.”
She straightens slowly, eyes locked on mine. “I couldn’t sleep.”
“So you thought you’d poke around my study?” I step closer, watching how her posture shifts and how her breath catches. As she rounds my desk, putting some distance between us, the lamp reveals something else.
The peek of her nipples against her shirt as the space between silk and skin brightens under the light.
“Did you find what you were looking for, Miss Greco?” I turn off my thoughts, focusing on her crime.
Silence.
Placing the bottle and glass gingerly, I grab the file she slammed shut, flipping it open, my eyes on her the entire time. “This one? You thought I wouldn’t notice if you skimmed it fast enough?”
“I wasn’t trying to steal anything,” she says, voice low but firm.
“No,” I murmur, stepping into her space, “You were just trying to see how much I know because you’re a mole.
Her throat bobs as she swallows, but she holds onto denial. “A mole? That’s ridiculous. I admit,” she pauses, gathering her defense tighter, “that I was snooping through your stuff, but I wasn’t looking for anything in particular.”
The switch from being a deer caught in a trap to staggering stubbornness is impressive. I should like the vicious side of her less, probably.
But a shot of pleasure runs through him as she steps out from behind the desk, as ridiculous as it might sound.
Wanting so palpable I can feel it in my throat, follows suit.
“You said I couldn’t leave,” she snaps, arms folding as she closes the distance between us. “And I can’t return to work until I’m cleared. Your housekeeper, God bless her, treats me like a flight risk every time I so much as stretch my legs.”
“So forgive me,” she finishes, eyes gleaming, “for poking around as the only way to keep my sanity intact.”
The stubborn angle of her jaw… the intensity of her stare.
I close my eyes and exhale through my nostrils, willing my mind back to order.
When I open them again, there’s no shred of grace left. “Has anyone ever told you that you have a dead giveaway when you lie?”
Her mouth drops open.