16. Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Sixteen
Donna
I should feel triumphant.
Rachel is in police custody. Alessio is no longer the primary suspect in Genevieve’s murder. We found the woman who spent weeks watching him, and the evidence in her car gave the police enough to consider another answer aside from the most obvious one.
That is a good day.
A very good day.
Usually, this is the part I enjoy most. The moment after a case breaks open, when the pieces finally fit, and I can sit back with the satisfaction of knowing I found what everyone else missed.
Instead, I have spent the last hour moving around my house without accomplishing anything.
I made coffee and forgot about it until it went cold. I opened my laptop, stared at the photographs from Rachel’s car, then closed it again. I tried watching television, but after ten minutes, I realized I had no idea what was happening.
Now I am standing in my kitchen with the refrigerator open, looking at food I do not want.
“This is ridiculous,” I tell Mocha.
He lies near the table with his head resting on his front paws.
“I found Rachel. I cleared Alessio. Mostly.”
One of his ears twitches.
“The police have enough to investigate her. They have the adoption papers, the photographs, and the phone. Julian was there to make sure they couldn’t ignore any of it.”
Mocha blinks at me.
“I should be happy.”
His gaze remains steady.
“I am happy.”
He lifts his head.
“Do not look at me like that.”
His tail moves once against the floor.
I close the refrigerator and lean back against it.
The house feels too quiet and empty.
For the past several days, every hour has been filled with movement. Interviews. Records. Genevieve’s apartment. Elaine Monroe’s house. The motel. Rachel’s car forcing us off the freeway.
Lorenzo beside me through all of it.
I think of him standing in the warehouse lot, telling Rachel that we would turn her in to the police. The stillness in him when she tried to mock him. The slow, terrifying smile that made even Rachel understand she had clearly misjudged the man in front of her.
Then I think of him in the car earlier, asking whether I wanted him to charm me.
Heat forms in my stomach.
“That is completely unrelated,” I tell Mocha.
He lowers his head again.
“I’m talking about the case.”
A knock sounds at the front door.
Mocha is on his feet before the second one.
I glance toward the clock.
It is late enough that no one should be stopping by without calling first.
Mocha moves with me through the hallway, silent and alert. I check through the window beside the door.
Lorenzo stands on my porch with a bottle of wine in one hand.
My pulse jumps.
I look down at myself.
Leggings. Thick socks. A sweater that is big and comfortable enough for home, but not something I would ever wear for company.
There is no reason for me to care what I am wearing.
I smooth my hand over my hair before I open the door.
Lorenzo’s gaze moves over me before settling on my face.
He has changed out of the suit he wore earlier. Dark trousers, open collar, coat. Less formal than usual, though there is still nothing casual about him.
Mocha steps forward and takes his place beside me.
Lorenzo looks down at him.
“Are you going to let me in?”
“That depends.”
“On?”
“Whether the wine is for me.”
He lifts the bottle slightly. “It is.”
I look at the label, though I know nothing about wine beyond whether I like it once it is in a glass.
“What is the occasion?”
“A job well done.”
His voice is quiet and smooth, moving through me elegantly.
My hand tightens around the edge of the door.
“For clearing my son of murder charges,” he adds.
“For the moment.”
“For the moment,” he agrees.
I step aside.
“Come in.”
Lorenzo enters, and Mocha circles him once before deciding he is not currently a threat.
I close the door.
“You found my house.”
“Yes,” he says and gives no further explanation.
He follows me into the kitchen and places the wine on the counter.
It's not a particularly small house, but it feels smaller with him inside it.
He looks around, taking in the kitchen, the hallway, the doorway leading toward the living room. He does it without appearing nosy, which is probably a skill he developed from years of entering places and immediately identifying every exit.
“You live here alone,” he says.
“With Mocha.”
Lorenzo glances down at the dog.
“Obviously.”
I reach for two glasses, then pause.
“You are staying for the wine, I assume.”
“It is a good wine,” he says.
I set two glasses on the counter.
He removes his coat and lays it over the back of a chair.
I open the bottle, mostly because I need something to do with my hands. Lorenzo watches me struggle with the cork for several seconds before reaching for it.
“I can do it,” I say, clearly not doing it.
“I see that.”
“Do not start.”
He takes the bottle from me.
His fingers brush mine.
The contact is brief, but my body reacts as though he dragged his hand slowly up my arm.
Lorenzo opens the wine without effort and pours.
“Technically, this would be better if we let it breathe a little.”
“I'm not very fussy.” I take my glass.
He lifts his own, though neither of us drinks.
