Chapter 19
19
ARIA
Nicolas surprises me with a simple nod when I ask if I can attend the meeting.
For a second, I think he’s joking.
But after blinking at him almost ten times—waiting for the smirk, the teasing remark that never comes—I realize he’s serious .
My heart races.
The only meeting I’ve attended was with Marco and Matteo. This one will involve other mafia men—real players in a world I still don’t fully understand. It feels like I’m diving headfirst into the unknown.
But I can’t back out now.
I need to make a strong first impression, so I take my time getting ready.
After a quick shower, I settle on a fitted white blouse with a pearl-button collar and a sleek black pencil skirt that stops just above my knees. A quick swipe of mascara and soft pink lipstick complete the look—polished, composed, intentional .
When I step into the bedroom, Nicolas is standing by the window, the morning light casting sharp angles across his face.
He looks good . Too good.
He turns toward me, his gaze dragging over me slowly, taking me in.
For a moment, he says nothing. Then, finally—his voice low, steady?—
“You look beautiful.”
My heart stutters. I don’t understand why he’s being this way with me. Something has changed—not just in how he treats me but also in how he looks at me. I don’t know what it is, and as hard as I try not to think about it, I can’t .
I glance down, pretending to smooth my skirt, using the small movement to pull myself together. Without thinking, I loop my arm through his.
His muscles tense briefly—and then he relaxes, his hand settling lightly over mine.
We walk downstairs together, his presence solid, steady. Grounding. But as we near the meeting room, the tight knot in my chest winds tighter.
I force my expression into something unreadable, unwilling to let anyone see the nerves creeping in.
Nicolas pushes the door open, and the scent hits me immediately—rich leather, lingering cigars, faint traces of cologne.
The room is spacious, with polished wooden walls enclosing a long mahogany table.
Fifteen men stand around the table, all dressed in sharp suits.
They look dangerous— tattoos creeping up their necks, muscles straining against their shirts. Their presence is imposing, and their expressions are unreadable.
But as I take them in, one by one, I realize none of them command the room the way Nicolas does.
It’s hard to explain, but he’s different.
There’s something about him—something in how he carries himself and how power seems to bend around him. I’ve never met a man who could shift the air in a room just by being in it. And I have a feeling I never will again.
Nicolas moves to his seat at the head of the table. Only when he sits, do the others follow.
With a subtle glance, he signals one of the guards. The man disappears for a moment, then returns with a chair, placing it beside Nicolas.
At the head of the table. Beside him .
Nicolas gestures for me to sit.
I take a slow, steadying breath before obeying. I feel their eyes on me—evaluating, measuring.
Leaning toward Nicolas, I keep my voice low.
“Who are they?” I murmur.
Nicolas doesn’t take his eyes off the men as he answers. “The leaders of my territories.”
I blink, trying to wrap my head around that. “ Fifteen territories?”
He nods once.
My stomach tightens.
I think of all the times I challenged him and spoke back without a second thought. A man who controls an empire—yet he let me be.
I don’t know what to make of that.
Nicolas starts the meeting with a simple, direct introduction.
“Before we begin, I want you to meet my wife, Aria.” His voice is calm, measured—but it carries weight .
“She’s here because I trust her. You will treat her with the same respect you give me.”
His gaze sweeps over the room, his next words sharp, final.
“Is that understood?”
A murmur of agreement ripples through the room.
Nicolas wastes no time. The moment business begins, the air shifts—charged, focused.
One of the men—a broad-shouldered figure with salt-and-pepper hair—speaks first. “Shipment arrived last night. Two crates short.”
Nicolas leans back in his chair, fingers steepled under his chin. His expression doesn’t change, but the energy in the room tightens.
“Where’s it missing from?”
“The docks near Venice,” The man replies. “Could be Caldarone interference… or just sloppy work.”
Nicolas’s gaze sharpens. His voice, when he speaks, is cool and razor-edged.
“Sloppy work doesn’t happen under me.”
The statement lands heavily in the room, final.
“Find out who’s responsible. If it’s a local screw-up, handle it. If it’s the Caldarones, I want confirmation within the hour .”
