Chapter 20
20
NICOLAS
Every day, I uncover a new depth to my wife—something unexpected, something undiscovered . And the more I learn about her, the more I want to know.
A charity ?
I have a feeling I know why.
Aria has a good heart—I’ve seen that much already—so her wanting to help people isn’t surprising. But when she mentioned it, there was something else in her expression. A flicker of something raw, almost unspoken.
It’s like I could read her mind. She wants to atone for what her family has done.
The scent of chocolate, sugar, and melted butter fills the air, rich and warm. But it’s not just the scent. It’s her.
She stands beside me, leaning slightly over the bowl as she stirs the thick batter. Her hair is pulled into a ponytail that sways with each movement, and I can’t look away—the way her lips purse in concentration, the way her fingers move with quiet precision, like baking is second nature to her.
She wipes the back of her hand across her cheek, smearing flour across her skin without realizing it.
I fight the urge to reach out and brush it away. Just for an excuse to touch her again.
If I touch her one more time and she gives me that reaction—the one that always undoes me—we won’t finish baking this damn cake. And since I did promise to help her, I’m doing my best to behave.
This is why I’m standing here, stirring a mixer she handed me. Trying to be good.
“Hand me the vanilla,” she says.
I grab the small bottle and place it in her hand, our fingers brushing— just briefly . But even that fleeting contact is electric.
Her eyes flick up, locking onto mine, and neither of us moves for a second. The air shifts, charged, crackling between us like a current we can’t control. Then, she clears her throat, returning to the batter, breaking the spell.
I wonder if we’ll ever go a full minute without feeling that pull .
“Mix slower ,” she says, placing her hand over mine on the wooden spoon. “You’re being too aggressive.”
I grunt inwardly at her proximity, at the warmth of her touch , and remind myself that finishing this cake will make her happy.
So, instead of grabbing her and spreading her legs on the table, I do what she asks.
I slow my movement.
“Didn’t know you were a control freak in the kitchen,” I murmur.
“I’m not. You’re just bad at following instructions.”
“I follow when it’s worth it.”
She raises a brow, but the faint blush dusting her cheeks gives her away .
“You’ll ruin the batter,” she says as if she doesn’t feel the shift in the air between us.
I chuckle, letting her take over again. My hand lingers a second longer than necessary before I finally let go.
I watch her fold the mixture carefully, her arms flexing slightly as she stirs the spoon in deliberate, practiced motions.
I don’t think she realizes how beautiful she is like this—focused, comfortable, and unapologetically herself .
She sets the spoon down and reaches for a small bowl of hazelnuts on the counter. Picking one up between her fingers, she examines it thoughtfully.
“I can crack this with my hands.”
I lean back against the counter, crossing my arms. “No, you can’t.”
A slow grin spreads across her face, a spark of challenge lighting up her eyes.
“If I do, you have to answer any question I ask.”
I raise a brow. “You’re that confident?”
“I’m always confident.”
Intrigued, I take the deal.
She positions the nut between her thumb and forefinger, pressing her lips together in concentration. For a moment, nothing happens.
Then— crack . The shell splits open.
Her triumphant grin is instant.
“Damn,” I mutter, impressed despite myself.
“Told you.”
She brushes the cracked shell into the trash, her fingers still dusted with cocoa powder.
“Ready to answer my question?”
I watch her for a moment, something heavy settling in my chest. She’s so full of life. So different from the world I’m used to. I wonder how long it’ll take before this world dims that light in her.
I push the thought away and nod. “Ask.”
Her playful smirk falters slightly. “Seriously?”
I grab her hand gently, making her look at me. Since this morning, her surprise at the smallest gestures has actually made my chest ache. She doesn’t realize the position she holds. The power she holds.
“You’re my wife, Aria.” My voice is steady, deliberate. “You have the right to ask anything you want. Not just to me, but to anyone in this house. You’re not just some guest. Not a pawn. You’re part of this now.”
Her cheeks flush, and she looks away, the tips of her ears turning red. She’s not used to being told she holds power. And that only makes me want to protect her more.
She clears her throat softly, tapping her fingers against the counter as she thinks.
“Fine,” she says after a moment. “Your tattoos.”
I stiffen— just slightly —but I don’t let it show.
She reaches out, tracing an invisible line along my arm, her touch featherlight.
“What do they mean to you?”
I take a slow breath, glancing at the ink covering my forearm.
“I get one each time something hurts me.”
Her fingers pause against my skin. The air between us shifts— heavier now .
When I look up, her expression is soft, but there’s something else in her eyes. Sadness.
“But… you have tattoos sprawled all over your chest,” she says quietly.
“I do.”
Her throat bobs. “Does that mean…”
I nod. “It’s a hard world, Bambina .”
Her hand lingers on my arm for a beat before pulling away.
I can tell she wants to say something. But she doesn’t.
Instead, she returns to the cake batter, pouring it into the greased pan.
I watch her closely—the way her shoulders tense slightly, as if she’s carrying the weight of my words.
“You shouldn’t have had to go through so much,” she finally says, her voice soft.
She doesn’t look at me when she says it.
I reach out, tucking a loose strand of hair behind her ear.
My fingers linger, my palm brushing her cheek, letting the warmth of her skin settle against me.
“We don’t always get a choice,” I murmur.
She nods, and we fall into a comfortable silence as she slides the pan into the oven. The warmth radiates outward, filling the kitchen with a soft, cozy heat.
Leaning against the counter, I watch as she wipes her hands on a kitchen towel, unaware of how effortlessly she commands my attention.
