Chapter 6
CHAPTER SIX
Nico
I stand in the operations room with my arms crossed, listening as Rafe, my head of security, runs through the updated protocols.
“We’ve doubled the outer perimeter teams and added rotating patrols every thirty minutes,” he says, pointing at the schematic on the screen. “Motion sensors on the tree line, drones up after dark. With both Gallo and Caruso coming for us, we can’t afford any blind spots.”
I nod once. “Good. Make it triple on the east side. That’s the weakest approach.”
Rafe nods and keeps talking about new shift rotations, backup generators, emergency extraction routes. I listen, but only half of me is here. The other half keeps drifting back to her, like it’s been doing all day.
When we’re done and Rafe leaves, Daniel approaches, giving me a respectful nod. “Boss.”
“How is she?”
Daniel shifts his weight. “She hasn’t left the bedroom all day. Refused to come out. The maid you sent with clothes and supplies… she sent her away. Told her to tell you to go….” he trails off unable to finish the statement, but I already have an idea of what he’s about to say.
A low breath leaves me. I nod, unsurprised.
I’ve been out since I left her. Checking shipments at the docks, tightening control over our territory, making sure every captain knows we’re at war. But all day, no matter where I was or what I was doing, my mind kept circling back to the brunette locked in the room right next to mine.
I still don’t know why the fuck I put her there.
I should have left her in the original holding room on the far side of the hall. Hell, I should have stuck her in the east wing where I wouldn’t have to smell her every time I walk past her door. Instead, I chose the suite connected to mine. One locked door between us.
I’m still pissed at myself for the original fuck-up.
I should have lifted that veil the second I grabbed her in the garden.
But I let myself get distracted by the way she felt against me when I pinned her, by that damn jasmine-and-vanilla scent that’s been burned into my senses ever since.
It’s lodged in my nose, my lungs, and my head.
No matter how many meetings I sit through, I can still smell her.
“Find the maid who took things to her. Tell her to bring everything to me.”
He nods and disappears. I head to my office and I cross to the wet bar, grab a bottle of Macallan, and pour a generous finger. I knock it back in one burning swallow. The whisky does nothing to dull the irritation crawling under my skin.
She hasn’t left the room. Hasn’t eaten all day. What game is she playing? Starving herself out of spite?
I pour another shot.
A knock sounds. The maid walks in carrying the stack of clothes, and toiletries I’d ordered for Sienna, now Eleonora. She sets everything on the edge of my desk carefully, then leaves when I order her to.
I stare at the pile for a long second, jaw tight. Then I toss back the second shot, grab the stack, and head upstairs. I’ll deliver her new clothes myself.
I climb the stairs. This is probably a terrible fucking idea.
All day I’ve been replaying it, the way her skin felt under my fingers when I removed that Caruso necklace, warm and soft and far too responsive. The slow rip of silk as I dragged the blade down her body.
The way her pulse jumped and raced when I wrapped my hand around her throat. For one dangerous second, I’d almost leaned in and kissed her, tasted that sharp mouth that keeps running even when she’s terrified. I had to force myself to pull back.
She’s been here less than a day and she’s already crawling under my skin like a drug I didn’t ask for.
When she spat in my face, I should have made her regret it. I should have reminded her exactly who the fuck she belongs to now. I’ve killed men for far less. Snapped necks just for looking at me wrong. Yet when she did it, I didn’t strike her.
I laughed. Because for some fucked-up, unexplainable reason, I can’t bring myself to hurt her.
I reach her door and open it without knocking.
The bathroom door is wide open. She’s standing at the sink in nothing but that lacy white bra and the ruined wedding dress pooled around her waist. Blood streaks her wrists, she must have scratched it raw trying to get the zip tie off earlier.
A dark bruise is already forming on her bicep, the perfect imprint of my fingers from when I dragged her out of the garden.
My eyes linger on that bruise longer than they should. I set the pile of clothes on the bed. She still hasn’t noticed me. That bothers me more than it should. She’s in enemy territory and she’s not even aware of her surroundings. Careless.
She finally catches my reflection in the mirror and spins around, eyes narrowing instantly.
She scowls. The woman actually fucking scowls at me. “Have you never heard of knocking?”
I don’t answer. My gaze drops for half a second to the swell of her breasts in that innocent white lace that has no business being sexy, before I force it back up to her face.
She’s not even trying to cover herself. Standing there half-naked, shoulders back, chin high, looking like she wants to claw my eyes out.
She takes a step forward, fire in her eyes. “What do you want, Lombardi? Here to rip the rest of the dress off me too?”
Yes. I would love nothing more. Instead I say, voice flat, “I brought you clothes.”
I gesture toward the bed with my chin. Clean leggings, soft sweaters, underwear, toiletries, everything she refused from the maid. She glances at the pile, then back at me, that defiant glare still burning bright.
I should leave. I don’t. I stay right where I am, drinking in the sight of Eleonora Caruso standing in my house in nothing but lace and bruises, still refusing to bend even an inch.
And the worst part is… I like it. I like it way too much.
She folds her arms across her chest, deliberately pushing her breasts higher, chin tilted up in pure defiance. The move is so bold, so fucking provocative, that for a second I forget how to breathe. This woman is trying to kill me.
“Okay,” she says, voice dripping with sarcasm. “What are you waiting for? A thank you?”
“You’re welcome.”
Her mouth opens, ready to retort, but I cut her off. “I’ve been told you haven’t eaten anything all day.”
“I’m not hungry.”
“It’s time for dinner,” I say, ignoring her. “Clean up and come downstairs.”
