Chapter 12 Nicolo
NICOLO
Istare at my jacket for a beat. She’s up to something. I don’t know what, but I’m going to find out.
That brat needs to be controlled.
My phone pings in my pocket. Slipping it out, I contemplate just blocking the number.
Nestor
Your assistant told me you’re in Italy.
I swear my blood pressure is hitting a new high.
Me
Why were you in my office?
Instead of answering me like a normal human being with a functioning brain, Nestor texts me a selfie of himself in my chair, his disgusting shoe-clad feet on my table.
Someone’s getting fired.
Nestor
I look great behind your desk, don’t you agree?
Listen, how about I come work in New York? You give me this office and I’ll...bless you with my presence.
I don’t know how his Pakhan puts up with him.
Me
Nestor, answer my question. What were doing in my office?
Nestor
Oh, yeah. I wanted to see my best friend. Why else
My eye twitches. I have half a mind to fly to New York this instant just to have the pleasure of putting a bullet between his eyes. Best friend. A grown man saying those words, as if he’s ten.
Me
You have less than thirty seconds to convince me not to block you.
Nestor
The Mancinis aren’t happy about you moving into the Castello.
The Mancini brothers are a pain in my ass. I already knew they were going to be a problem, but not this fast.
They control Naples. Drugs, trafficking, and money laundering, to name a few. And because they’re dumb as rocks, they think I’m here on the behalf of the Camorra to take over. I have interest in none of it.
I shoot a text to my office’s security team.
Me
Escort Mr. Vasilios and Mr. Jameson out of the office. Mr. Jameson’s contract has been officially terminated, effective immediately.
Then I switch back to my messages with Nestor.
Me
How do you know that?
Nestor
Fucked one of their cousins when I was in Naples. He was hot.
Me
I thought you only fucked women.
Nestor
If it’s hot, I’m fucking it. I’m bisexual, you asshat.
Me
…Anyway, stay the fuck out of my office. And tell my assistant on your way out that they have been relieved of their duties. Security should be there in the next five minutes to escort both of you out.
Nestor
You’re an asshole.
Me
I would say I aim to please, but I fucking don’t. Stop breaking into my office and messing my shit up. If you try that shit again, I’ll invoice you for the furniture I have to replace.
Nestor
You petty bitch. You replace the furniture after I break in EVERY SINGLE TIME???
Me
Yes.
I pocket my phone without waiting for his response. Nestor is a headache. If given the chance, he will talk for eternity. Rolling my neck, I try to ease the tension that’s building up.
I need to shower.
Shifting the weight of my jacket to my other arm. I notice the inner pocket is puffed out slightly—too full. I don’t stuff anything in my jackets. It’s too messy.
My hand slides inside, slow and precise. Fingers brush over fabric. Lace. Soft. Delicate.
I draw it out. Pale blush. Expensive. Lingerie. I stare at it for a beat, my eyes narrowing at the lace like it’s committed a crime.
That. Fucking. Brat.
Something stirs behind my zipper. Tight. Inconvenient. I ignore it. This is neither the time nor place to be having that kind of reaction. And she is not the person to be reacting to.
Instead of being reactive and confronting her—because I know that’s what she’ll be expecting—I stuff the criminal lace back into the pocket. She wants to play, but she doesn’t know what the game is, or the rules. And soon she’ll find that you can’t win a game when you’re playing against a cheat.
Right. Shower.
As I heading to my room, my eyes wander toward her door that’s across from mine. The urge to scare her off is there…but I don’t listen to my urges. I didn’t spend the better half of two decades mastering them just to have a twenty-something-year-old come stomping all over my control.
Twisting my door handle, I step inside. The walls are a charcoal black, meant to swallow the light. Suffocate. Command. Every line is deliberate. Intention threads through every surface. This room isn’t for comfort. It’s for control. For silence. For order.
My king-sized bed sits in the center of the far wall, sheets pristine, not a wrinkle in sight. The two side tables are bare, save for the two matching minimalist lamps.
I set the jacket over the back of the chair behind my mahogany desk, the pale lace still in the pocket like a live grenade. Flipping open my laptop, I type a short email to Henderson.
Get in contact with the Mancinis. Make it clear that if they step foot on my property, I won’t hesitate to blow their heads off.
I don’t wait for a reply before I yank off my tie, unfasten my cuffs, and peel the shirt from my shoulders.
The fabric never touches the floor. I fold it with mechanical precision and place it in the gray laundry bin tucked against the matte wall of my walk-in closet.
Slipping off my pants and boxers, I fold them before they follow the shirt and tie.
The closet is black-on-black with suits lined like sentries, watches and cufflinks arranged like weaponry. Clean. Silent. Controlled.
I move through the space and into the adjoining hall. Slate tiles mute my footsteps. Light strips hum low along the ceiling, cutting sharp shadows through the corridor. My sanctuary.
The ensuite is dark stone and chrome—rainfall shower in the center, wide marble sinks to the side. Black walls gleam under the dim lights like obsidian. No clutter. No warmth. Just water, steel, and the promise of silence.
I step inside, letting the scalding water burn its way down my spine.
My palms brace against the tile as steam fogs the mirror behind the glass.
My cock is hard, has been since I pulled that fucking lace from my jacket.
The images flashing in my mind—her skin, the pale blush lace against her flesh, that fucking smirk that makes me want to punish her—are almost sacrilegious.
This is wrong. She’s young enough to be my daughter.
But fuck if it doesn’t feel right.
My jaw tightens, teeth grinding against each other. She’s proving to be a dangerous temptation. A ruin that will lead to my downfall if I’m not careful. This little dance along the edge of temptation needs to stop.
Ignoring the carnal urge for release, I scrub off the dirt of the day, avoiding nagging thoughts of the nixie as I wash my hair.
She thinks I’m the kind of man she can tempt into breaking his rules for her. I’m not.