But before I can say anything else, the kitchen door swings open.
Matteo steps inside.
Well, fuck.
I hate how good I am at reading people because the second I see his face, I know .
Something is wrong.
“There’s an emergency,” he says, his gaze flicking between Aria and me.
The softness of the moment vanishes—slipping through my fingers like sand.
Matteo glances at Aria again, hesitating.
I nod once. Go ahead.
“One of our men was arrested at a club,” Matteo says.
I grab the nearest dish towel, wiping my hands as my mind shifts gears.
“Which precinct?”
“The 96th.”
I swear under my breath. The 96th precinct is a problem . Their captain recently changed; the new one isn’t on our payroll. He’s a wild card . Someone who could ruin my plans—or cost me far more than I’m willing to give. And I hate walking into a situation where I’m the one asking for a favor first.
The upper hand is gone before I even step through the door.
I turn to Matteo. “Get me a bargaining chip.”
He nods, already dialing a number on his phone.
When I glance at Aria, she’s watching me, a small frown creasing her brows—worried. The sight of it does something to me.
“I’ll be right back,” I say.
She nods, but the concern in her eyes lingers.
Matteo and I leave the kitchen.
With every step toward the front of the house, the warmth of that moment—the soft, domestic ease—fades, replaced by the cold reality of who I am and what I do .
By the time I slide into the car, the softness I felt in the kitchen is a distant memory.
We reach the precinct in under fifteen minutes. The air inside reeks of stale coffee, sweat, and desperation—a familiar cocktail in places like this. Officers move around the room, some in uniform, others in plain clothes, pretending not to notice me. But I see the glances—the flickers of recognition.
They know who I am.
Behind the bars of the holding cell, I spot Sergio. His lip is split, a bruise forming on his cheek—but otherwise, he looks calm . He straightens when his eyes meet mine, relief washing over his face.
I step closer, voice low and steady. “Everything’s fine,” I tell him. “You’ll be out soon.”
Sergio nods, trusting me—because he has no other choice.
I turn away, heading toward the captain’s office, leaving Matteo with Sergio and the other officers.
The door is slightly ajar as if he’s been expecting me.
I push it open.
The captain sits behind a wooden desk cluttered with papers and files. Early fifties. Thinning hair. Sharp eyes that scream ambition . He gestures to the chair in front of him without bothering to look up.
I sit. The leather creaks softly beneath me. Before I can speak, he finally lifts his gaze and smirks.
“I know who you are, Mr. Paolo .”
Good . That saves me time.
I lean back, my voice calm.
“Then we’ll skip the introductions.” I meet his gaze, unblinking. “Let’s get to business.”
He doesn’t waste time pretending to be offended by my tone. He knows the game.
“Your man wasn’t just arrested for assault,” he says, flipping open a file. “We found drugs in his system, too.”
I keep my expression blank.
“So,” I say evenly, “what do you want to let him go?”
He leans back, tapping his fingers on the desk. “What can you offer?”
I let the silence stretch between us, watching him, weighing him before answering.
“A cake box.”
He chuckles, but it’s forced .
“A cake box won’t do it, Paolo .” His eyes gleam with something like greed. “I need a whole basket.”
A cake box is a few thousand dollars. A whole basket is talking millions . Who the fuck does this man think he is?
I’m about to reply when Matteo steps into the room, leaning down to whisper in my ear. His words are quiet— but they spark a plan in my mind .
I nod once, turning my attention back to the captain. He’s still sitting there with that smug look on his face like he’s already won . My eyes drift to the framed photo on his desk.
The captain, his wife, and a young girl—probably ten or eleven. They’re at the beach. Smiling. A picture-perfect family.
I lean forward slightly, resting my elbow on the arm of the chair.
“Beautiful family,” I say. The captain’s smile falters . His fingers stop drumming on the desk. “Do they know about Jessica ?” I ask, my voice dipping just enough to let the threat settle in.
His entire body tenses. The color drains from his face. “My man here tells me she’s your favorite dancer.”
“I don’t know what you're talking about,” he says quickly.
I look at Matteo. “You say you have pictures?”
Matteo nods.
I turn back to the captain. His face is even paler now. He knows I’m not bluffing.
I let the moment stretch, watching him squirm under the weight of his own secrets .
“You were saying something about one basket ,” I tilt my head.
He swallows hard, shaking his head quickly. “A cake box will be enough.”
I stand, straightening my suit jacket. “Smart choice.”
I slap him lightly on the cheek as I step around the desk.
“Matteo will take care of the rest,” I say over my shoulder.
I leave the precinct without looking back, the cool air outside a relief against my skin. By the time we reach the car, Matteo is already handling the payment arrangements.
We drive back in silence, the weight of the afternoon settling into my bones. When we return to the mansion, the sun is beginning to set, streaking the sky in deep golds and reds.
I step inside.
The warmth of the house immediately replaces the cold tension I’ve carried with me. The scent of chocolate still lingers in the air.
I’m halfway to the kitchen when I see her.
Aria .
She’s stepping out of my office. Her hair is slightly messy, strands falling loose around her face. A faint sheen of sweat glistens on her skin.
She freezes when she sees me. Then— too quickly —she composes herself.
“Aria?”
“The cake is ready,” she says lightly. “I was waiting for you.”
I nod, but something in her tone makes me pause. She looks innocent enough . But I’m suddenly reminded— she’s a Rossi .
“Good,” I say, stepping closer. “Let’s see if they’re as good as you claim.”
But as I watch her walk away, a nagging feeling lingers.
She wasn’t just waiting for me.