She lets out a sharp, bitter laugh. “Are you also deaf as well as delusional? Because I just said—”
“You have ten minutes,” I interrupt, already turning toward the door. “Don’t make me come back up here and drag you down myself.”
She’s still talking, angry words chasing me out of the room as I walk away. God, she talks. Constantly. If this deal doesn’t wrap up soon, she’s going to drive me out of my fucking mind.
I head into my bedroom, shrug off my jacket, and toss it over the chair. Through the adjoining door that connects our rooms, I can hear her moving around loudly, drawers slamming, muttered curses. Why did I choose the room right next to mine like a goddamn masochist?
I move to the adjoining door and pause, listening. Her voice is muffled but unmistakable angry, venomous, every other word clearly aimed at me. I can’t make out the exact insults, but I don’t need to. The tone says enough.
A slow smile pulls at my mouth before I can stop it. I shake my head and head downstairs.
The dining room is lit low and warm. Lea, my housekeeper, has gone all out as usual. The long table is covered with a full spread: roasted vegetables, fresh bread, seared steak, risotto, wine already breathing in a decanter.
I pour myself a glass of rich Barolo and take a slow sip, sitting at the head of the table.
Ten minutes pass. Then fifteen. She still hasn’t appeared. I pull out my phone and call Daniel. “Bring her downstairs,” I say the second he answers. “Now.”
I hang up and take another sip of wine, staring at the empty doorway. Eleonora Caruso is testing every limit I have.
Daniel appears in the doorway of the dining room, looking mildly uncomfortable. “She refuses to come down, Boss. Says she’s not leaving the room.”
I swear under my breath and shove my chair back, standing so fast the wine in my glass sloshes. “Fucking stubborn—”
I take the stairs two at a time and don’t bother knocking. I barge straight into her room.
Eleonora is sitting on the edge of the bed, legs crossed, now wearing the clothes I sent up, tight black leggings that hug every curve of her thighs and ass, and a soft heather-gray sweater that clings to her tits in a way that should be illegal.
Her dark hair is damp from shower, falling loose around her shoulders.
She looks far too good for someone who’s supposed to be my prisoner.
“You really need to learn manners,” she says, arching a brow.
“I asked you to come downstairs for dinner.”
She shrugs, completely unbothered. “And I don’t take orders from you.”
“You haven’t eaten all day. You need to eat.”
“Aww,” she says, voice dripping with sarcasm. “Look at you, caring about my well-being. Maybe you shouldn’t have kidnapped me if you’re so worried about my appetite.”
That’s it.
“Fuck it.”
I cross the room in three strides. She tries to scramble back on the bed, but I’m faster. I bend, hook an arm around her waist, and haul her up and over my shoulder in one smooth motion.
She screams, it’s loud, indignant, and way too fucking sexy.
“Put me down, you Neanderthal!” She pounds her fists against my back, squirming like a wildcat. Her ass is right next to my face, round and perfect in those tight leggings, bouncing with every hit she lands on me. I have to fight the sudden, violent urge to bring my palm down hard on it.
“Keep fighting me and I’ll spank this ass right here,” I growl, my hand hovering dangerously close to the curve I’m staring at. “And trust me, princess, I won’t be gentle.”
She freezes for half a second, then starts kicking harder, her hips twisting against my shoulder. The movement rubs her body against mine in all the wrong ways. Heat shoots straight to my cock.
“I hate you!” she snarls, but her voice is breathier than before.
“Yeah?” I say, carrying her out of the room. “Keep telling yourself that while you wiggle your ass is in my face begging to be spanked.”
She makes a frustrated sound that goes straight to my groin. I tighten my grip on the back of her thighs, fingers digging in just enough to remind her who’s in control, and start down the stairs.
Her sweater rides up, exposing a strip of smooth skin at her lower back. I want to bite into it. This woman is going to be the death of me.
I carry her straight into the dining room and set her down on her feet beside the chair to my right.
“Sit.”
She huffs, shooting me a murderous glare, but drops into the seat and folds her arms tightly across her chest like a sulking child.
“Eat,” I say, taking my own seat at the head of the table. “My housekeeper, Lea, went all out making dinner.”
She doesn’t move.
I pick up my knife and fork and start eating, deliberately ignoring her.
For a few minutes the only sounds are the clink of my silverware and the low crackle of the candles.
But I can feel her eyes on my plate. Every time I cut into the perfectly seared steak, her gaze follows the fork to my mouth.
She’s starving. She’s just too damn stubborn to admit it.
Then her stomach lets out a loud, embarrassing growl. I smirk, lifting my eyes to hers. Her cheeks flush.
“Are you sure about not being hungry?”
Finally, she snaps. She reaches across the table without asking, spears a piece of steak from my plate with her fork, and shoves it into her mouth, staring me dead in the eyes the entire time like it’s a declaration of war.
I watch her chew, amused. “Get your own plate.”
She scoffs and starts filling her own plate, taking extra of the risotto, then two pieces of the warm focaccia, and a generous helping of the burrata salad. I notice she keeps going back to the risotto and the sweet balsamic tomatoes, eating like she’s been starved for days.
Why the hell am I cataloging what she likes? I catch myself staring at the way she licks a stray drop of balsamic from her lower lip and have to look away.
What the fuck is wrong with me?
She’s a hostage. Yet here I am, staring at how her damp hair curls at the ends, how she sighs softly when she tastes something she really likes, how her tongue darts out to catch every flavor.
I pour myself more wine and take a long sip, trying to shove the dangerous thoughts back where they belong.
This woman has been in my house for less than twelve hours and she’s already turning my head inside out.
I need this situation resolved. Soon.
Before I do something stupid like start caring what the hell Eleonora Caruso wants for breakfast tomorrow.