Chapter 9 Mara
MARA
Naples is…breathtaking. Stone roads, trees and plants everywhere. And you can see the ocean from the side we’re on. It’s quiet. You can practically hear the waves. There was never a time when New York was “quiet.”
Rolling down the window, I rest my arms on the car door and close my eyes, letting the wind mess up my hair and feeling the cool air against my face. It’s only me and Nico in the car, no driver this time.
“Romiro mentioned that you grew up in Naples. What was it like?” I keep my head perched on the window, turning slightly to look at him on the driver’s side.
Nicolo’s leaning back, his hands resting low on the wheel. There’s something so sexy about a man when he’s driving. I don’t know what it is, but it’s so attractive.
“Fine.” One word. Of course that’s all he says.
Rolling my eyes, I turn back to look out the window, muttering “robot” under my breath. I don’t bother with any more questions for the rest of the ride.
Soon, the car turns a corner and slips onto a small alley, barely wide enough to fit the car and have people on the sides.
We come to a stop outside a building made out of what looks like centuries-old stone.
The entrance is an archway made of carved stone, and above it rests a sign with elegant letters.
La Reina.
Tucked between crumbling brick and old archways, the boutique is understated. Quiet. Confident. The kind of place you stumble into by accident and leave wondering how your bank account bled dry.
I step out of the car first and nearly stumble and fall, but Nicolo catches me by the elbow. I hate wearing flats. Heels are at the top of my list.
As we step through the stone archway, the scent of the place fills my lungs. La Reina smells like lily of the valley and powdery iris. Soft, but powerful.
Mellow music plays in the boutique—no lyrics, just tender piano notes. I head straight for the undergarments section; the robot following behind me keeps his distance. An idea begins forming in my head. Let’s see how long this robot can remain this unfeeling.
When I catch the eye of one of the sales associates, he makes his way toward me with a smile.
“Bongiorno, signorina,” he says smoothly, his voice like fine espresso—warm, rich, with a bite of confidence.
He’s well-dressed, of course. Tailored navy slacks, loafers that cost more than the average New Yorker’s rent, and a silk pocket square folded just so.
“Welcome to La Reina. We’ve been expecting you.
” He gives me slight, practiced smile. Not too familiar.
Just enough to make whoever feel like royalty walking through the doors of their own empire.
“The dressing suites are prepped, the signorina Giulia is on hand should you wish for alterations. Shall I bring prosecco…or espresso?”
“I’m just looking,” I tell him with a polite smile, giving him a singular nod before he can offer a tour—or worse, commentary.
He dips his head before stepping back, the perfect blend of helpful and invisible.
I pick through shelves of matching undergarments sets, picking up different colors: powder pink, sage, baby blue, white…
everything but black. When the clothes start to pile, a different sales associate takes them off my hands, staying beside me to take whatever I pick up.
Then I move to the nightgowns. I’m going to need these.
Some might look and think I’m just buying lingerie, but I’m buying weapons. If I want to break his resolve, I’m going to need to bring out the big guns.
Looking back, I spot Nicolo in the corner of the store. His eyes are set on me, but his phone is up to his ear.
He’s on a phone call. Good. This way, he can keep his nose out of my business. Just until I form the plan perfectly.
I grab a couple of nightgowns, some sheer that leave nothing to the imagination and some with pretty, suggestive patterns.
Once I’m done with the lingerie section, I move slowly through the rest of the boutique, running my fingers over the silks and laces that probably costs more than the brands I usually go for.
Nicolo trails behind me, silent, a looming presence in tailored black.
He doesn’t offer an opinion. Doesn’t even glance at the price tags. Just watches. Quiet. Waiting.
I remember my secret first boyfriend, back in senior year. He took me shopping, and I recall the way he was double-checking the tags, worried that it’d pass the allowance Daddy had set for him.
Shaking my head, I pile a few more things into the associate’s arms: loose summer dresses, sleek dinner gowns. It doesn’t matter if I’m not going anywhere. I love dressing up and just sitting around looking pretty. I also grab some soft cotton tees, denim, pajamas, and heels.
I turn to the other sales associate. “Could you show me to the dressing suite, please?”
He gestures me toward the back; I follow him past silk-draped displays and hushed conversations.
