Chapter 25 Mara
MARA
Something soft and scratchy brushes against my cheek. I groan and swat at it, but it only persists—wet, sandpapery, stubborn. My eyes peel open to find Duchess crouched on the cushion beside my head, licking me like I’m her personal salt block.
“Gross,” I mutter, voice still thick with sleep. “Kisses are supposed to be cute, not exfoliating.”
She purrs, vibrating against the hollow of my neck as she burrows close. I exhale and sink deeper into the couch cushions. My robe’s twisted around my body, the throw blanket slipped down to my waist. Cool air skates across my bare shoulder where the silk’s fallen loose.
It takes me a second to realize where I am: the living room. The oversized cream couch that swallows me whole. I must’ve dozed off sometime after watching TV with Duchess curled in my lap.
That’s when I hear it. The ring of a phone behind the couch. My heart jolts.
And then his voice.
I go still, straining to listen. His tone is low, clipped, the kind has to mean business. The kind of tone that makes even his men straighten like they’re under inspection. But I catch the words anyway, sharp in the silence.
“…Di Matteo’s. Ten tonight.”
My brows knit; my chest squeezes.
A pause. His footsteps slow. I hear the faint crackle of whoever’s on the other end, muffled but present.
Then his reply, just as dry. “Fine. I’ll be there.”
Another scrape of movement. The muted creak of the door leading to the garden opening. And then silence. I bolt upright, Duchess tumbling into my lap with a startled mewl. My pulse slams in my ears.
Di Matteo’s. Ten tonight.
A pizzeria. No one sets up a business meeting at a pizza joint, not at that hour. Unless it’s for something…personal.
My stomach drops. Heat floods my chest, hot and bitter.
He’s going on a date.
A date. Is that why he’s been so moody, short-tempered, and impossible to read these past few days? He’s looking to get laid. Is he sneaking off to wine and dine someone else while I’m left here, pacing inside four stone walls like a prisoner?
My jaw clamps tight enough to ache.
He’s been shutting me out for days. Snapping at me. Ignoring me. Acting like I’m some pest he can’t wait to get rid of. And now it all makes sense. He’s been avoiding me because he knows he can no longer resist and needs someone else as an “outlet” to not cross the line.
What an asshole.
The thought is a punch to the gut I refuse to show.
He wants to keep me locked up here like some princess in a tower, but he gets to go out and have fun? No. Absolutely not.
“Oh, no you don’t, robot,” I mutter, clutching Duchess tighter to my chest. She squirms, her claws snagging my robe, but I don’t let go. “If you think you’re sneaking off to get laid while I’m stuck here, you’ve got another think coming.”
I’m going to Di Matteo’s.
Duchess mews, almost like she’s warning me. Or maybe agreeing. Either way, I grin.
“Guess we’re crashing his little date.”
The decision feels like gasoline poured over my skin: hot, reckless, impossible to take back once it sparks.
I dump Duchess onto the couch and sprint upstairs two at a time. My room looks like a storm passed through. Clothes everywhere, makeup scattered across the vanity, jewelry tangled like vines. None of it matters. My hands already know where to go.
The dress.
I tug it from the back of the closet, the one he banned in that clipped, commanding voice of his. Not in front of anyone else. Like I belong to him. Like he has a claim.
But the dress is trouble the moment I tug it up. It fits. Too well. Exactly how I remember it. I stare at myself in the mirror for a beat.
Perfect bait.
“Tell me I can’t wear this,” I whisper, swiping on lipstick, the shade just dark enough to bite. “See what happens.”
Duchess hops onto the vanity, tail curling against the perfume bottles, watching me like I’ve lost my mind. Maybe I have.
By the time I’m done, my hair spills in soft waves down my back, my eyeliner sharp enough to cut, lips gleaming under the low light. I look like trouble.
I am trouble.
“Come on, Duchess.” I scoop her up, ignoring her squeak of protest. “We’ve got a date to ruin.”
Downstairs, I move fast, every step an adrenaline spike. I avoid the guards, making sure they don’t spot me. The good thing about spending my entire life in a gilded cage is that I know exactly where the cracks are.
The garage is quiet, cavernous, lined with cars that cost more than some people’s homes. My pulse kicks when I spot the keyring glinting on the hook. Easy. Too easy.
I swipe one, tuck it into my purse, and stride toward the sleek black coupe. Leather sighs as I slide in. My hands tremble for a second before I jam the key into the ignition. The engine purrs to life, smooth and sinful.
Duchess curls on the passenger seat, tail wrapped primly around her paws, like she’s settling in for the chaos I’m about to cause.
