Chapter 6 Damon
Fucking hell.
I stand under the cold shower, trying to wash away the memory of Viviana Bonacci in her little pajamas, looking at me like she wants to be fucked every way I know how.
This is exactly the kind of complication I don't need.
I turn the water colder, but it doesn't help.
I can still see her standing on those stairs, all wide eyes and flushed cheeks, staring at me like I'm some kind of fantasy instead of the man holding her captive.
Can still feel the way she leaned into my touch when I was stupid enough to put my hands on her.
Jesus Christ!
What the hell was I thinking bringing her here?
I wasn't thinking.
That's the problem. The minute I saw her watching me at the club, my brain short-circuited. Years of discipline, of keeping business and pleasure in separate fucking compartments, and Roberto Bonacci's eighteen-year-old daughter turns me into a goddamn teenager with no self-control.
The water finally starts to cool my blood, and I can think clearly again. This is a job. A responsibility. I'm keeping her alive until we figure out who wants her family dead, and then I'm handing her back to her daddy, Roberto with a neat little bow.
I am not going to complicate things by fucking the enemy's daughter.
No matter how much she seems to want me to.
And she does want me to.
That much was obvious from the way she openly teased me, the way she refused to back down even when I was practically growling at her to get the hell away from me. Princess has more balls than I gave her credit for.
Which makes her even more dangerous.
I get out of the shower and grab a towel, catching sight of myself in the mirror. The scar on my ribs catches the light, a reminder of what happens when you let your guard down, when you think with your dick instead of your brain.
I get dressed and head downstairs to make breakfast, trying to focus on the routine. Coffee first, then eggs and toast. Simple shit that doesn't require much thought, because I need to keep my mind on business.
But when she comes downstairs twenty minutes later, business is the last fucking thing on my mind.
She's changed out of her pajamas into clothes that should be perfectly innocent - white tank top, denim shorts. But on her, they look like a declaration of war. The tank top shows enough skin to make my cock twitch, and those shorts... Christ, those legs go on for fucking miles.
"Morning," she says, sliding onto one of the stools at the kitchen island like she owns the place.
"Morning. Coffee?"
"Please."
I pour her a mug and slide it across the counter, making damn sure our fingers don't touch. "Sleep good?"
"Fine." She takes a sip and makes this little sound, half moan, half sigh, that goes straight to my dick. "This is good coffee."
"Italian roast."
"Of course it is." There's amusement in her tone. "You do everything with style, or just the coffee?"
I glance up from the eggs I'm scrambling. "The fuck's that supposed to mean?"
"This place." She gestures around the kitchen with its granite countertops and professional-grade appliances. "The car you drove me here in. Even your gym downstairs. Everything's expensive, everything's perfect."
"I like quality."
"Or you like showing off."
"Maybe both."
She laughs, and fuck me, she looks even younger when she does that. More innocent. Reminds me exactly how screwed this situation is.
"What?" she asks, noticing my expression.
"Nothing." I turn back to the eggs. "You hungry?"
"Starving."
I finish the eggs and toast, setting a plate in front of her before taking the stool across the island.
"Thank you," she says, taking a bite. "It's good."
"You sound surprised."
"A little. I didn't expect..." She trails off, looking embarrassed.
"What?"
"I didn't expect you to take care of me."
"Don't get used to it. This shit's temporary, and I'm not taking care of you. I'm keeping you breathing."
"Same thing."
"No, it's fucking not."
She studies my face like she's trying to crack some code. "Why are you doing this? Really?"
"I told you. Someone tried to kill your family."
"No." She cuts me off. "I mean why you? You're important in your family, right? You could've sent someone else to babysit me. So why are you here?"
Good fucking question. One I've been asking myself since I grabbed her from that club.
Truth is, I volunteered. When my old man mentioned that Roberto's daughter was missing, when the plan started forming to find her and use her as leverage to prevent a war, I could've delegated. Should've delegated.
But the thought of anyone else putting their hands on her, anyone else being responsible for keeping her safe, made something fucking primal claw at my gut.
Not that I'm telling her that shit.
"Because I don't trust anyone else to do it right," I say instead. "Some things I handle myself."
"What do you mean? Guard me, or protect me?"
"Both."
"There's a difference?"
I set down my fork and really look at her. "Guarding you means keeping you locked up until this is over. Protecting you means keeping you safe while making sure you don't lose your fucking mind in the process."
"And which one are you doing?"
"I'm trying to protect you."
"Why?"
The question hangs in the air between us. Why am I trying to protect her instead of locking her in a room and throwing away the key?
"Because you're not what I expected," I say finally.
"I'm afraid to ask what that is, but go ahead."
"Spoiled brat. Daddy's little princess who'd cry and scream and make my life hell until I could hand her back. Instead, you're down in my gym at seven in the morning, looking at me like..." I stop myself before I say words I can't take back.
