Chapter 34
Roxy
"Two hundred white roses should be enough," Gianna says from beside me.
"Okay, two hundred roses, tapas-focused food with easy to serve appetizers, and you've chosen jazz for the music," I repeat my notes back to her.
"That's right." She smiles at me.
Apparently, Marco's turning forty-five in two weeks, and she wants to throw him a party that matches the occasion.
"Everyone's been talking about the wedding you planned, so I asked Marco to reach out to you for this event too."
I've never been great with compliments, so I just nod and start gathering my things. Vasili's waiting outside, making phone calls, and the only thing on my mind is getting back to the man who's probably already changed his bandages three times because I'm certain he hasn't stayed put in bed.
When I slip my planner into my bag, her hand wraps around mine. My eyes lift to hers.
I didn't really study her back in the office, but now that I'm looking more closely, I notice the fine lines around her eyes, her immaculate manicure in a shade of red, and her eyes themselves. She has kind, gentle brown eyes that shine in a peculiar way when she looks at me.
"I heard what happened at your wedding from Marco, and I just wanted to tell you how relieved I am that you're okay and that you weren't hurt."
From Marco?
I swallow past the lump forming in my throat at the mention of that incident because I can still feel Damien’s warm blood between my fingers, and if I close my eyes for even a fraction of a second, I'll see his lifeless stare.
"No, but my husband was," is all I tell her.
"I'm sure whoever was responsible got what they deserved."
Not even close. The thought cuts through my mind, but instead of voicing it, I force a small smile and head for the exit.
Just as I'm about to leave the house, Marco blocks my path. Out of politeness, I stop.
"Sorry I couldn't greet you earlier, but I was caught in a meeting," he says, and there's something in his voice, something tender, soft.
His hand moves toward my forearm, and instinct makes me take a step back. His eyes narrow at my reaction.
"It's not a problem. Gianna gave me all the details I need to start the planning," I tell him, but my gaze drifts to his clenched fists.
"I heard about the attack at your wedding. I didn't know you were engaged to Kaminski," he says, though it comes out more like a question.
My mind catches on that small detail Luna mentioned, about the accent one of the attackers had, so now it's my turn to narrow my eyes.
Because ever since I met him, I've felt him looking at me "differently." Not like someone you've just met and only have a professional relationship with, and that unsettles me.
"Yes. A security breach that won't happen again," I reply.
This man is part of the Italian mafia, and I'm not about to say anything that could affect Damien's reputation in front of other criminal organizations.
And I wish I didn't notice how protective I am of him and his people.
As if they were mine, when I know better.
But it's damn hard not to when I see the way he looks at me.
When I know that if I'd been the target of that bullet, he would've thrown himself in front of it for me.
And that thought makes my chest tighten painfully.
For a few moments we just stare at each other until Marco breaks the silence.
"How many men are waiting outside for you?" he asks, and officially, my determination to keep quiet because he's a client has vanished.
"Why does that matter?"
"Because if you don't have at least four men with you when there's clearly a threat against your husband"—and I hate the way he says the word "husband" because it sounds like mockery on his lips—"then I'll make sure to call some of my soldiers to take you home," he tells me calmly, sliding his hands into his pockets.
He's tense, and I could swear he's irritated, though I don't understand why. And that makes me uneasy.
I try to overlay his image with that of the psychopath who followed me into those woods, remind myself that Damien wounded him and that a knife to the back would cause some discomfort when walking, but I don't reach any conclusions.
"I already have two men waiting outside, and they're perfectly capable of protecting me if anything happens."
I can see he doesn't like my answer, but he has no choice, so he just nods.
When I leave, Vasili's at the entrance, studying the scowl on my face.
"Did something happen?" he asks.
"I have this feeling I'm missing something, and it's pissing me off," I tell him.
I ask him to drop me at the office, where I have some presentations to finish for an event, and two hours later, my eyes are practically falling into my laptop.
My phone vibrates, and when I glance at the screen, my mouth curves slightly upward.
Obviously, I answer in the next second.
"Are you okay?" I ask, rising from my chair.
"I just missed hearing your voice," my husband tells me, and I have to press my hand to my stomach where a thousand annoying butterflies have taken flight, because I have to admit I missed hearing him, too, even though half the time he drives me crazy with his jokes and how clingy he tries to be.
When did it stop bothering me that he's like this with me?
"It's okay, I know you miss me too. Miss me so much you probably couldn't even work or concentrate, so the solution is for you to come home and take care of me," he says, and I can hear the amusement in his voice.
"Yeah, I don't know how I didn't faint from longing by now. I was practically melting in my chair," I tell him, biting my lip, because no matter how much I want my words to drip with sarcasm, I'm flirting with him.
That's what I've been doing for days now, and even though the voice in my head tells me he'll disappoint me just like every other man in my life, my heart wants to try one more time.
With him.
"And we don't want me having to get out of bed just to come get you personally. I don't think I could handle seeing you in that black skirt that stops right at mid-thigh, with those heeled boots and your beige coat, sitting at a desk."
I dig my teeth even harder into my lower lip, so my next breath comes out slightly ragged.
On the other end of the call, I hear a sound catch in his throat, because he knows what I was thinking about.
About what it would be like if he were here, laying me out across this desk to test how fast he could strip off the boots and skirt. The flimsy tights wouldn’t last a second against his hands.
"Stop," he says, and I can't help but laugh.
I know if he were here, he'd see my flushed cheeks.
"Me? But I didn't do anything," I say in an innocent tone, but my mind flies back to his hands and how he could use them on me. In this room.
"Yes, you did. You forget I know your mind better than you do, baby, so if you don't want to see me leaving a trail of blood through the entire house just to get to you, I suggest you listen and come back this second. To me."
"To you," I whisper.
And with that, I hang up and realize I haven't stopped smiling this whole time. Somehow, this man takes even my worst day and turns it into a smile. And somewhere, those whispers I learned to ignore long ago grow louder, telling me he's mine.