Chapter 16 Viviana
Damon tries to maintain professional distance, but I catch him watching me when he thinks I'm not looking. I attempt to act casual, but every time he's in the same room, my skin feels too tight and my heart races like I've been running.
We're like two people walking on eggshells, except the eggshells are made of sexual tension and unresolved feelings.
"Coffee?" he asks from the kitchen doorway, holding up the pot.
"Thanks." I don't look up from the book I'm pretending to read.
He brings me a mug, and when our fingers brush during the exchange, we both jerk back like we've been burned. The coffee sloshes, nearly spilling onto my lap.
"Sorry," he mutters.
"It's fine."
But it's not fine. Nothing about this is fine.
I watch him retreat to the kitchen island, putting careful distance between us, and try to focus on my book. It's some thriller I found on the shelf, but I've read the same paragraph four times without absorbing a single word.
Because all I can think about is how his hands felt on my skin. How much I want him to touch me again despite knowing how complicated it makes everything.
"I have to go out later," he says without looking at me.
"Business?"
"Family meeting. Tommy's picking me up around two." He pauses. "Timo and Enea will be on the property while I'm gone."
"I won't see them though, right?"
"That's the point. They'll be watching the perimeter from the woods. You won't know they're there unless something goes wrong."
I nod. It makes sense that he'd have backup. I should have realized he wouldn't leave me completely alone.
"How long will you be gone?"
"Few hours. You'll be safe here."
"I know."
"There's food in the fridge if you get hungry," he says.
"I can cook, you know."
That gets his attention. He looks up, surprised. "You cook?"
"Papa insisted I learn. Said I needed to know how to take care of a household." The memory makes me smile slightly. "Though I think he pictured me cooking for my future husband, not for myself while hiding from people who want to kill me."
Something flickers across Damon's face. "What did you want to be? Before all this."
The question catches me off guard. "What do you mean?"
"If you weren't Roberto Bonacci's daughter. If you could be anything, do anything. What would you choose?"
I think about it. It's been so long since anyone asked me what I wanted instead of what was expected of me.
"A teacher, maybe. Elementary school. I like kids, and I'm good at explaining things." I pause. "That probably sounds stupid to you."
"No, it doesn’t. Why would you think that?"
"Because it's normal. Ordinary. Not very exciting for someone who thinks danger is attractive."
His smile is small but genuine. "Maybe ordinary isn't such a bad thing."
"Says the man who kills people for a living."
"Or a man who's starting to understand why people choose ordinary if they’re given a choice."
We're straying into dangerous territory again, the kind of conversation that acknowledges this thing between us might be more than just physical attraction.
I should change the subject. Keep things light and professional.
Instead, I ask, "What about you? What did you want to be when you grew up?"
"A cop."
I nearly choke on my coffee. "Seriously?"
"Dead serious. When I was eight, I wanted to be one of the good guys. Arrest the bad guys, protect people, serve justice." His laugh is bitter. "Funny how things work out."
"You do protect people in your own way."
"I protect my family's interests. That's not the same thing."
"You're protecting me."
"Because it serves my family's interests."
The dismissive response stings. "Right. Business."
"Everything's in this world is business, Viviana. The sooner you understand that, the better."
We fall into silence after that, both of us probably thinking about what happens when "for now" ends. When the threat is eliminated and I go back to my life and he goes back to his.
The thought makes my stomach hurt.
At two o'clock, Tommy arrives to pick up Damon. I watch from the window as they drive away, then spend the next hour trying to distract myself with television, books, anything that doesn't involve thinking about him.
It doesn't work.
By four o'clock, I'm restless and annoyed with myself. This is ridiculous. I'm eighteen years old, not some helpless child who can't function without a man around. I should be grateful for the space, the chance to think clearly without Damon's presence clouding my judgment.
Instead, I miss him.
To distract myself, I decide to cook dinner. Something more elaborate than sandwiches. I find chicken in the freezer, vegetables in the fridge, pasta in the pantry. Chicken alfredo. Comfort food.
The cooking helps. There's something soothing about the routine of it, the familiar motions of chopping and stirring and seasoning. For a little while, I can pretend I'm a normal girl making dinner for... for what? My boyfriend?
The thought is more than a little alarming.