The dressing rooms are hidden behind a gilded archway, set apart from the main floor like a secret.
The hallway narrows and the lighting softens.
Low sconces throw amber light over gold-trimmed paneling and curved mirrors that reflect the warm opulence back in the endless angles.
It smells faintly of white tea and wood polish. Expensive.
I’m led to a private suite. There’s no door, just another archway leading into the open space.
There’s a tufted chaise in the corner, a velvet stool beside a floor-length mirror, and thick cream curtains drawn on brass rings.
The carpet is so plush, I sink into it slightly with every step.
A small crystal tray on the vanity holds bottled water, wrapped chocolates, and tiny glass perfume testers.
“Take your time, signorina. We will be just outside should you need any assistance,” the associate says with a bow of his head.
The other associate places the pile of clothes—silks, cottons, lace—on the padded bench before they both leave. Nicolo’s typing on his phone, probably doing more business.
I slide behind the curtain. The faintest hum of music filters in from the boutique floor, and just outside, I know Nicolo’s waiting. Probably sprawled on one of the velvet chairs like he owns the place. Like he owns the city.
The first few dresses go on easily enough—floaty summer things and one slip dress I know I’ll buy just to irritate him. But the powder pink one is trouble the moment I tug it up.
It fits. Too well. Cinched waist, boned bodice, lined silk that clings in all the right places. I turn in the mirror, adjusting the shoulder. Then I reach for the zipper to take it off…but it won’t budge.
Great.
I struggle for another minute before giving up with a huff and pushing the curtain aside just enough to peek my head out.
Nicolo’s still seated just a few feet away, legs spread, elbows resting on the arms of the chair like a carved marble statue—dangerous, composed, watching.
Still on his phone, his fingers moving across the screen.
I glance at the male sales associate across the room.
“Hey,” I call, tilting my head toward him. “I need your help with the zipper.”
He starts to approach, already smiling. From the corner of my eye, I see Nicolo tense up, but I ignore him, waiting for the sales guy to come in to help. And then…
“He’s not helping you.” Nicolo doesn’t even raise his voice. But it lands, sharp and final, stopping the man in his polished shoes.
I blink slowly. “Okay…then who’s going to?”
Silence stretches.
“I mean it’s stuck,” I say again, more deliberately this time. “Someone needs to help me. Either him or you.”
Still, nothing. The tension in the room goes molten.
“Nicolo?”
He stands, pocketing his phone, and moves with precision. I let the curtain fall, not wanting to stare at him as he makes his way across the room to me. The curtain parts. And he steps in.
It’s not a dramatic move, but it feels like the air is sucked out of the small space the second he crosses the threshold. He doesn’t ask permission. Doesn’t hesitate. I know I asked for the other guy’s help or his, but he walks in like he’s answering a call he can’t ignore.
The curtain ruffles shut behind him, effectively cutting us off from the rest of the boutique.
He’s close. Too close. The scent of his cologne lingers beneath my nose—cedar, clove, clean soap, and something darker I can never name.
I keep my back to him, the zipper caught halfway down.
The dress clings to me, holding heat in all the wrong places.
In the mirror, I see him stop behind me. No words. Just the burn of his gaze, slow and searing, as it drags down my reflection from the curve of my shoulders all the way down my length. He steps closer, his fingers wrapping around the zipper, and he tries to tug it down, but it doesn’t work.
I suck in a sharp breath when his other hand rests on the curve of my waist, and I watch as his dark gaze lifts from the zipper, climbing over my reflection until it locks with mine in the mirror.
Nicolo tugs again, and the zipper finally gives, but he moves at a glacial pace—his touch searing, each brush of his hand branding my skin.
Instead of letting go of the zipper, he leans in.
The man radiates heat—like standing too close to a fire you know will burn if you touch.
His lips brush my ear, his voice a low growl. “Never wear this dress again. Not in front of me. Not in front of anyone.”
A shiver runs through me before I can stop it.
I force out a breath, fighting the gasp clawing its way up my throat. “What’s the matter? Worried you won’t be able to control yourself?”
His gaze narrows on me in the mirror—sharp, cutting, as if he finds me ridiculous for even suggesting it. His voice is calm, but lethal.
“Control isn’t my problem. Your lack of it is.”