4. Federico
FOUR
Federico
She's there when I push open the suite door—standing with her back to the city, hands folded over a slim black folder. The room is quiet, clinical beige and glass, but she makes it sharp. My chest tightens before my brain catches up.
"You're late," she says without turning.
"I was negotiating." I drop my coat on the nearest chair. "You were not supposed to be here."
She turns slowly. The light catches the crescent behind her ear—the small mark I noticed the first time I saw her. It still feels private to me. She meets my gaze like she always does: direct, unafraid.
"I waited," she says. "Is that a crime?"
Her voice is calm. My pulse isn't. I will my hands to stop moving. I do not want to be obvious. I failed at that yesterday; I will not fail twice.
"You looked like you needed air," I say instead.
She arches an eyebrow. "Or company. Which was it, Federico? Air or company?"
The name on her tongue pulls at something I keep wrapped tight. My lips twitch. "Both," I admit.
She studies me. Then she zeros in on the way I watch her, the small observant tilt in my head that she hates and I've used to my advantage. "Why do you watch me so closely?" Her tone is sharp, almost a dare. "Is it professional curiosity? Paternity? Or are you counting my breaths?"
I should answer with a practiced, distanced line. I should say it's business—analyzing a partner, the alliance—but the lie would taste wrong. I step closer because I can, closing the few feet between us.
"You ask as if it were a sin," I say softly.
"Is it?" She bites the inside of her cheek.
A thread of hair has escaped the knot at the nape of her neck.
It curls against her skin. Without thinking, I reach up and tuck it behind her ear.
My fingers brush the hollow at the base of her skull; they're warm.
I feel the heat of her; I smell bergamot and faint citrus soap.
The gesture is small, intimate, ancient in its tenderness.
Her breath catches. I can feel it against my palm.
"Don't," she murmurs, but she doesn't move away.
"I won't hurt you," I say, and the words leave me in a flat, honest line. I don't mean them as a promise for tomorrow. I mean them for now.
She laughs, soft and incredulous. "That's convenient."
"Convenient, yes. True, also."
She drops the folder on the coffee table. "Explain. If you watch me because you want to use what you know—use me—then I need to know now. I don't walk into traps."
My jaw tightens. There's the elephant none of our families name. The risk of exposure—the way affection can be twisted into leverage—has been the axis of half my life. I learned young that an open heart is a vulnerability others will exploit until you pay for the lesson.
"I don't use people," I say carefully.
"Do you use people?" She asks. The question is blunt, unlike her. It lands like a blade.
"No."
"Then why the stares? Why the timing?"
I close the distance until the space between us is only breath.
Her pupils widen. Her mouth looks too soft.
The suit we've been forced into makes everything about her angles and restraint; here, alone, there is a loosened edge she reserves for when the world is away.
My hand is still at her ear. I let it stay.
"Because I'm counting," I say. "Because I want to know what counts in you."
"That's not an answer."
"Maybe it's not," I admit. "Maybe it's the only honest one."
She studies my face. Then she does something that makes my skin hum—she reaches up and presses her palm to my wrist. Her touch is firm. She rolls my hand so our palms face. Her fingers are long. She holds me like an equal.
"You're not allowed to watch me and pretend nothing else is happening," she says. "If you're going to look, tell me."
I let the silence stretch. There are rules to my life I keep religiously. Watching is safer than touching. Watching is reconnaissance, a way to map a person without offering them a place in your chest. I have lived by that rule until the room without curtains is full of her.
"Tell you what?" I ask.
"Tell me what you want."
There it is. The direct demand that cut through my defenses the first time she quoted a contract clause to me: precise, fearless. My mouth goes dry.
I should negotiate. I should offer a clause, terms: no public displays, nothing to jeopardize either family, clear boundaries. But those are walls. I want something else.
I step even closer. Our knees almost brush. I can see the tiny freckle at the base of her throat. Her pulse beats under my gaze.
"I want you," I say.
She inhales sharply. "That's not a bargaining position."
"No." I lay my hand at the small of her back, a closing more than guidance. I don't steer; I anchor. "I'm offering you a choice."
She looks at me as if assessing whether I'm a threat or a lover. There is something feral in her eyes now—dangerous and alluring. She closes the distance with decisive authority and presses her palms to my chest, as if to steady me or to prove to herself that I'm real.
"Prove it," she whispers.
I respond the only way I know. I devour the space between us with my mouth. It is not a question. It is an assertion. My lips find hers with a control that is deliberate and insolent. Her mouth answers with surprising force.
Her tongue meets me, bright and immediate. For a fraction of a second I taste espresso and citrus. My hand slides up her back, fingers splaying at the line of her spine. She threads her fingers into my hair, cool and strong. The kiss shifts; my control yields to hunger, and hunger blooms.
I kiss her with a hunger that is gradual and then sudden—an animal learning that permission exists.
My other hand finds the small of her waist, palms pressing, pulling her closer until the curve of her body molds into mine.
I feel the tautness of her abdomen, the strength in her hips.
Her body is compact and prepared, a dancer's core that answers every movement I make.
She presses harder. When I pull back a hair's breadth to whisper against her mouth, she laughs—breathy and disbelieving.
"You were studying me," she says between kisses. "Now you're devouring me."
"I'm not starving," I say. "I simply appreciate my meal."
"Is that a compliment or a threat?"
"A compliment," I answer, and there is no irony. My fingers brush the crescent mark behind her ear. I memorize the dip of her jaw. I notice the way her blouse stretches across her shoulder, the slope of muscle there, the little line where collar meets neck. She tastes of mint and danger.
