Chapter 16
Chapter Sixteen
STEVIE
I last three whole days of being Beth Taylor, model witness, reasonable citizen, and emotionally neutered ghost-person who definitely isn’t cycling through Dario Marchetti, Saul Bennett, and Enzo in a never-ending loop like a perverted screensaver every waking moment.
And sleeping moments. And moments in between.
And one very memorable situation I’m refusing to unpack, because I have enough on my plate without adding ‘horny for a foursome with a U.S. Marshal and two men who’ve probably committed more felonies than cookies I’ve baked’ to the docket.
Although technically that’s been on the list longer than I want to admit.
Enzo’s warning echoes in my skull like a sexy little concussion.
You’re not safe coming back.
But louder underneath it?
Dario left the door unlocked for you.
Which is basically Italian for ‘I want to raw you in my foyer.’
So on Wednesday, I make cookies.
Amaretti. Italian almond cookies. Delicate, traditional, the kind that require actual technique instead of just throwing ingredients at a bowl and hoping for the best.
I spend two hours on them. Adjusting the almond flour ratio. Getting the egg whites to the right consistency. Watching them crack and spread in the oven like they’re supposed to.
These aren’t stress cookies.
These are I can’t stop picturing your hands while I zest an orange cookies.
These are I fantasized about you so hard my cookies came out perfect cookies.
I package them carefully. Don’t bother with a note.
He’ll know they’re from me.
Who else is breaking into his house to leave Italian pastries?
The drive feels different this time.
Not the panicked energy of the first trip or the manic determination of the second. This is something calmer.
He left the door unlocked for me. That’s mob-code for come sit on my face while I explain omertà.
That changes everything and nothing. I’m still a federal witness violating protection. Still risking my safety and my future.
But I’m also expected.
Invited, even.
Is it still breaking and entering if he basically left the porch light on and wrote my name on the lock?
Legally, sure. Emotionally? It’s practically an engraved invitation.
RSVP: Me. Cookies. Delusion.
God, my life is weird.
His neighborhood is aggressively serene today. Tree-lined silence. Golden sunlight. One of those streets where even the air smells expensive and no one ever yells about their ex on the front lawn. The kind of peaceful that probably costs extra in property taxes.
I park down the street. Grab the cookies. Walk up to his door.
Deep breath.
I try the doorknob.
It turns.
Something warm blooms in my chest. He did it again. Left it open. For me.
I step inside. Close the door softly.
“Hello?” I call out, quieter than last time.
Silence.
But a different kind of silence. Not empty. Prepared. Like the house has been staged for my arrival.
The kitchen first.
I round the corner and stop.
The container from my cranberry orange cookies is sitting in the dish drainer. He ate them and cleaned up after himself like a civilized human being. He’s trying to seduce me via Tupperware etiquette.
It’s working.
There’s a note on the counter. Small. Cream-colored stationery. Neat handwriting that somehow manages to look both precise and elegant.
Thank you for the cookies. The tiramisu is in the fridge if you want some. - D
Translation: Break in again. Stuff your face. Moan for me.
This man is courting me through pastry-based consent.
I stare at the note.
Read it again.
The tiramisu is in the fridge.
He made me tiramisu.
Dario Marchetti, alleged crime family member, owner of an extremely organized closet, made me tiramisu.
I open the fridge with hands that aren’t quite steady.
It’s there. A glass dish with layers of coffee-soaked ladyfingers and mascarpone cream. Dusted with cocoa powder. Beautiful. Clearly homemade.
I get a spoon from the drawer, second drawer on the left, I remember from last time, I remember everything, that’s my whole problem, and take a bite standing at the counter like a goblin who’s forgotten how chairs work.
It’s perfect.
Rich. Decadent. Coffee-bitten and soaked in cream like a fucking love letter written in flavor.
I moan. My entire moral compass derailed by dessert.
I eat three more bites before I make myself stop.
Then I set down the spoon. And I explore.
There’s another note on the coffee table. Sitting next to his cologne bottle.
Wear this when you touch yourself.
I read it. Read it again.
My fight-or-flight response malfunctions and gets replaced by the urge to lick the note.
He saw me in his closet. Me with his tie. Me pressing my mouth to his mug like it might kiss back.
And instead of locking his doors, he left me a bossy sex note.
We’re having a conversation across space and time.
I’m being dommed through polite calligraphy by a man with at least two offshore accounts and a known body count.
Why is this the hottest thing that’s ever happened to me?
This is the most emotionally fulfilling relationship I’ve had in a decade and I initiated it with cookies and criminal trespassing.
Hallmark could never.
I pick up the cologne. Don’t spray it this time. Just hold it. Like a pervert. Like a woman who wants to crawl into this man’s pores and hibernate until mating season.
Then I slip it in my pocket and head upstairs.
His bedroom door is open.
Not just ajar like last time. Open. Wide. Welcoming, saying, Yes, trespass. Make it weird.