The man nods in understanding.
Across the table, another voice cuts in. This one belongs to a lean, wiry man tapping a pen against the polished wood. “We’ve got a problem with the Turkish connection. They’re asking for a bigger cut. Forty percent.”
Nicolas’s lips curl into something that almost resembles a smile—cold, sharp, merciless .
“Cut what we were originally giving them by half.”
Silence. A flicker of unease passes through the room, but no one dares question him.
And just like that, the conversation moves on.
Weapons shipments to the Balkans. Cash flow from underground gambling dens. New smuggling routes. Words like protection , payoffs , and cleaning up loose ends float through the air, each one sketching a clearer picture of the empire Nicolas commands.
I try to keep up. Really , I do. But the sheer volume of information is relentless, shifting faster than I can process.
The scent of coffee and leather lingers in the room, grounding me, but even that isn’t enough.
My eyes grow heavier with each passing minute, exhaustion creeping in, warm and insistent.
I forgot how thoroughly he wrecked me last night.
Shifting in my seat, I rest my elbow on the table, propping my head in my hand.
The voices around me blur, fading into a low hum—background noise I can’t quite focus on.
I know Nicolas is speaking, issuing orders, but the words slip past me, lost in a haze of exhaustion.
Just for a moment, I close my eyes.
The cool surface of the table presses against my cheek, grounding me and lulling me further.
I don’t mean to give in, but the pull is too strong.
Before I drift off completely, I hear Nicolas say something in Italian.
The meaning is lost to me, swallowed by sleep.
But his voice lingers—deep, steady— like a whisper threading through my dreams .
When I wake up, I’m no longer sitting in a chair.
The scent of clean linen and him—Nicolas’s cologne, warm and familiar—wraps around me.
I blink, adjusting to the soft light filtering through the curtains.
His arm is draped over my waist.
I push myself up on one elbow, fingers brushing the edge of the duvet. Nicolas shifts beside me, and when I glance over, I find him already watching me.
How long has he been watching me? More importantly— how long have I been asleep? Wasn’t I just in a meeting?
I blink again, memories rushing back—the long table, the men in suits, Nicolas giving orders. And then… the embarrassing part .
“Did… did I fall asleep during your meeting?”
His mouth curves into a slow, knowing smirk.
“You even snored.”
My eyes widen in horror. “No fucking way.”
He frowns— almost convincingly—but his eyes still shine with amusement.
“Remember what I told you?” His voice is smooth, teasing. “I don’t lie to you. Tease you? Absolutely. Lie to you? Never.”
I groan, covering my face with my hands. Could I be more embarrassing? Good first impression, my ass.
“So… the meeting is over?” I mumble through my fingers.
“I postponed it,” he says like it’s the simplest thing in the world. “Had to bring my snoring wife upstairs.”
I lower my hands just enough to glare at him. “You postponed the meeting?”
Like he just told me he put his entire empire on hold because I couldn’t keep my eyes open.
Or… isn’t that exactly what he did?
“Yes.” His expression is unreadable, but his voice is steady. Sure.
“I did.”
I sit up fully, smoothing my hair. “You paused your empire to take a nap with me?”
Nicolas leans against the headboard, his bare chest on full display.
First of all , why isn’t he wearing a shirt?
Second , how did I not realize he had so many tattoos?
I’ve only ever seen him at night, and most of those times, I’ve been too… preoccupied with having an orgasm to admire the sheer godliness of his body properly.
There’s amusement in his gaze, but beneath it—something softer. Something unreadable.
“Apparently,” he says.
I let the weight of that settle in my chest. For a man like him, stopping the world isn’t just rare —it’s impossible .
I chew my lip for a second because I know that this is. Nicolas is trying to seduce me. He wants information about my brother. He’s playing the same game I’m playing—only he’s playing it better.
“So,” he starts, his voice smooth, calculated. And I brace myself for the question.
What is your brother planning?
What was the last thing you discussed?
Do you know about his shipments?
I brace for the interrogation, for the inevitable moment Nicolas tries to pry information from me. Instead-
“What do you want to do?”
