Chapter 8 Elio
I WAS LOSING the battle against my own desire.
It had been four days since Julian cornered me in my office. Four days since he'd touched my chest and told me he saw me. Four days since I'd admitted I was terrified and he'd texted back that we could figure this out together.
Four days of torture.
I wasn't sleeping. Couldn't sleep. Every time I closed my eyes I saw Julian's face when I'd kissed him. Heard his voice saying I'm choosing you with such certainty. Felt the phantom touch of his hand over my racing heart.
I'd given up trying to sleep around 3 AM three days ago. Now I just worked. Stayed in my office until exhaustion forced me to my apartment for a few hours of restless unconsciousness. Then came back and worked some more.
The monitors had become both comfort and torture. I watched Julian move through his routines. Watched him work with Stefan. Watched him read in his room at night. Cataloged every detail like a man obsessed.
Which I was. Obviously.
Sandro noticed first.
We were in a strategy meeting—me, Sandro, Matteo, Luca, and Stefan—discussing the plan to expose Winston Bianchi's cooperation with the FBI. I was presenting security concerns when Sandro cut me off mid-sentence.
"Elio. You just repeated the same point three times. Are you even listening to yourself?"
I blinked. Looked down at my notes. He was right.
"Sorry. Long night."
"You've had a lot of those recently." Sandro's tone was pointed. "When's the last time you slept?"
"I'm fine."
"You're distracted. Which is dangerous given what we're planning." He looked at the others. "Can you give us a minute?"
Matteo, Luca, and Stefan filed out. Stefan shot me a sympathetic look on his way past.
When the door closed, Sandro leaned back in his chair.
"Julian?"
I didn't bother denying it. "Yes. I'm handling it."
"You're clearly not. You look like hell.
You're repeating yourself in meetings. Yesterday you missed a security flag that should've been obvious.
" Sandro's voice was matter-of-fact, not judgmental.
"Whatever's happening with Julian, you need to resolve it.
One way or another. This limbo you're in isn't sustainable. "
"There's nothing to resolve. It was a mistake. I'm maintaining distance."
"How's that working out for you?"
I didn't answer.
Sandro sighed. "Look, I'm not telling you what to do. But I am telling you that this—" he gestured at me "—isn't working. Figure out what you want. Make a decision. Then commit to it. Because right now you're neither moving forward nor maintaining boundaries. You're just torturing yourself."
He wasn't wrong.
***
Winston Bianchi's people had been asking questions.
Our contacts reported conversations happening in Chicago. Winston's associates reaching out to their New York connections. Carefully worded inquiries about whether anyone had seen a young man matching Julian's description. Whether the Vitales had taken in any new guests recently.
Nothing direct. Nothing that would confirm Winston knew where Julian was. But the net was tightening.
Sandro assigned me to work with Julian on organizing the evidence we'd use to expose Winston. It made tactical sense—I knew security, Julian knew his father's operations, together we could build a case that would destroy Winston's credibility without leaving obvious traces back to us.
It was also torture.
We worked in my office. Julian sat across the desk from me with stacks of documents he'd stolen from his father.
We went through everything methodically.
Emails proving Winston's cooperation with Agent Rebecca Watson.
Financial records showing payments made to federal informants.
Meeting notes detailing intelligence shared about rival families.
It was damning. Comprehensive. Exactly what we needed.
And I could barely focus on any of it.
Because Julian was right there. Close enough to touch. Wearing jeans and a dark green henley that brought out his eyes. Hair falling across his forehead when he bent over documents. Bottom lip caught between his teeth when he concentrated.
He was careful not to touch me. Never let our hands brush when reaching for the same file. Never leaned too close when pointing something out. Maintained perfect professional distance.
But I was hyperaware of every movement anyway.
The way he tapped his pen against his lips when thinking. The way he shifted in his chair, drawing my eyes to the long line of his throat. The way he looked up at me through dark lashes when asking questions.
He knew exactly what he was doing. And he wasn't pushing. Just existing in my space and letting me torture myself.
It was working.
On the second day of working together, Julian leaned over the desk to point out something in a document. His shoulder came within inches of mine. I could smell soap and something uniquely Julian—clean and warm and dangerously appealing.