I stand in the doorway for a long moment.
The bed’s made. Dark grey sheets pulled tight, military-precise. Pillows arranged perfectly. The whole room smells like him.
Last time I was here in a panic. Grabbing his jacket, shoving the tie in my pocket, fleeing like a raccoon caught in a garage.
This time is different.
This time I walk in slowly. Taking my time. Like this is our house. Our bed. Our life I broke into like a thief with a key.
I run my hand along the footboard. Smooth wood. Expensive. Still no handcuffs or silky restraints.
I look at the pillows. Imagine him sleeping here. Face relaxed. That controlled expression finally gone.
And then, because I have absolutely no self-control, and he basically told me to, I lie down on his bed.
Head on his pillow. Face turned into the fabric.
I pull the bottle from my pocket. Spray my neck, my wrists. Take off my shirt and spray my belly. The mist is cool on my skin.
I inhale, trying to memorize him through my lungs. Let his scent crawl into the cracks and fill the places nothing else can reach.
… while you touch yourself.
Sir, yes sir.
I trail a finger over my bra.
My other hand slides lower. One flick and the button of my jeans pops. Another and I’m sliding under the denim, under the thin cotton of my panties.
I press down, soft and slow, and then again harder. Find the rhythm he’d probably use.
“Fuck,” I whisper, and my voice is ragged already.
My other hand skims up. Over my ribs. Palms the lace of my bra. Pretends it’s his mouth. His teeth. His hands that never seem to shake.
I stare at the ceiling. Then at the pillow.
Then I turn my head and look for it.
There.
The camera.
Tiny. Dark. Quiet.
But my brain explodes with what ifs.
What if he’s watching?
What if Enzo’s watching?
I moan anyway.
Whisper his name into the pillow, like it’ll reach him. Like it’ll stain the cotton.
“Dario.”
My hips roll up into my own hand. My breath gets louder. I don’t even close my eyes. I want the camera to see.
I want him to see how much I want to be his.
How much I already am.
The climax hits like a pulled pin. Fast. Brutal.
My whole body spasms. And when it’s over, I sink into his scent, his shirt, the wreckage of what I just did in his bed.
And smile.
I get up eventually. Don’t bother fixing the bed. Let him see it when he walks in. The rumpled placed I got off in a cloud of his scent.
Button my jeans, leave the shirt on the bed.
The closet door is right there. I open it. The suits, the ties, but pushed to the side, casual clothes. A charcoal grey t-shirt, soft and obviously worn.
I hold it up to my face. Laundry detergent and him.
I put it on.
It falls to mid-thigh. The sleeves past my hands. I have to roll them up twice just to find my fingers.
I look at myself in the mirror on the back of his closet door.
Blonde hair messy from writhing on his pillow. His shirt drowning me. Looking like a woman who’s completely lost the plot and found something better on the other side.
I should take it off. Put my own shirt back on and leave before this gets worse.
I don’t. I just stand there, looking at myself in his clothes, trying to understand what I’m becoming.
This is who you are now. A home-invading, shirt-stealing, dessert goblin with a criminal record pending and a sense of self-worth shaped like a cookie tin.
You don’t need therapy. You need an exorcism and a nap.
Someone clears their throat.
Every muscle in my body turns to stone.
I spin around.
Dario is leaning against the bedroom doorframe. Arms crossed. Those dark eyes tracking over me slowly, the shirt, my face, my absolute fucking mortification.
“Hi, Stevie,” he says.
His voice is low and smooth and exactly how I remembered it all those nights I was definitely not imagining it.
I can’t breathe. Can’t move. Can’t do anything except stand here frozen in his bedroom, wearing his shirt, my own shirt on the bed, evidence of my crimes.
“I.” My voice doesn’t work. I try again. “I didn’t think you were home.”
“I wasn’t.” He pushes off the doorframe. Doesn’t come closer. Just stands there, giving me space to panic. “I am now.”
Oh God. Oh fuck. Oh.
“I should go.”
Can he smell the orgasm in the air?
“Stay.” It’s not a command. The word is soft. Almost hesitant. “Please,” he adds.
My knees almost give out. I would lick blood off his hands if he asked me like that.
My heart’s flailing like it’s late for work and forgot its pants.
Dario Marchetti just said please to me. Dario who is wearing jeans and a white t-shirt like a normal person, asking me to stay.
“I’ll make affogato,” he says, like that’s a normal follow-up to catching a woman mid-post-nut, dressed in his shirt. “You brought cookies. We should talk.”
Talk? Sir, my vagina is still pulsing. Use smaller words.
He wants to talk. While I’m wearing his shirt. In his bedroom. After breaking into his house for the second time and getting caught smelling his closet.
This is fine. Everything is fine. Normal Wednesday activities.
“Okay,” I whisper.
He nods and then he turns and heads downstairs.
I follow him.