Chapter 13 Mara
MARA
Ihold my breath, listening to his footsteps right outside. And just when I think he’ll barge into my room angry, furious…
He doesn’t.
Instead, I can make out the distinct click of a door closing.
I wait, counting the seconds as they tick away. Still nothing. He’s not coming.
I should be relieved, but all I feel is….disappointment.
But if he thinks I’m that easy to dissuade, he’s mistaken. I’ll just have to come up with a better plan to see that icy control of his crack, splinter, and turn into dust. And I know it will be that much more satisfying when I succeed.
I don’t fail, because I’m a Folonari. We go after what we want—relentlessly. Like a bloodhound chasing the scent of its prey.
The garden is bigger than I thought—an endless stretch of green that blurs into the horizon.
I’m wearing one of the dresses I bought from La Reina, a pale blue summer thing dotted with tiny white flowers.
It clings enough and stops just above my knees.
Pretty, soft, harmless. Exactly the illusion I’m going for.
“It is a beautiful day, no?”
I turn to see a man who’s older than me, but still young. I assume he’s the gardener. He has soft brown curls and hazel eyes, his skin a bronze shade, as if he spends all day lounging under the sun’s rays.
Giving him a polite smile, I nod. “Yes, it really is. Is always this nice?”
“Yes. The weather…uh…is good to us.” His accent shines as he fumbles to find the right words.
Cute.
Behind him, I catch movement through the window of one of the rooms of the Castello. I turn my attention back to the gardener.
“I wish New York had good weather like this more often. I’m Mara, by the way.” I push a loose wave behind my ear like it’s nothing. Like I don’t feel his eyes on me.
The gardener gives me a shy smile. “Luca.”
We keep talking—light things, surface level stuff. Which flowers bloom beneath the Italian sun, how long he’s worked at the Castello, which corners of the garden get the best light.
But my gaze keeps drifting back to the window. To where he’s still standing.
It’s been three days since I slipped the lace panties into his jacket. And I got no reaction.
He’s standing there behind the glass watching us. Watching me. Like a storm biding its time. He doesn’t move. Doesn’t blink. At least I don’t think so. He just watches.
Ignoring him, I continue the conversation with Luca. A plan is forming in my mind. I swear with the amount of plotting I’m doing, you’d think I’m some sort of evil mastermind.
Knowing his younger brother has come in handy, especially with the way Romiro throws out random facts. Like the fact that Nicolo hasn’t been with a women in fifteen years. And that he avoids social interactions like the plague.
This is going to be so fun.
I bid Luca goodbye before I head back inside, my heels clicking and clacking against the stone floors. Quickly slipping inside my room, I stay with my back to the door for a beat before grabbing my lip gloss off my desk and reapplying it, smacking my lips together.
Dropping on the bed, I scroll through my messages before landing on my last chat with Valentina. I shoot her a quick text.
Me
Heyyyyy bitch!
How’s New York without me?
I bet it’s boring.
Please say it’s boring.
Val
Hii you
New York hasn’t stopped weeping since you left.
Me
Haha. Very funny, Val.
Looks like my brother is rubbing off on you.
Val
How’s Italy?
Me
Beautiful, sunny, and painfully lonely.
Val
Awww
We miss you
Me
Who’s we? If you say the names of any of my brothers, you’re a liar.
Val
Me and Bee, you grump.
Me
I’m not a grump.
Send pics
Val
Of my beautiful face? I knew you missed me and my great looks.
Me
Shut up, Val. I want to see my niece. I miss that little ball of chaos.
Can’t wait for her to grow up and give Eli the biggest headache.
Val
Shaking my head.
Me
No one spells it out
Val
That’s beside the point.
Val Sends a picture of Bianca
Me
Oh, my God. How freaking cute!
I could literally eat her up.
I miss her adorable little giggle
Val
She misses you too.
Me
Tell her it’s all her dad’s fault.
Val
It’s for your safety…
I don’t reply to that last one. I don’t feel like it. Pocketing my phone, I get up and decide it’s time for my little master plan.
Swinging my door open, I head down the hall and across to the other wing, where I’m betting Nicolo’s office lies…along with that tightly-leashed control. The control I’m itching to snap in half.
I know I can push him. Nudge him past whatever invisible line he’s drawn between himself and the rest of the world. I’ve seen the cracks in that iron-clad control already—and I want to watch them splinter open into craters.
Pausing in front of a large mahogany door with an intricate lock that has eye identification and a thumb scanner, I debate whether this is going to be a tougher task than I thought.
But I try the handle regardless. The door cracks open soundlessly and the soft notes of jazz music curl through the air.
The room smells faintly of leather, old paper, and something sharper: him.
My eyes sweep over the space, taking in the towering bookshelves that stretch to the coffered ceiling and the rows of leather-bound spines like soldiers standing at attention.
