Chapter 4
FOUR
Luisa
Somehow Angelo had already made me reveal that I remember our stupid liaison in the past. That means I need to stay on my guard.
I expected him to come right at me directly—try to seduce me, belittle me, maybe threaten me with a knife. Or ignore me entirely for some staff he’s allowed to keep in the house.
Instead of waiting for the inevitable, I head to the kitchen. The chef is working on something that smells incredible. I pull out my phone and text Eric again. I hate you. You’re taking every case I don’t want for a year. He sends me a thumbs up instead of answering. Asshole.
I’m sure he’s wrapped around his own Rossi, holding Emilia and showering her with love. He’s probably utterly charming with her. Honestly, she’s a damn good person.
She picked him—and what’s right—over what was easy, even when everyone expected her to fold.
But Emilia isn’t her brother.
He likes being as terrible as he is.
I take a slow breath and stare at my hands, focusing on my bitten nails, the way my pinky and ring finger aren’t straight anymore after a fight. Anything to ground myself. Anything to push him out of my head.
“So tense,” Angelo murmurs behind me. I jerk, but he only smirks. One eyebrow arched, half smiling like the devil himself. “Shame I can’t touch you. I’ve heard my cock is good for stress relief.”
I whip around, glaring. “You cause stress, you don’t relieve it.”
“I could do both in equal measures,” he muses, settling onto the barstool beside me. He ignores the chef, like we’re the only two people in the room.
His knee brushes mine. I jerk away, shooting him a glare.
He smirks. “You’re twice as sexy when you’re pissed. Has anyone told you that?”
My tongue tries to knot itself.
I don’t know how to deal with a man flirting with me this blatantly. Angelo doesn’t flirt like other men—he doesn’t test the waters or gauge reactions. He throws himself in, all confidence and arrogance, like he already knows the answer.
I just need to focus on who he is and not the words dripping from his mouth. “Mr. Rossi, you only need to speak to me if you have a request for something outside the house.”
“Don’t act like you’re part of the staff.” He snorts, his expression twisting with something close to disgust. “We both know you’re more than that.”
I glance at the chef, deadpan. “Spit in his food for degrading you.”
The chef looks at us but says nothing. Angelo’s knee rubs mine again. I feel the heat of his breath near my ear. He invades my space like it’s his right. Like he knows I won’t stop him.
His cologne—or maybe his soap or whatever the hell that mouthwatering, masculine scent is—fills my nose.
I move away before it can fill my head, too. Before it can make me think stupid thoughts.
Thoughts like how no one would believe I let anything happen, even if he told them.
How easy it would be to take what I need. One moment. One kiss. A few stolen minutes of relief after almost a year without sex, six months without so much as a touch.
“Are you afraid of me, Luisa? You have no reason to be.”
I turn to face him, glaring. “How often have you said that and meant it?”
It’s a mistake.
The second my eyes meet his, my pulse stutters. His dark gaze threatens to rip my soul out and drag me onto his lap.
For a split second, kissing him seems like a really good idea.
We’re waiting for food. Conversation feels like a loaded gun. Kissing would be so much easier.
No, that’s just the devil on my shoulder talking.
Angelo rubs his chin, his finger brushing over his bottom lip like he knows exactly what I’m thinking. “Am I that scary?”
I open my mouth, then close it. His lips shouldn’t be this distracting.
“Answering a question with a question is...” Shit. Where was I going with that? “It’s pointless. Not a conversation.”
“Fine, an answer for an answer.” He tilts his head, studying me like I’m a puzzle he’s already halfway solved. “I’ve said it to... three people in my life and meant it. To be clear, detective, my sister isn’t on that list.”
My throat tightens. “You’re not that scary. You’re just that convincing of a liar.” I breathe the words out before I can stop myself.
A slow, knowing smirk tugs at his lips.
“I think we need alcohol to talk,” Angelo decides.
I let out a short laugh. “As long as I’m here, I’m on the clock. Drink whatever you want. I’ll have tea.”
Tea is placed in front of me, a thin slice of lemon floating in the steaming cup.
Angelo gets a whiskey sour.
I pluck the lemon from the rim and suck on it, eager for anything that will distract me from the heat radiating off his body. He’s too close.
“Once you eat, I’ll be working on separate things,” I say, clipping my tone.
“As will I. I still have a job, after all.”