Our mouths part. We pant. The hum of the city is distant. My heart is loud in my ears.
"You're reckless," she says.
"Our business requires recklessness sometimes," I reply. "But not this kind."
"Then why?—"
"Because I don't want to spend the rest of my life pretending you aren't the only thing I need to look at."
She stares at me. For the first time I see the flicker of something softer—fear, maybe. Or the echo of the wound both of us carry, the reluctance to let someone hold your vulnerabilities. Her lips tremble.
"You think I want to be used as leverage?" she asks. "You think I'd be naive enough?"
"No," I say. "I think you'd be naive if you trusted them before trusting me."
"Which is convenient," she spits, reclaiming her armor.
"Convenient, yes," I echo. "But true."
The room seems to shrink until it's only us. She presses a hand between us to get space, but her fingers linger. "If I come—if I meet you tonight—what then? What do you want me to bring?"
I should be precise. I should insist on rules. My throat tightens with something like pleading.
"Bring you," I answer simply. "Bring the hour. Leave the file. Leave the audience. Come as you are."
She snorts. "You are maddening."
"I am," I admit.
She stares at me for a long beat. Then she runs a thumb along her bottom lip, thinking or resisting. She has always been excellent at calibrated decisions. I can almost see the mental ledger balancing risk and desire.
"One hour," she says finally. Her voice is a decision and a dare.
"One hour," I confirm.
She leans in and kisses me again, softer this time, as if sealing the bargain. I fold my arms around her and feel a peculiar, merciful lightness at that small surrender.
"I don't want to be used," she says against my mouth. "Not by you. Not by anyone."
"Neither do I," I say. "That's why we'll be deliberate."
She laughs. "Deliberate. You mean you'll plan exactly how to unmake me."
"Maybe." My hand slides under the hem of her blouse at the small of her back, teasing the bare skin there. I taste the sweet gasp she tries to hide. "Or we'll make it our plan."
She pushes my shoulder playfully. The heat between us is a live thing—hunger braided tightly with tenderness. I want more. I want to stay in this room while zeros and ones of our families rage outside. I want to see if our thing could be real without being a weapon.
"Promise me something," she says, voice low. "If this becomes...dangerous—if my presence puts your family at risk—tell me. Be honest."
I find her eyes. I feel the scar along my eyebrow twitch at the memory of the past; it has always warned me that love could be turned into a gun. I almost lie and say yes, that I'll shield everyone and keep her safe. But I can't promise what I can't control.
"I can't promise you safety," I say instead. "I can promise you my choice. I choose you."
She blinks. Something fragile opens in her expression. "That's more than most offer."
I press my forehead to hers. Our breaths fog in the thin space. The heat of the kiss reverberates through me; the truth of what I said sits heavy and right.
"Come with me tonight," I murmur, so low that only she hears.
Her pupils dilate. For a heartbeat the world narrows to that ask. She tilts her head, response forming.
Before she can answer, the suite phone rings—sharp and officious. The sound is a slab of normality thrown into our private statuary. We both jerk.
She laughs, a short, incredulous sound. "Of course."
I step back. The spell cracks. The ringing is an intrusion; it drags the present into the practical. I take one last, slow look at her—the curve of her shoulder, the soft line behind her ear, the way she holds herself as though she is both armor and invitation.
"Answer it," I say. My voice is steady, but my chest burns with the demand I left hanging.
She reaches for the handset, hand trembling the slightest fraction. Her fingers brush mine. The contact is electric and then gone.
"Tell them I'm unavailable," she says, almost to herself.
She lifts the receiver. Her voice is the same woman who stood across me in court, but now it's threaded with something raw. "This is Giulia Romano. I can't—" Her words falter.
I watch her. Her profile is a study in conflicted resolve. I feel the choice we made bend on the hinge of her next sentence.
The line clicks, and someone speaks—too muffled for me to hear from here. Her jaw sets. Her hand tightens. She looks at me, and in that look I read both consent and warning: we are together now, but the world is still watching.
I move to the window and watch the city. For once, I let myself imagine taking her away from the glare. I think of the night, our hour. I have wanted to cross this line for days. Kissing her was not a mistake; it was a deliberate taking. I find that thought steadier than any strategy.
Behind me, Giulia ends the call. She tucks the receiver back and crosses the room. She is cutting through the last of her hesitation. She stops a hand's breadth from me and meets my eyes.
"Tonight," she says. "Twelve. Private."
Her voice is steady. My mouth feels suddenly very dry. I see a pleading in her expression that mirrors the pleading in my own chest—a recognition that this is both choice and risk.
"Then be ready," I say.
She smiles, small and fierce. "If you disappoint me, De Santis, I will bill you for emotional damages."
I can't help it. I grin. "Fair."
A knock sounds at the door—gentle but insistent. Both of us freeze.
"What now?" she whispers.
I don't know. But I know that when the door opens, whatever walks through will not only be family business. It will be a question about what we chose in private, and whether we can keep that choice safe.
The knock comes again, harder. The hallway light through the crack under the door slices a line across the carpet.
She reaches for my hand, fingers threading with mine. Her skin is warm. I squeeze.
"One hour," she repeats, softer.
"One hour," I echo.
The door handle turns. The corridor light floods in. I can feel the world stepping back toward us, and with it the thin, dangerous possibility that whatever we built in the quiet will be pried open.
The door opens wider, and a face I don't expect fills the frame.