“Don’t look at me like that,” I mutter, easing the car out of the garage. “We’re doing the world a favor. Someone needs to remind Nicolo Esposito he’s not untouchable.”
The tires hum against the asphalt as the Castello shrinks in the rearview mirror.
I trail behind Nicolo, far enough that he won’t notice me, but close enough that I won’t lose sight of him.
My car drifts toward the oncoming lane before I even register it, a horn ripping through the air as I jerk the wheel back.
Jesus. Focus, Mara.
I can’t afford to lose sight of him.
Streetlights blur into streaks of gold. My pulse climbs higher with every block.
By the time I pull up near Di Matteo’s, my palms are slick against the wheel.
The pizzeria squats on the corner like it’s been there forever: cracked neon sign buzzing faintly, windows lit in a warm glow that feels too inviting, too wrong.
I spot him instantly: broad shoulders cutting a clean line as he steps out of his car, jacket dark, jaw set, every inch of him radiating danger. He doesn’t glance around; he doesn’t need to. The street bends around his presence like it knows who’s in charge.
I kill the engine, heart jackhammering, and watch as he disappears inside. The moment the door shuts behind him, I flip down the visor, swipe fresh gloss across my lips, and press them together until they shine. Duchess meows softly, restless.
“Relax,” I murmur, grabbing her carrier and sliding her inside, ignoring her indignant hiss. “It’ll be fun. You’ll see.”
And then, without giving myself time to think, I step out of the car, heels clicking against the cracked sidewalk. The night air is thick with smoke and oil and danger.
I push open the door to Di Matteo’s. The bell above the door rattles as I step inside, and immediately the air thickens. Nicolo sits at the back table with three other men, and every single gun in the room swings toward me.
I freeze mid-step, not from fear—though my pulse is rioting—but because of the sheer weight of it. The whole pizzeria feels like it’s holding its breath, the smoke and the heat and the tension pressing down so hard I almost choke on it.
And then I say something I probably shouldn’t. “Wow. Cozy little dinner party you’ve got going on.”
The growl that rips out of Nicolo is low and guttural, a sound so raw it scrapes across my skin. “What the fuck are you doing here?”
I square my shoulders, force my chin high, and pretend I don’t notice the way every predator in the room is looking at me like I just volunteered to be the main course.
“What does it look like?” I say, voice steady. “I followed you.”
Nicolo closes the distance between us in three long strides. His hand clamps down on my arm, hot and punishing, dragging me in close. His jaw is tight, his eyes molten, like he could burn me alive just by glaring hard enough.
The men at the table watch. Interested. Hungry. The one in the center leans back in his chair, his gaze cutting through the haze like a blade. He’s older, his face lined but sharp, his whole presence screaming control. When he speaks, it’s smooth as oil.
“Well, well… Esposito brought us a mystery,” he says, eyes dragging over me with slow, deliberate calm. “Tell me, does he always walk in with something this tempting on his arm?”
Nicolo’s grip tightens, but I don’t look at him. Instead, I meet the man’s eyes head-on and let a slow smile curl across my mouth.
“I have a name.”
He lets out a small huff, as if he’s laughing. “I’m Fausto Mancini, and you are?”
“Mara.”
The cigarette-smoking one—lean, restless, a little feral—laughs, smoke curling around his grin. The one who looks to be the youngest just watches, silent and unreadable, like he’s memorizing me down to the last detail.
Fausto doesn’t blink. Doesn’t look away. He just plucks up a napkin, scribbles something on it with calm precision, and slides it across the table.
“If you ever tire of Esposito’s hospitality…” he murmurs. “Call me.”
I glance down at the napkin, lips parting to say something sharp…
But Nicolo’s faster. His hand lashes out, snatching the napkin and crumpling it into his fist.
His voice comes out like gravel ground under steel. “This meeting’s over. We’ll reschedule.”
Before I can react, he’s yanking me toward the door. My heels scrape the tile, Duchess’s carrier swinging from my hand, and still, he doesn’t stop. Doesn’t even glance back.
The cold air slams into me as the door swings shut behind us.
And Nicolo doesn’t let go. He hauls me across the cracked sidewalk to his car, movements sharp and furious.
His grip bites into my arm, but it’s not just the physical hold.
It’s the way his entire body vibrates with barely-controlled rage.
He shoves the passenger door open, practically lifts me inside, and slams it shut after me. Duchess meows in protest from her carrier. Nicolo circles to the driver’s side, his movements clipped, each one sharper than the last.
The engine roars to life. The silence is suffocating.
I swallow and force myself to find my voice. “The car I came in—”