Chapter 19
CHAPTER NINETEEN
LEA
I awake to the soft glow of morning light filtering through the blinds, casting stripes across Nico’s sleeping form.
For a moment, I simply watch him—the steady rise and fall of his chest, the relaxed curve of his mouth.
Sleep has stripped away the controlled composure he wears like armor, revealing something unguarded.
A knot forms in my chest, an emotion I refuse to name. This isn’t real. None of it.
I force myself to remember the folder. The photographs. The handwritten order for my father’s death, penned in the elegant script of the man sleeping beside me. The same hands that touched me with such tenderness last night once signed my father’s death warrant.
The thought should be enough to turn my heart to stone. Instead, a wave of sickness and confusion washes over me. How can the man who holds me with such care be capable of such cold brutality? How can I feel this pull toward someone who destroyed my family?
Because you’re just like him, a voice in my head says. A liar. A manipulator. Playing whatever role serves your purpose.
I need to focus. Today is about cementing his trust before tomorrow night. Isabel’s words replay in my mind: “Just make sure Nico is occupied. And unarmed.” The brutal simplicity of the instruction leaves no room for what happens when I lead him into that trap.
Justice for my father. That’s what I’ve wanted for six years. That’s what I’ve sacrificed everything for. So why does the thought of victory feel like swallowing broken glass?
Nico stirs, his breathing changing. I make my decision. Pushing the turmoil down deep, I slide closer, my hand tracing the defined muscles of his abdomen. His skin is warm, a living contrast to my cold intentions.
His eyes flutter open. When they find mine, they soften in a way that makes my breath catch.
“Good morning,” I say softly, pressing my lips to his chest, just above his heart. I feel its rhythm quickens.
A slow smile curves his mouth as his hand finds my hair. “A very good morning,” he murmurs, his voice rough with sleep.
I let my hand wander lower, watching his eyes darken. This is a language I’ve learned to speak. I know the pressure points of his hunger, the gestures that break his control. I’ve studied him, learning what makes him groan, what makes him forget his dominance and simply feel.
I use all of it now. My lips trace the scars on his chest, my teeth graze the sensitive skin of his throat. I position myself above him, taking control in a way I know both arouses and intrigues him.
“What’s this?” he asks, his hands finding my hips as I straddle him.
“Gratitude,” I lie, the word ash on my tongue. “For finding me. For saving me.”
His expression becomes possessive, a look that would have terrified me once. Now I recognize it as power—my power over him. I lower myself onto him with deliberate slowness, watching his eyes close briefly. When they open again, they lock on mine with an intensity that threatens to undo me.
“Lea,” he breathes, my name a prayer and a curse.
I set a rhythm designed to drive thought from both of our minds. And it works—perhaps too well. My body betrays me, responding with an honesty I can’t suppress. Each stroke, each whispered endearment in Italian pulls me further from my goal into something dangerous and real.
I focus on the mechanics—angle, pressure, tempo—trying to maintain a distance even as our bodies close it. But when his hand cups my face, thumb tracing my lower lip with unexpected tenderness, my defenses fail.
“Look at me,” he commands softly.
I do, and what I see in his eyes shatters something inside me. There’s desire, yes, but beneath it burns something I’ve never seen before. Something naked, honest, and frighteningly close to devotion.
My climax catches me by surprise, tearing through me with an intensity that brings tears to my eyes. He follows immediately, his hands gripping my hips hard enough to bruise, my name a hoarse cry. For a suspended moment, the lies fall away, leaving something so raw I can hardly bear it.
Then reality returns, and I collapse onto his chest, hiding my face against his neck while I struggle to rebuild my walls. His arms wrap around me.
“If that’s gratitude,” he murmurs against my skin, “I should rescue you more often.”
The casual reference sends a chill through me. The man holding me has no idea that less than twenty-four hours from now, I will lead him to his death.
Remember the folder. Remember what he did to Dad.
I force a light laugh. “Once was enough, thank you.”
I shift to lie beside him, my head on his shoulder, my fingers tracing idle patterns on his chest. Each touch is a lie.
“What happens now?” I ask, my voice carefully uncertain. “With Moretti?”
Nico’s body tenses. “Now I hunt him down. But that’s not for you to worry about.”
“Will I have to stay locked away?” I keep my tone casual, but my pulse quickens as I lay the groundwork.
His hand finds mine. “Your safety is my priority.”
I push myself up on one elbow, letting him see the feigned vulnerability in my eyes. “I know. And I’m grateful. But I can’t live in a cage, Nico. I want to be part of your world, not hidden from it.”
Something shifts in his expression. “My world is dangerous,” he says, but I hear his conviction waver.
“I can be dangerous too,” I say, leaning down to kiss him lightly. “When can we go back to Purgatorio?”
He raises an eyebrow. “Purgatorio? Why there?”
