Chapter 31
SAbrINA
Ispent half the night with my ear pressed to the wall, listening for any trace of him—his voice, a cough, even a murmur in his sleep. But the palazzo was silent, its stone walls thick as a fortress. Sebastian had vanished into it like a ghost.
Well, it wasn’t as if I were going to sleep anyway.
I was far too excited for my first day at the House of Diamanti.
When I wasn’t pressing my ear to the wall like an idiot, I went over in my mind everything I’d Googled about the House of Diamanti back in Paris: the history of the company, the previous year’s collections, press coverage of their fashion shows, any formal photo shoot or magazine spread I could find.
And, of course, Sebastian.
I devoured every article, every photograph—Sebastian at charity galas, racing in Monte Carlo, lounging on antique yachts, always perfectly untouchable.
After sorting through countless business articles about major deals, diamond acquisitions, and record-breaking financial performance, I found the personal stuff.
There were also recent articles about his possible involvement in the death of a Sicilian mob boss as part of some revenge scheme for shooting the owner of the Cavalieri winery, but that was just gossip—too sensational to believe.
Oddly, there were no photos of him with any women, apart from his mother and sister.
No girlfriends, love interests, or even a speculative fiancée.
Nothing.
Until me.
A few fashion websites featured photos of me wearing the Yellow Persian diamond and appearing on Sebastian's arm, mainly in France and America, but nothing in Italy.
He had mentioned having a sort of control over the media here, but why would he care if someone photographed him with a woman he was dating?
And even if he did have some sort of influence, something always slipped through. A rogue tabloid. A stranger on the street posting on social media.
Something.
But I found nothing.
Nothing except photos of me with him.
How very odd.
* * *
In the morning, a sweet servant who spoke absolutely no English brought me a tray with espresso and some lovely Italian breakfast pastries.
I needed the sugar. And the caffeine.
The Gucci dress hid the dark circles well enough.
Not that I cared what Sebastian thought. Not really.
Still, every time I saw him, it struck me just as much as the first time. The man radiated power and authority, all while being devilishly handsome. He was like one of those old Hollywood stars—Clark Gable or Cary Grant.
Sebastian shrugged into a long black cashmere coat held up by a servant.
As he pulled on his leather gloves, he said, “Buongiorno, bella. Are you ready for your first day at the House of Diamanti?”
I adjusted the tan faux-fur collar of my Valentino Garavani tweed coat. “Yes.”
My mind screamed for me to say more, but I was too nervous.
Sebastian approached me.
His usually cold, dark eyes held a hint of warmth. “Don’t worry, dolcezza. They will love you.”
Lowering my gaze, I clutched the strap of my purse. “You probably should stop calling me that since we now have a—”
“Strictly professional relationship. I’m aware. Fortunately for me, it is expected for an Italian man to compliment a woman by calling her beautiful, sweet, and other such endearments.”
I leaned down and adjusted the gold chain strap on my Gucci slingbacks while I continued to fidget under his stare. “Isn’t that a little 1950s chase-the-girl-around-the-desk?”
He placed his hand on my lower back then escorted me over the threshold to the waiting motorcade.
Leaning close, he whispered against my ear, “Italian men don’t have to chase.”
My cheeks warmed as I slipped inside the car and settled back into the soft leather seats.
When he got in on the other side, I asked, “Do you always travel by motorcade?”
He hadn’t had a motorcade in France.
Was he in more danger in his home country?
“It is just a precaution after any diamond exchange over five million. Occasionally, customers get greedy and decide they want the diamonds and their money.”
I nodded as if what he'd just said was perfectly normal.
The whispers from Paris haunted me.
Mafia.
Violent.
Dangerous.
After adjusting my purse on my lap, I changed the subject. “I meant to ask last night. Can I have my phone back?”
My mother was probably apoplectic by now. There wasn’t a chance in hell I’d call her from the car in front of Sebastian, but I should at least text her.
Sebastian handed me a brand-new rose-gold iPhone. “Yours will not work in Italy. And before your suspicious American nature gets the better of you, here.”
He then gave me my old phone.
I would have totally been suspicious had I not experienced dropped calls and glitches in Paris.
Without meeting his gaze, I still tried to turn it on while ignoring the eighteen missed calls from my mother. It turned on, but text messages wouldn’t open, and it had a bunch of error notifications.
“Italy runs on GSM cellular networks. Americans use CDMA. The newer phones are more compatible, but yours is surprisingly old.”
I shoved both phones into my purse. “I have small hands and hate the larger phones, so I kind of clung to my old one for as long as possible. Thank you for the phone. I’ll pay you back.”
He cast me a side glance. “I’ll take it out of your first paycheck.”
We fell into an oddly companionable silence.
Via Giulia, lined with centuries-old Renaissance palazzi and overhanging vines, stretched out before us—a quiet respite before the city’s energy fully awakened.
Through the tinted windows, my gaze wandered to the ornate facades, and I couldn’t help but admire how even the most mundane corner of Rome carried whispers of timeless elegance.
As we approached Corso Vittorio Emanuele II, the pulse of the city began to quicken.
Vespas zipped by in daring maneuvers, and the chatter of café patrons spilled onto the street, creating a vibrant backdrop to our passage. Turning onto Via del Corso, the energy shifted again, growing more refined.
Designer boutiques, sparkling displays of luxury goods, and the confident stride of elegantly dressed Romans told the story of affluence.
Our destination was close now, the iconic Piazza di Spagna just around the corner.
Finally, the motorcade slowed as we entered the elegant stretch near Via Condotti, the very heart of Rome’s luxury district. The House of Diamanti had chosen the perfect location—a crossroads of heritage and modern luxury.
The motorcade came to a halt.
By now, I knew better than to open my own door.
I unbuckled my belt and waited until Sebastian had crossed behind the car to open my door, waving away the uniformed doorman, dressed in severe black with the Diamanti gold family crest embroidered over his heart, who had stepped forward.
I stepped out and craned my neck back to look up at the imposing facade of the House of Diamanti Headquarters, its pale travertine stone adorned with intricate carvings of floral motifs and classical columns.
Above the grand entrance, the Diamanti lion-and-unicorn family crest glared down at me. This time, it was rendered as a three-dimensional relief painted in gold leaf with what looked almost like a real diamond embedded in the center.
Two doormen opened the doors.
After a moment’s hesitation, I stepped over the threshold.
It was like stepping into the Colosseum itself. Beyond these doors lay ferocious beasts and the looming shadow of death.