“How did Alessio take the news?” I ask.
“Well.”
“Really?”
“He needed a moment to believe it.”
I nod. That makes sense.
“He has spent days waiting for things to get worse,” Lorenzo continues. “It took time for him to accept that things had finally gotten better.”
I nod.
“Good.”
“He and Edoardo are at my house now.”
“Celebrating, I presume?”
“The cousins have taken over.”
I smile. “All of them?”
“All of them.”
“That sounds crowded.”
“And loud.”
I laugh. “You left your own celebration?”
His dark gaze settles on me over the rim of his glass.
“I did.”
“Why?”
He takes a sip before answering.
“To bring you the wine.”
I look at the bottle between us.
“You could have sent it.”
“Yes.”
“Or brought it tomorrow.”
“Yes.”
“Yet here you are.”
“Here I am.”
The silence that follows is different from the quiet in my house before he arrived. It is weighty and loaded.
I take a sip as well, though the wine barely registers.
“Good,” I say, returning to the safer subject. “It’s good that they’re celebrating.”
“It is.”
“Alessio deserves that.”
“He does.”
Another silence.
Mocha walks to his bed near the wall, circles once, and lies down with a heavy exhale that sounds suspiciously judgmental.
I look at Lorenzo.
He is watching me.
The open collar reveals the strong line of his throat. His sleeves are still buttoned at the wrist, but without the coat and jacket, he seems less distant. Broader.
I remember looking at his profile in the car.
I remember the way his voice changed when he asked whether I wanted him to charm me.
His gaze drops to my mouth.
My breath catches.
I set my glass down on the counter. So does he.
Neither of us speaks.
Our eyes remain locked on one another.
Lorenzo takes one step toward me.
I remain where I am.
His eyes search my face, giving me every opportunity to move away.
I do not.
“What are you doing here?” I ask quietly.
His gaze drops to my mouth again.
“Celebrating.”
My breath grows shallow.
I reach for him at the same moment he reaches for me.
My hands catch the front of his shirt, and his arm closes around my waist as our mouths clash hard.
The kiss is hot and firm and everything that has been building between us since he walked into my office the very first time. All the things we had kept at bay so we could remain objective to clear his son.
But now that he is…
Lorenzo pushes me back against the counter.
I drag him closer.
His hand slides into my hair, angling my head.
I bite his lower lip, and he groans.
He tastes of wine and something darker that is all him. His kiss is confident and not rushed. As though he has been waiting for this and plans to enjoy every second.
I feel my control beginning to slip, that part of me that usually stays cool and detached beginning to heat and melt against him.
My fingers tighten in his hair as he deepens the kiss, exploring, claiming, tasting.
My head falls back, giving him better access.
His mouth leaves mine and trails along my jaw.
“Lorenzo.”
My voice is husky.
He responds by nipping the sensitive skin just below my ear, and my entire body shivers.
He knows exactly what he is doing.
“Too much?” he murmurs against my skin.
"More," I moan.
He growls against my throat and ravages it. His other hand slides from my waist to my ass, gripping it and pulling me flush against him.
I can feel his cock, hard and ready.
I slide one of my hands down his chest to the waistband of his trousers. He tenses, but doesn't stop me. I trace the line of it with my fingertip, and he shudders.
“Donatella," he warns, his Italian accent growing thicker.
“I know what I want,” I whisper, my fingers sliding lower to cup him through the fabric of his pants.
He sucks in a harsh breath.
I smile, slowly, and he clearly feels it against his skin.
Roughly, he grabs my wrist and pulls my hand away, then he pins my hand behind my back.
"Tease," he chastises.
Before I can reply, he claims my mouth again. I kiss him back with equal fervor, my body humming with desire.
With his other hand, he squeezes my breast through my sweater, making me gasp.
He takes the opportunity, and his tongue claims my mouth while I can do nothing but hold on. My sweater is in the way, and I want to feel his hands on me.
He seems to read my mind, because his hand slides up my back, fisting in my sweater. He pulls it over my head with one smooth motion, letting it fall to the floor.
I'm not wearing a bra.
His dark eyes take me in.
"Dio," he says, heated, "quanto sei bella."
He dips his head, and I arch my back, pressing against him as he takes my nipple into his mouth.
I let out a choked cry.
He continues to lavish attention on one, then the other, until I'm writhing against him.
He moves one of his legs between mine, and the friction is exactly what I need. I rub myself against him, chasing the pleasure that's building inside me.
He lets out a groan, and it is a beautiful sound.
But he pulls back.
I whimper in protest.