This is the moment. I drop my gaze. “I want to feel it again... your world. But not as an observer.” I look up through my eyelashes. “I want to walk in on your arm, as yours, and feel the power in that room knowing I belong to you.”
The words are designed to appeal to his possessiveness. I watch his pupils dilate. The hook is set.
“You want to be displayed,” he says, his voice dropping. “Claimed.”
I nod. “Is that so wrong?”
He catches my wrist, bringing it to his lips. “It’s risky,” he repeats. “Moretti is still out there.”
“But you’ll protect me,” I counter.
He studies me for a long moment. Then his expression softens. “Tomorrow,” he says finally. “I need to make some moves against Moretti today. But tomorrow night, I’ll take you out.”
Relief floods me, quickly followed by dread. “Where?”
His smile holds a dangerous edge. “Dinner first. Then my club.” His hand slides into my hair, gripping gently at the nape of my neck. “And I’ll show you what power really feels like.”
A tremor that is not entirely feigned runs through me. “Tomorrow,” I agree, sealing his fate with a kiss.
I wander the lake house, restless. The plan for tomorrow presses down, making it hard to breathe. I need air, space away from Nico’s perceptive gaze.
Blake stands at his usual post near the main staircase, his expression impassive.
“I need some air,” I tell him. “Just a walk around the grounds.”
Blake studies me, then nods. “I’ll accompany you,” he says, reaching for his earpiece.
“You don’t have to,” I say quickly. Too quickly. His eyes narrow. I force a laugh. “I mean, the property is secure. I won’t go far.”
The look he gives me makes it clear he remembers my last “escape.” “Mr. Varela’s orders are that you’re not to be left alone outside,” he states flatly. “I’ll keep a respectful distance, but I will be watching.”
I nod, accepting. Arguing would only raise suspicion.
We step outside. The spring air is crisp, carrying the scent of pine and damp earth from the surrounding woods. After days of confinement, it feels like freedom.
I set off down the path toward the private dock, Blake following about fifteen feet behind—close enough to intervene, far enough to give the illusion of privacy.
As I round a bend, I spot a man from the grounds crew kneeling by a flowerbed, weeding around a border of tulips. Something about his profile is familiar—the same man who was working near the eastern fence when I made my escape to Isabel. The mole.
I look around to see if Blake’s watching, but he’s nowhere in sight.
My pulse speeds up, but I keep my pace steady.
As I draw nearer, he glances up, his eyes meeting mine for a fraction of a second before he returns to his work.
Just as I pass, his hand moves in a swift, almost imperceptible motion, placing a small black object on the path a few feet ahead. A burner phone.
I continue walking, then pause as if to admire a vibrant tulip. I kneel, my hand casually reaching for the phone. In one smooth motion, I slip it into my pocket.
Rising, I continue my walk toward a small grove of trees that borders the lake, fighting the urge to look back. I know this grove creates a blind spot in the camera coverage. It’s not much—maybe thirty seconds—but it’s all I need.
The moment I’m concealed, I pull out the phone and power it on. Less than a minute later, it vibrates. I answer without speaking.
“Report,” Isabel’s voice says, all business.
“Tomorrow night,” I reply, keeping my voice low. “Dinner first, then the club. His office.”
“Good. The package will be in place. Your man on the inside will disable the camera feed. Make sure Nico is... occupied. And unarmed.”
The line goes dead. What could I say? That the way Nico looked at me this morning made me question everything? That the thought of what will happen in his office tomorrow makes me physically ill?
No, the wheels are in motion, and I?—
A twig snaps behind me.
I spin around, nearly dropping the phone in my shock. Blake stands just a few feet away, his expression unreadable, his stance relaxed but alert. He wasn’t following at a distance as I thought. He was right behind me the entire time.
His eyes go to my hand, then rise to meet mine. “Where did you get the phone, Ms. Song?” he asks, his voice dangerously quiet.
My mind scrambles. How much did he hear? “Oh! This?” I hold it up as if just remembering it. “I just found it in that bush over there. It was ringing, that’s how I noticed it.”
Blake’s expression doesn’t change, but his arm extends, palm up. A clear command.
I place the phone in his hand. “I know I shouldn’t have answered, but I thought maybe someone was looking for it.”
“Who were you talking to?” His eyes never leave mine. They are like Nico’s in their intensity, but without the heat.
“No one,” I say, my voice steady. “I answered, but they hung up immediately.” The lie falls from my lips with practiced ease. When did I become such a flawless liar? “I was just about to bring it to you.”
Blake studies the phone, then looks back at me. The silence stretches between us. He pockets the phone. “We should head back,” he finally says. “Mr. Varela will finish his calls soon.”
I nod, relief washing through me even as a new dread takes hold. Did he believe me? Or is he simply waiting to report to Nico?