Chapter 5 Viviana
I wake up the next morning to the sound of weights clinking somewhere in the house.
For a split-second, I forget where I am. The bed is comfortable, the room too quiet. Then reality crashes back, Tony is dead, my family was attacked, and I'm trapped in a safe house with my family’s enemy Damon Lombardi.
The weight sounds continue, rhythmic and steady. I slip out of bed and pad to the bedroom door, pressing my ear against it. The sounds are coming from downstairs, somewhere near what looks like it might be a basement entrance I noticed yesterday.
I should mind my own business. I should definitely not go looking for the dangerous man who's holding me captive.
But I've never been good at should.
I creep down the hallway in my pajamas, an oversized t-shirt and shorts I found in the dresser, probably left by whoever furnished this place. Everything here is generic but expensive, like a high-end hotel that's trying to feel homey.
The weight sounds are definitely coming from downstairs. There's a door at the end of the hall that I assumed was a closet, but when I try the handle, it opens to reveal stairs leading down to what looks like a finished basement.
I should turn around and go back to my room.
Instead, I find myself walking down the stairs.
The basement is set up like a home gym, expensive equipment, mirrors on the walls, rubber flooring. And in the center of it all is Damon, doing bench presses with a seriously heavy amount of weight.
He's shirtless and sweating.
And gorgeous as hell.
I freeze on the bottom step.
I've seen guys without shirts before. At the pool, at the beach, even at the club when some drunk college boy inevitably decides he's too hot and starts stripping. But none of them looked like this.
Damon's body is all lean muscle and controlled power, built for function rather than show. His chest rises and falls with each rep, and I notice tattoos that were hidden under his clothes, something dark and intricate across his ribs, words in what might be Latin on his shoulder.
There's a scar running along his left side, thin like a knife wound. Another one on his shoulder that looks older, more jagged.
These aren't the kinds of scars you get from playing football or falling off your bike. These are the kinds of scars that come from the world he lives in. The world my family lives in too, apparently.
He finishes his set and sits up, reaching for a towel, and that's when he sees me standing there like an idiot.
"Morning, princess." His voice is rough, probably from exertion, and there's amusement in his dark eyes. "Sleep well?"
Heat floods my cheeks. "I heard... I thought..." I gesture vaguely toward the weights. "I didn't know you had a gym down here."
"House came with it." He stands up, and I have to force myself not to stare at the way his muscles move under his skin. "You work out?"
"Sometimes. I used to do yoga with my mom." The words tumble out before I can stop them. "Before."
Before my bodyguard was murdered. Before everything I thought I knew about my life turned out to be a lie.
Damon nods like he understands what I'm not saying. "There's yoga mats in that closet if you want. Might help with the stress."
"Thanks." I'm still standing on the bottom step like an idiot, trying not to notice the way sweat has made his skin gleam under the fluorescent lights. "I should go back upstairs."
"Yeah, you should." But he doesn't look away, and neither do I.
There's tension in the air between us, something that makes my skin feel too tight and my heart beat too fast. It's the same feeling I had that first night at the club when I caught him watching me, but stronger now.
More dangerous.
"Viviana." The way he says my name makes my stomach flip.
"Yeah?"
"You're staring."
"So are you."
He steps closer, and I can smell his cologne mixed with sweat and soap, a masculine scent that makes me want to lean in instead of backing away.
"I'm trying to figure you out," he says. “You're not what I expected.” His eyes move over my face like he's looking for clues. "Roberto Bonacci's spoiled princess who thinks sneaking out to clubs makes her dangerous."
"I never said I was dangerous."
"No, but you thought you were. I could see it that night, the way you moved, the way you handled those college boys. You knew exactly what you were doing."
My cheeks burn with embarrassment. "I did."
"Is that right?" He's close enough now that I have to tilt my head back to look at him. "Or were you playing dress-up in a world you don't understand?"
The question stings because it's true. I was playing at being bad, playing at being someone other than the sheltered girl my father raised me to be.
"You don't know anything about me," I say.
"I know you've never been in real danger before. I know you've probably never even been kissed by someone who wasn't screened by your daddy first."
The last part hits home because it's embarrassingly accurate. The few boys I've kissed were all from "appropriate" families, all pre-approved by Papa's standards, all completely safe and boring.
"You're wrong," I lie.
"Am I?" He reaches out and touches my cheek, a brush of his fingers, but it sends electricity shooting through my entire body. "Then why are you shaking?"