"There." His finger traced a line in the email. "That's where my father admits to providing intelligence about the Castellano family's drug operations. If we leak this to the Castellanos, they'll want Winston's head."
I forced myself to focus on the document instead of how close he was. "We need corroboration. Other evidence that backs this up."
"I have it." Julian straightened. Moved back to his side of the desk. "Bank records showing payments from federal accounts to shell companies Winston controls. The amounts match the dates of intelligence sharing. It proves the relationship is financial, not just informational."
"Smart. That makes him look mercenary instead of principled."
"My father is mercenary. Everything's transactional for him.
Including family." Julian's voice was matter-of-fact.
Like he'd made peace with it. "If we present this right, the other families will see him as someone who sold them out for profit.
That's worse than being an ideological enemy. It makes him unreliable."
Our eyes met across the desk. Julian held my gaze without flinching. Without backing down.
God, he was magnificent.
"We're going to destroy your father," I said quietly. "Once this gets out, there's no coming back from it. The Bianchis will be finished. Are you prepared for that?"
"Yes. I've been prepared since I decided to run. This isn't about revenge, Elio. This is about survival. If we don't neutralize my father, he'll keep looking for me. He'll never stop. This is the only way to ensure I'm safe."
"You could've just disappeared. Changed your name. Left the country."
"And spent the rest of my life looking over my shoulder? No." Julian's jaw set with determination. "I'm done running. Done hiding. If I'm going to have a life, I need to deal with the threat permanently. And this—" he gestured to the documents "—is how we do it."
I wanted to kiss him. Right there. Right then. Wanted to pull him across the desk and show him how proud I was of his courage. His refusal to be a victim. His willingness to do what needed to be done.
Instead I said, "Let's keep working."
But the tension stayed. Thick and heavy between us like humidity before a storm.
***
On the third day, we reached for the same document simultaneously. Our hands touched.
Just for a second. Just our fingers brushing as we both pulled back.
But electricity arced between us. Sharp and unmistakable.
Julian's breath caught. His eyes met mine. Dark and heated and full of want.
"Sorry," he said. His voice was rough. "Didn't mean to—"
"It's fine."
It wasn't fine. It was the opposite of fine. Every nerve ending was on fire from that brief contact.
We went back to work. But the atmosphere had changed. Charged. Dangerous.
Julian shifted in his chair. Our knees touched under the desk.
He didn't pull away.
Neither did I.
We sat like that for twenty minutes. Knees pressed together while we reviewed documents and pretended we weren't hyperaware of the point of contact. Pretended the tension wasn't building to unbearable levels.
When Julian finally stood to grab something from the shelf behind him, I nearly groaned with relief and frustration in equal measure.
This was impossible. Unsustainable. I couldn't keep working this closely with him while maintaining professional distance. My control was hanging by a thread.
Matteo cornered me after our third day of working together.
I was in the hallway outside my office when he appeared. Looked at me with those eyes that saw too much.
"You look like hell."
"So people keep telling me."
"Are you sleeping with Julian yet?"
"No."
"You should probably figure out what you want before he decides for you." Matteo leaned against the wall. Casual. But his tone was serious. "That kid's got patience and persistence in equal measure. He's not going to wait forever for you to get over yourself."
"What do you mean 'decides for me'?"
"I mean Julian's clearly interested and not particularly patient. If you don't make a move, he will. And then you won't be making a choice—you'll just be reacting. Is that what you want?"
I thought about Julian's text messages. About him cornering me in my office. About the way he looked at me across the desk like he was planning strategies of his own.
"No."
"Then figure out what you actually want. Not what you think is appropriate or right or professional. What you want."
"What if I hurt him?"
"What if you don't? What if this is exactly what both of you need?
" Matteo pushed off from the wall. "Stop torturing yourself, Elio.
Either commit to maintaining distance or admit you want him and deal with the consequences.
But this middle ground you're in? It's destroying you. And it's not fair to Julian either."
He left me standing in the hallway questioning everything I thought I knew about control and discipline and doing the right thing.
That night I was in my office late.