14. Lucia
14
LUCIA
A ll the way home, I’m fuming from Antonio’s threat. But underneath my anger, a reluctant admiration simmers. There’s no doubt about it. If we’re fighting a battle for the Titian, he won the first round with laughable ease.
Damn him.
Bad boys do nothing for me; I wasn’t lying about that. But Antonio Moretti isn’t a boy. He’s a man . A complicated, morally gray man.
He’s one of the richest people in Italy. He has the finest private art collection in Europe and is a generous donor to several museums. He supposedly speaks a half-dozen languages and is constantly seen with beautiful, accomplished women, and when I think of them, jealously coils tight in my stomach. I feel inadequate, and it’s not a sensation I enjoy.
He’s powerful and capable of violence and ruthlessness. He killed someone today, and he admitted that to me with no hesitation.
And yet. . .
And yet, ten years ago, on a night when I desperately needed a shoulder to lean on, Antonio was there. I was a complete stranger, but he came to my rescue without hesitation. I was so drunk I couldn’t see straight, and instead of judging me, he took care of me. He listened. He was kind.
He was there for me today as well. I was soaking wet and chilled to the bone, and he offered me a warm shower, dry clothes, and, best of all, a distraction from my thoughts. We spent a couple of hours cruising the bay, and while I was with him, I forgot to be sad.
Choose your next move wisely, cara mia.
The smug jerk had been laughing when he said that to me. My temper flares. I suppose he thinks he’s very clever, maneuvering me into a no-win situation.
It wouldn’t be a no-win situation to sleep with Antonio Moretti.
I push that thought away. Antonio won this round, yes. But he’s not going to win this contest. I won’t let that happen.
No matter how sexy I find him.
I won’t be manipulated by him. I refuse. He doesn’t get to unilaterally set the terms of engagement.
I simmer in a fury for a couple of hours. I pace back and forth, and then, on impulse, I march into my bedroom and root around my purse until I find the small jewelry box I’m looking for.
My mother’s pendant lies inside on a thin gold chain. I’ve carried it with me everywhere, but I’ve never put it back on, not since I took it off my neck ten years ago.
But today. . . Today, seeing it doesn’t make my insides ache. Today, the pendant that my dad stole for my mother whispers to me of love, not loss, and my heart feels ready to wear it again.
I put it on. Then I fish Antonio’s faded card out of my purse and text him.
You think this is a game? Very well, game on. I’m going to steal your painting, Antonio. And no matter what you might think, it’s not a sign that I’m interested in you.
He responds almost immediately.
You kept my card. I’m flattered.
Heat creeps up my cheeks. I didn’t think this through. I certainly didn’t want him to know that I haven’t been able to throw his card away for ten years, and now he does. So mortifying.
I’m serious about the painting.
I know you are. Good luck, Lucia. May the best thief win.
Gah. The man is infuriating. I fling the phone on my counter. I have no idea why I spent the last ten years fantasizing about him.
* * *
To nobody’s surprise, I dream of Antonio that night.
He catches me stealing his painting. I’m leaving the museum with the Titian in my hands when he pulls up alongside me in the Invictus. “Lucia Petrucci,” he says, his voice like molten silver. “I warned you, but you wouldn’t listen. And now you’ll pay the price.”
The next thing I know, I’m in his house again, standing in the center of his living room, my heart hammering in my chest. A shiver runs through my body. I tell myself it’s terror I’m feeling, but I’m lying to myself. The truth is: I’m very, very turned on by the man in front of me.
That doesn’t mean I’m going to admit it.
“You knew what would happen if you stole the painting,” he says. “And now, here we are.”
“If you want to fuck me, you’re going to have to take me by force,” I throw back.
He settles himself on the couch, legs stretched out, and surveys me through hooded eyes. “But we both know I don’t need to force you, Lucia.” He says my name like a caress, and my insides flutter at his tone. “I bet that if I pushed a finger into your cunt, I’d find you wet.” It’s not a question; it’s a statement of fact. “You want this as much as I do.”
I hate that he’s right. “What are you going to do to me?” I ask, anticipation flooding my body and making my knees weak.
He tilts his head to the side and studies me, a smile dancing around his lips. “What would you like me to do, cara mia?”
Everything.
I clamp my mouth shut and refuse to answer. Antonio laughs under his breath and crooks two fingers at me. Before I can even think about refusing, I find myself moving toward him, and when I’m within reach, he grabs my wrist and tugs me closer.
He pulls me onto his lap, my back against his chest. “I’m going to punish you,” he purrs into my ear. His words are a threat, but his tone promises I’ll enjoy every minute of it. “I’m going to bend you over my knees and spank you hard for stealing from me.” He nips my earlobe, and my breath catches. “But only if you ask nicely.”
His nearness short-circuits my brain. “Yes,” I whisper. “Please. . .”
At first there is pain, sweet and delicious, and then it is replaced by a rush of pleasure. He strokes me between the spanks and every nerve ending in my body responds to his touch. The slap of his palm against my reddening ass fuels my arousal. I wriggle on his lap, grinding my pussy shamelessly against his thighs, desperate for any little bit of friction against my aching clit.
My muscles tighten and tense. My orgasm builds. . .
And that’s how I wake up. Poised on the knife edge of release, shaking with need, drenched with sweat, Antonio’s name on my lips.
I can scream until I’m blue in the face that I’m not interested in him, but my subconscious just made a liar of me.
Damn it. Damn it all to hell.
What I need now is a cold shower. A very long cold shower. I don’t care what my subconscious wants; I am not getting involved with Antonio Moretti. I made myself a promise ten years ago to never put myself in a position where I’m emotionally dependent on somebody else, and I’m not going to break it.
Especially not for Antonio. He is the king of Venice, a mafia boss, and a killer. He’s literally the last person in the world I should be attracted to.
My only interest in him is the Titian.
That’s all.