The far wall is swallowed by a massive arched window, its heavy curtains drawn halfway to let in the muted gold of the late afternoon light.
Outside, the gardens look like something out of a painting.
A solid mahogany desk dominates the room, polished to a mirror shine, its surface neat to the point of obsession.
Papers stacked with military precision, a brass lamp casting a pool of warm light, an antique clock ticking quietly on a nearby shelf.
A deep leather chair sits behind it, matching the two black armchairs angled in front, their cushions gleaming as if they were freshly delivered.
Everything here feels deliberate. Control in the form of a room, just like Nicolo is control in the form of a human.
And Nicolo is sitting in his office chair behind the large wooden table.
His dark, thick, luscious hair is slicked back, reading glasses on his straight nose.
God, he looks like a Roman statue, as if he was carved by Michelangelo himself.
Chiseled cheekbones, long lashes, and that tan skin that never leaves him even in the winter.
His eyes never lift from the paper in front of him as he writes with a pen, crossing and writing and then flipping through the papers, his gaze scanning across the paper.
My fingers dig into my palms. I’m not going to let him ignore me. I linger just inside the room as the door clicks shut behind me, sealing me in with the only man who could be more dangerous than my brothers.
“Are you going to keep ignoring me?” I ask, keeping my voice soft.
Nicolo keeps his gaze on the papers in front of him, his writing not stopping once. It’s as if I’m not even in the room. But then he speaks, his voice a low grumble.
“I didn’t give you permission to come into my office.”
I scoff, my gaze drifting over his silhouette. “I don’t need your permission to do anything. You forget I’m a Folonari. We wait for no one’s permission.”
That seems to bother him because he stops writing for a fraction of a second before continuing.
“I don’t give a fuck who you are. When you’re on my property, in my vicinity, you obey my rules.” His voice maintains an even tone, like he knows what he is saying is God’s law and will be followed as such.
I move further into the room, my steps deliberate and slow, testing. But I still keep my distance. Don’t want to startle him. The plush Persian carpet muffles my steps. Nicolo keeps up with the charade, refusing to look at me, to even acknowledge me with eye contact.
“If you don’t care who I am, then why avoid me like you don’t want to—”
He cuts me off, his voice slightly strained. “I’d choose my next words very wisely.”
I narrow my gaze on him, watching his face for anything, something. Then his jaw twitches.
Bingo.
“It’s not like I’m suggesting anything illegal…” I keep my tone light, voice breathy enough to suggest something entirely inappropriate as I trail off.
Nicolo scoffs. Actually scoffs. “The irony.”
I tilt my head to the side, frustration bubbling at how he’s ignoring me. My teeth sink into my bottom lip. He might be responding verbally, but he’s refusing to meet my eyes.
Instead of doing the “right” thing, I step up to his desk, circling around the corner to stand behind him. Nicolo tenses, his shoulders bunching up. The light sound of scribbling on paper ceases in the room and the only noise in the room is the final soft notes of jazz and our breathing.
Swallowing down my nerves, I come to a stop behind him, close enough to feel the heat radiating off him.
Close enough for my summer dress to brush the side of his chair.
My eyes flick down to the papers spread across his desk, curiosity pulling me forward a fraction more.
I lean in just enough for my shadow to fall over the page, for the faint scent of my perfume to linger between us.
Nicolo freezes. Then, slowly, he sets the pen down. His chair swings toward me in one fluid, dangerous motion, and suddenly I’m looking down at him—caught in the crosshairs of those dark eyes that promise nothing good. His dark gaze scans my face, narrowing on me.
I’m not backing down. Not when I’ve come this far.
“You don’t realize the absolute mistake you are making right now.” Nicolo slowly stands, his hands in the pockets of his pants, and I instinctively step back.
But he doesn’t let me have that space. He backs me into the wall, his gaze trained on me like lasers. My throat dries, heart hammering against my ribcage, heat crawling up my neck.
“I’m not making a mistake.” I try to say it with conviction, but it comes out as a whisper instead.
He remains stone-faced, utterly unimpressed by me. “No?”
Does he know how to shout?
I shake my head, finding it difficult to speak.
He lifts a singular dark brow. “Use your words. You didn’t have a problem with that when you barged in here like you own the place.”
Pressing my lips together, I try to come up with something, anything. But words evade me. Nicolo’s gaze lazily drifts down my body before flicking back to my face. His expression doesn’t change at all, but I swear it feels like an inferno in here.
“Well, if you’re not going to say anything else…” He leans in, and for some godforsaken reason, I think he’s going to kiss me.
My pulse spikes, breath hitching as the heat of him closes in, the air between us charged and razor-thin…and then it’s gone.
Instead, he somehow manages to slip my phone out of the pocket of my summer dress, grab me by the wrist, and drag me out of his office before slamming the door in my face—all without me even having the chance to protest it. I cross my arms over my chest, my face scrunching up.
This is war.