Is that what Damon is? We've slept together once, had one intense conversation about obligations and consequences, and now we're tiptoeing around each other like teenagers with a crush.
But he's not my boyfriend. He's the man holding me captive for my own protection. The enemy's son who happened to save my life. The dangerous stranger I can't stop thinking about.
I'm so lost in thought that I almost don't hear the sound. A soft scraping, like a branch against glass. I look up from the stove, listening.
There it is again. Coming from the living room.
I turn off the burner and move quietly toward the sound. The living room windows face the forest, and in the fading afternoon light, I can see movement in the trees.
My heart starts racing before I remember what Damon said about the guards being out there. The movement is probably one of his men doing their job.
Still, something feels different about this. The figure I glimpsed seemed too close to the house, moving too carelessly.
I grab my phone anyway. Better paranoid than dead.
But before I can dial, I hear the front door open.
My blood turns to ice. I rush toward the hallway, expecting to see Damon, but the footsteps are wrong. Too light, too careful.
"Hello?" I call out, hating how scared I sound.
No answer.
I back toward the kitchen, phone in hand, but I don't hear anything else.
Maybe I imagined it. Maybe the stress of the past few days is making me paranoid.
I wait another few minutes, listening to the silence, then slowly make my way back to the front door. It's closed and locked, security system armed. Everything looks normal.
But the feeling that something's wrong won't go away.
I'm still standing there, debating whether to call Damon, when I hear his car in the driveway.
Relief floods through me so fast it makes me dizzy. I unlock the door and wait for him to come in, probably looking as paranoid as I feel.
"Hey," he says, stopping when he sees my expression. "Everything okay?"
"I thought I saw someone moving near the house. Closer than your men usually get."
His expression sharpens immediately. "Where?"
"Living room windows. Could have been Timo or Enea, but it seemed different somehow."
He's already pulling out his phone, speed-dialing. "Timo, report... What do you mean you lost visual on the east side?... How long?... Fuck."
He hangs up and moves past me, checking the security panel.
"What's wrong?"
"Timo's partner went to investigate movement near the east perimeter twenty minutes ago. Radio went dead."
Cold dread pools in my stomach. "Is he...?"
"Probably equipment failure, but we're not taking chances." He's moving through the house systematically now, checking windows, looking for signs of entry. "Pack a bag. Light. At some point, we might need to move in a hurry."
"Damon?"
"Yeah?"
"Something felt wrong. I can't explain it, but something felt off."
He glances at me, and I see something in his expression that makes my stomach clench.
"Your instincts are good," he says quietly. "Don't ignore them. Learn to lean on them."
"What does that mean?"
"It means we need to be more careful. Stay alert at all times.”
He finishes his security sweep and comes back to the kitchen, where the smell of alfredo sauce still lingers.
"You cooked," he says in surprise. “Smells good.”
"I told you I could. It's ready if you're hungry."
"Starving."
But he doesn't move toward the stove. He stands there looking at me, and I can see the war playing out behind his eyes. The same war that's been going on for three days now.
"Viviana."
"Yeah?"
"Thank you. For cooking. For staying alert. For trusting your instincts."
The words are simple, but there's weight behind them.
"I trust you," I admit.
"You shouldn't."
"Stop telling me what I should do,” I snap at him. “I’m sick and tired of everyone trying to control me."
He looks surprised by my sharp tone. "What did you say?”
"I'm tired of everyone deciding what's best for me. Papa, my brothers, even you. I can make my own choices. Don’t tell me what to do. I don’t like it.”
Suddenly he's right behind me. Close. I can feel the heat of his body, the weight of his attention. My heart stutters, and I turn slowly to face him.
His face is different.
Dangerous. Distant. Nothing like last night.
"Do not talk back to me and do not disobey me," he says. "Ever. You belong to me now and you will respect me.”
I bristle, fighting the heat rising. "Belong to you?"
He nods once, his eyes never leaving mine. "You gave yourself to me last night. Or did you forget?"
"No, I didn't forget," I reply.
"I think you did, and I need to remind you so it doesn't happen again. Disrespect won’t be tolerated because it will get you killed faster than anything in this world. If I don’t teach you this lesson, someone else will."
He grabs my wrist, not roughly, but firmly enough to make me stumble, and drags me down the hall. My mouth goes dry. I should fight. I should argue. But something low in my belly flips in anticipation.