Chapter 13 #2
"No one knows you've been watching me. Not Pietro. Not Nico. Not even Dante, and he notices everything." A pause. "So how?"
I could deflect. Most men would. Most men would spin some story about coincidence, about shared information between our families, about educated guesses.
But I don't lie.
It's not a moral stance. Not some noble principle I've constructed to feel superior. It's simply how I'm built. How my system works. The pathways in my brain that connect thought to speech don't include the detour through deception.
I once told a woman I didn't enjoy having sex with her. She'd asked how it was, fishing for compliments, and the words came out before I could consider softening them. It was adequate. I've had better. She cried. Called me a monster. She wasn't wrong.
I don't lie to be cruel. I don't lie to be kind. I simply don't lie.
"The old-fashioned way," I say. "A man watches you. Twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week."
Vittoria's expression doesn't change. But her fingers stop tapping.
"One man?"
"One primary. Two backups for shift coverage."
"Where?"
"Varies. Coffee shop across from your favorite breakfast spot on Thursdays.
The gym you visit Tuesday and Saturday mornings.
The parking structure near the compound's east entrance.
" I take another sip of wine. "Your friend Amanda's apartment building has excellent sightlines from the rooftop across the street. "
Her throat moves as she swallows.
"Since the gala?"
"Since the gala."
She picks up her wine glass. Her hand is steadier than I expected. She drinks deeply, sets it down, and meets my gaze head-on.
"The man watching me," she says slowly. "I want to know who he is."
"No."
Her chin lifts. "Why not?"
"Because you'll try to lose him. And then I'll have to assign someone better. Someone you won't spot even when you're looking." I lean forward, closing the distance between us. "I'd rather keep things simple."
"Simple." She laughs—a real one this time, sharp and bitter. "You think any of this is simple?"
"Simple," I repeat. I push back from the table slowly. Rise to my feet. Her eyes track my movement.
I circle around the table. Dante tenses in my peripheral vision, hand moving toward his jacket. But he doesn't approach. He knows better than to interfere with a conversation between potential allies.
I stop beside Vittoria's chair.
She doesn't look up. Her fingers curl around her wine glass stem.
I lean down. My lips brush the shell of her ear.
"You want to know what would be simple?" My voice drops low. Intimate. For her alone. "Tearing that pretty dress off your body right here. Bending you over this table. Fucking you until you scream my name loud enough for every person in this restaurant to hear."
Her breath catches. I watch the flush creep up her neck. Watch her pulse jump at her throat.
"That would be simple," I continue. "Showing them exactly how beautiful you look when you come apart. Making them watch while I ruin you for anyone else."
I straighten slightly. Let my knuckles graze her bare shoulder. She shivers.
"But you need your three months." I say it like a concession. Like I'm being generous. "Time to test me. To decide if I'm worthy of you."
I lean close again. Let my breath ghost across her skin.
"I'll give you that time, solnyshko. Even though we both know the truth."
"Which is?"
The question comes out breathless. Barely audible.
I smile against her ear. "You'll beg me to fuck you long before those three months are up."
Silence.
I can feel the heat radiating off her skin. Can see the way her thighs press together under the table. The way her chest rises and falls too fast.
She's wet. I know it as certainly as I know my own name. Wet and aching and fighting every instinct telling her to turn her head and let me kiss her.
But Vittoria Sartori doesn't fold that easily.
She picks up her wine glass. Takes a long, deliberate sip. Sets it down with careful precision.
Then she looks at me.
Her eyes are steady. Clear. Not a trace of the trembling I can feel under her skin.
"You have a very high opinion of yourself, Dmitri."
I raise an eyebrow. Wait.
"I won't beg you for anything." She tilts her chin up. Defiant. Beautiful. "Not now. Not in three months. Not ever."
The corner of my mouth twitches.
There she is.
I straighten. Step back. Give her space to breathe.
"We'll see."
"We will." She smooths her napkin across her lap. Picks up her fork. Cuts another precise piece of her filet.
I glance around the restaurant. Every eye that had been carefully averted is now fixed on us.
Dante's hand is still inside his jacket. His jaw could cut glass.
I return to my seat. Settle into the leather. Watch her eat with the same careful precision as before, as if I didn't just threaten to fuck her in public.
"Your bodyguard looks like he wants to kill me," I observe.
"He does." She doesn't look up. "Dante doesn't like you."
"Most people don't."
"I can't imagine why."
Her voice drips sarcasm. I find myself smiling.
"What does that mean?"
I pause mid-reach for my wine glass. "What does what mean?"
"Solnyshko." She rolls the word around in her mouth. Gets the pronunciation almost right. Close enough that something in my chest tightens. "You called me that. What does it mean?"
I could deflect. Change the subject. Make her work for it.
But she asked. And I don't lie.
"Little sun."
Her fork stops halfway to her mouth. "Little sun?"
"Yes."
She sets the fork down. Stares at me.
"You call me little sun while threatening to fuck me on a restaurant table?"
"Yes."
"And you see no contradiction there?"
I take a sip of wine. Consider the question seriously. "No."
She laughs.
And I love it.