I blink. “Hmm?”
He stretches, muscles flexing as he folds his arms behind his head, completely at ease. “I’m free today. No meetings, no events, nothing. So I figured we should spend more time together.”
My brain short-circuits. I can’t keep up with him. One second, he’s ruthless. Calculated. The next, he’s casually throwing out words like spend more time together .
My mouth hangs open for a beat too long, and before I can snap it shut, he reaches up and pokes a finger in the open space.
I jerk my head back, scowling.
He laughs.
“Why do you always look so shocked, Bambina ? I’m serious.”
I shake my head, trying to keep up, and just go with it . Maybe he’ll ask me the real questions later . If this is a seduction tactic, I might as well enjoy it while it lasts.
I tap my fingers against my knee, thinking. My mind drifts back to something simple. Something warm. A memory.
A smile tugs at my lips before I even realize it. “Baking.”
Nicolas lifts a brow. “Baking?”
“I was recently complimented on my pie,” I say, folding my arms. “I want you to see just how decent I am.”
Nicolas watches me for a moment, then nods. “Done.”
We head to the kitchen—bigger than I expected, with sleek marble counters and stainless steel appliances that gleam in the sunlight pouring through the massive windows. The air smells faintly of citrus, probably from the maids cleaning earlier.
With a simple wave of his hand, Nicolas dismisses them. All except one.
Teresa stays.
She’s in her fifties, gray-streaked hair tied neatly into a bun. I’ve talked to her a few times—one of the only familiar faces in this house.
“Bring out the things we need for baking, Teresa,” Nicolas says.
I almost burst into laughter.
“What’s funny,” he asks, frowning slightly.
“ Baking is a big term,” I say, still grinning. “She won’t know what to bring.”
I turn to Teresa and ask for ingredients for a simple chocolate cake. She nods and disappears into the pantry. When she returns, she sets down flour, sugar, eggs, cocoa powder, and other essentials, moving with quiet efficiency.
Nicolas leans against the counter, arms folded, watching me as I measure out the ingredients.
His gaze is intense —not in a way that unsettles me, but as if he’s studying me, trying to understand something unspoken through the simple act of baking.
As I crack an egg into the bowl, he steps closer.
“Why baking?”
I shrug, mixing the batter. “It’s comforting.”
“Did you bake a lot growing up?”
I pause, the memory flickering to life—sneaking into the kitchen as a teenager, the warmth of the oven, the quiet joy of creating something just for me .
“I did,” I admit. “But not as much as I wanted to. My family didn’t see it as important.”
He tilts his head slightly. “What did they see as important?”
“Diplomacy. Power. Politics.”
I let out a short laugh, though there’s little humor in it.
“I studied international diplomacy like a good little Rossi.”
He doesn’t say anything, but his silence urges me to continue.
“It wasn’t my choice,” I admit. “If I had my way, I’d do something else.”
He leans against the counter beside me, his hand brushing mine as I stir.
“Like what?”
I hesitate, but something about how he’s looking at me—like he’s peeling back layers I’ve hidden even from myself—makes me answer honestly.
“I’d run a charity.”
His brows knit together slightly. “What kind of charity?”
“One that helps displaced women and children,” I say, pouring the batter into a pan. “Refugees, people who’ve lost everything. I always wanted to help rebuild lives.”
Because it felt like my family destroyed lives.
The confession feels raw, exposed—like I’ve peeled back something too tender.
But Nicolas doesn’t make me regret it. He studies me for a long moment, his gaze unreadable. Then, he steps closer.
“You’ve got batter on your face,” he says.
But instead of reaching for a towel, he leans in— and licks it off .
His tongue is warm against my skin, sending a shiver down my spine.
My breath catches.
For a moment, I forget the cake, the kitchen— everything— except how his mouth lingers just a second too long.
When he pulls back, there’s a slight smirk on his lips. “Tastes good,” he murmurs.
I exhale, feeling like I’ve just lost my footing in the best way. “The cake or me?” I ask, my voice softer than I intended.
He doesn’t answer.
He doesn’t have to .
The way he looks at me says everything .