I hadn't realized it until he pointed it out, but my whole body is trembling like I'm cold, even though the basement is warm.
"I'm not shaking because of you," I say, which is another lie.
"No?" His thumb traces along my cheek. "Then what?"
I should step away. I should remember that this man is my enemy, that he's dangerous, that getting involved with him would be the stupidest thing I could possibly do.
Besides the fact me Papa would kill him if he found out.
Instead, I find myself leaning into his touch. "I don't know," I whisper.
We stand there, his hand on my face, my heart hammering. The air between us feels charged, like right before a thunderstorm.
Then Damon drops his hand and steps back. "You should go upstairs," he says.
"Why?"
"Because I'm trying to keep you safe, and that includes keeping you safe from me."
"Maybe I don't want to be safe?"
The words slip out before I can stop them, and I immediately want to take them back. Where did that come from? I don't even know this man. I shouldn't want anything from him except to go home.
Damon's eyes go dark. "Princess, you have no fucking idea what you're saying."
"Stop calling me princess. I’m not your princess. And yes, I do."
"No, you don't." He moves closer again, and this time there's something predatory in his gaze. "You think you want danger, but you've never actually experienced it. You think you want the bad boy, but you don't know what bad really is."
"Then show me."
Jesus, where did that come from?
I can't believe I'm standing here in my pajamas, challenging a man who could probably kill me with his bare hands, asking him to show me what bad looks like.
But I can't seem to stop myself. There's something about being here, about being cut off from my old life and everything I thought I knew about myself, that's making me reckless.
Damon stares at me for a long moment, a war playing out behind his eyes. Then he shakes his head.
"Go upstairs, Viviana."
"Make me."
It's a stupid thing to say. Childish and bratty and exactly the kind of thing that would make him think I really am a spoiled princess playing games.
But instead of getting angry, he laughs. It's a low, rough sound that makes my stomach flip in the best possible way.
"You're big trouble," he says. “And trouble is the last thing either of us needs right now."
He's right, and I know he's right, but I don't care.
I feel like myself again. Not the terrified girl who found out her bodyguard was dead, not the sheltered princess who didn't know her family was in the mafia, but the girl who climbs out windows and sneaks into clubs and makes her own decisions about what she wants.
And right now, what I want is standing in front of me, shirtless and sweaty and looking at me like he shouldn't touch me but desperately wants to.
"I'm already in trouble," I point out. "Might as well make it worth it."
"Viviana." My name sounds like a warning.
"What?"
"You need to go upstairs. Now."
"Or what?"
"Or I'll do something we'll both regret."
The threat should scare me. Instead, it sends heat coursing through my veins.
"I’m not scared of you."
For a second, I think he's going to give in. I can see it in his eyes, the moment when his control wavers. Then he turns away from me, picking up his shirt from where he dropped it on a weight bench.
"Trust me, you should be, little girl."
He pulls the shirt over his head, covering all that beautiful, dangerous skin, and just like that, the spell is broken.
"Leave," he says again, not looking at me. "I'll be up in a few minutes to make breakfast."
I want to argue. I want to push him further, see what happens when his control finally snaps. But his tone tells me I've already pushed as far as I safely can.
"Fine," I say, trying to sound like I don't care.
I turn and walk back up the stairs, feeling his eyes on me the whole way. My skin is still tingling from where he touched me, and I know I should be ashamed of myself for wanting him.
But I'm not.
I'm trapped in this house with the enemy, and I have no idea what's going to happen next.
But I feel alive.
Back in my room, I close the door behind me and lean against it. What happened down there? What was I thinking, practically throwing myself at him?
I wasn't thinking.
That's the problem. Around him, my brain seems to shut off and insanity takes over. Something reckless and hungry and completely unlike the good girl I've always been.
I catch sight of myself in the dresser mirror and stop short. My cheeks are flushed, my hair is messy from sleep, and my eyes look bright and wild. I look like a girl who's been kissed, even though nothing actually happened.
Nothing happened, but something changed.
I can still feel the ghost of his touch on my cheek, still hear the rough way he said my name.
This is dangerous.
Not the fake danger I used to seek out at clubs, but real, honest-to-God danger that could destroy everything.
If my family found out I was attracted to Damon Lombardi, they'd probably disown me.
If his family found out, they'd probably kill me.
But knowing that doesn't make me want him any less.
If anything, it makes me want him more.