"What?"
"Like you're not afraid of me."
"I told you I wasn't."
"Yeah, well, you should be."
"Why? Because you're big and scary and dangerous?" She leans forward, and I catch a hint of her shampoo, something light and sweet that doesn't match the fire in her eyes. "Or because you want me and you think that makes you weak?"
The directness of the question catches me off guard. No games, no bullshit, just straight to the fucking point.
"Both," I admit.
"I don't think wanting someone makes you weak."
"You would if you understood what wanting the wrong person can cost you."
"What did it cost you?"
I think about the scar on my ribs, about the bitch who put it there when I trusted her with information I shouldn't have shared. About the six months of physical therapy and the lesson learned too fucking late about mixing business with pleasure.
"Everything," I say simply.
"But I'm not her."
"No, you're worse."
"How?"
"Because she was a dumb mistake when I was young. You'd be fucking treason."
The word hangs between us.
That's what it would be if I touched her, if I gave in to this shit that's been building since the moment I saw her on that dance floor. Betraying my family, my business, everything I've built my life on.
"Would it be worth it?" she asks quietly.
My phone rings. I glance at the caller ID and curse. My father.
"I have to take this," I tell her, stepping away from the island.
"Lombardi."
"Damon. We got a problem."
"What kind?"
"The kind that involves Roberto Bonacci showing up at our front door with half his crew, demanding to know where his daughter is."
Fuck.
"What did you tell him?"
"That we don't have her. But he's not buying it."
I glance back at Viviana, who's pretending not to listen while obviously hanging on every fucking word.
"He's threatening war if anything happens to her," Dad continues. "Says he knows we took her, knows we're behind the attack on his family."
"We weren't though."
"I know that, you know that, but Roberto's not thinking clearly. His little girl is missing, and he's looking for someone to blame. We need to fix this fast."
"How long can you hold him off?"
"Not long. He wants proof of life by tonight, or he's coming for us with everything he's got."
I close my eyes, feeling the weight of this clusterfuck pressing down on me. If Roberto declares war, people die. A lot of people. And it won't just be our families - when the Bonaccis and Lombardis go to war, the whole fucking city bleeds.
"I'll figure it out," I tell him.
"Do it fast. And Damon? Every time you look at that girl, remember she's the enemy's daughter. Don't let her pretty face make you forget that."
The line goes dead, and I'm left with my father's warning echoing in my ears.
Don't let her pretty face make you forget that.
Too fucking late.
I turn back to find Viviana watching me with worried eyes.
"That was about me, wasn't it?" she asks.
"Yeah."
"My father wants me back."
"He's demanding proof you're alive."
"And you're going to give it to him?"
I think about my options. A phone call would be the smart play, but phone calls can be traced. A video could be faked. If I want to convince Roberto that his daughter is safe, I need something more convincing.
"We might have to arrange a meeting," I say carefully.
"You'll let me go?"
"No, I'll let your father see you. Briefly. Under controlled circumstances."
Hope flashes across her face, quickly followed by disappointment.
"But then I come back here."
"Yeah."
"With you."
"Right."
She nods slowly, processing this. "How long do I have to stay here?"
"As long as it takes to find out who really hit your family."
"And if you never find out?"
It's a possibility I don't want to consider. Without the real enemy, without proof that neither family was behind the attack, this standoff could last indefinitely. Roberto will never trust me, I'll never trust him, and Viviana will be stuck in the middle.
"We'll find out," I say with more confidence than I feel.
"But in the meantime, I'm your prisoner."
"You're a job, Viviana. Nothing more, nothing less."
The words come out harsher than I intended, and I see her flinch. Maybe that'll kill whatever fantasy she's building in her head about this situation.
"Right," she says quietly. "And when the job's over?"
"You go back to your life and I go back to mine."
"And we pretend this never happened."
"There's nothing to pretend about. This is just business."
She stares at me for a long moment, and I can see her processing the reality of what I'm telling her. Finally, she nods.
"Got it."
But as she stands up and walks toward the stairs, probably heading back to her room, I catch something in her expression that looks like hurt.
Which pisses me off, because she has no right to be hurt. She's Roberto Bonacci's daughter. The enemy. A complication I don't need and a temptation I can't fucking afford.
The fact that I want to fuck her senseless is irrelevant. The fact that she seems to want me back is dangerous as hell.
And the fact that I keep thinking about what it would be like to touch her, to taste her, to hear her say my name while I'm buried deep inside her is the most dangerous thing of all.
But wanting her and caring about her are two different things. I can handle wanting her.
It doesn't mean shit.
It can't mean shit.
Because at the end of the day, she's still the enemy's daughter, and I'm still the man who's going to hand her back to her father when this is all over.