“Feel free,” I respond.
A beat of silence. Then he chuckles. “You’re monitoring all of my online and phone activity, aren’t you?”
I lift my gaze to his. “Break the law and find out,” I dare him.
His voice dips to a low rumble. “I already told you how I’d break the rules, Topina.”
Dinner is awkward.
I try talking to the chef, but he either can’t speak or has mastered the art of staying out of Angelo’s way. Not that it matters—every time I ask something, Angelo answers for him, his smirk growing as my patience thins.
I finish my tea, switch to water, and excuse myself, heading to my laptop. Time to work.
I check the cameras. No alerts. No updates about another officer arriving yet—though one is scheduled to relieve me in the morning so I can get a few hours of sleep without worrying.
Flicking over to the monitoring program, I pull up Angelo’s online activity.
Porn. Emails.
Since he’s typing, I can’t tell if he’s actually watching the video or if it’s just background noise.
Not that it matters. I don’t like what I’m seeing.
On screen, a man repeatedly swats a woman in full bondage with a paddle. She whines and thanks him for each strike. His fingers stroke between her legs and the camera shifts to show how wet she is.
My stomach tightens. The man works a toy over her, his voice low, commanding. “You haven’t earned my cock.”
I shake my head, disgust curling in my gut.
Angelo’s emails are in Italian, but it’s easy enough to translate. Business calls. Skype meetings. Nothing illegal.
An hour passes. He watches porn. Sends emails. Watches more porn. I try not to glance his way, but the images burn into my mind, anyway. I give up and pull out a book.
The female lead can bend people to her will—a skill I wouldn’t mind having right now.
If I had even a fraction of Emilia’s fury and confidence, I wouldn’t feel so unsettled around her brother.
Emilia wrapped my partner, Eric, around her finger in less than a week.
I never stood a chance.
Avoiding conversations with Angelo becomes second nature over the next five days. Anything beyond ‘Are you still alive’ is out of the question.
But by Friday night, I need space to breathe. A moment to myself. Wandering through the mansion like I have before, I find a small library tucked away in a study area.
Papasan chairs are arranged in cozy corners, each with a small side table. But the real surprise? No wall space at all. Just books.
I never figured Angelo for a reader. I would have been less surprised if he were hosting the Fight Club.
“Found my library?”
His voice comes from the doorway, smooth and knowing.
I glance in his direction, catching the way his eyes rake over me. Regret settles in—maybe a tank top and denim shorts weren’t the best choice.
He steps closer. I step back.
My gaze flicks to the shelves, then back to him. “I didn’t take you for the literary type.”
He barely contains his smirk. “You wound me, Topina.”
I huff, crossing my arms. “I’m surprised you don’t have a murder room.”
His smirk deepens, dark and slow. “A murder room, Topina?”
“With chains, blood-soaked floors, rusty medical ... things.” My brow furrows. “You know, like a place where a psychopath would feel at home.”
Angelo’s smirk doesn’t falter.
“You think I’m that bad, do you?” he asks, taking another step forward.
“Yes,” I hiss. “Considering everything I’ve heard about your family’s connections.”
He shakes his head, almost disappointed. “You should know better, Topina.” His voice drops, slow, deliberate. “I wouldn’t have rusty medical tools. Mine are shiny. Always washed. Frequently sharpened.”
My stomach clenches. I step back—and miscalculate.
Shit.
The papasan chair caves beneath me, swallowing me whole. I don’t have my taser. Or my phone. I’ve gotten too comfortable. Too used to him leaving me alone.
Angelo leans in, bracing his hand on the wicker frame above me. His fiery gaze locks onto mine, trapping me there.
“Would you like to see my murder room?” His voice low, teasing. “You turned down the tour the first time I offered.”
I press my palms against the chair’s cushion, trying to ground myself. “Step back, Rossi,” I order.
But he doesn’t.
“Why do you hate me so much, hmm?” His voice dips into something almost amused, but there’s a sharp edge beneath it. “Rumors about what I’ve done? Emilia whispering in your ear? Convenient little excuses?”
His words coil around me, forcing me to hold his stare.
“Because six years ago, you didn’t hate me.”
My breath catches. The past drags itself to the surface, unwanted.
I swallow. “I didn’t know you then.” The words feel heavier than I want them to. “You were just a hot guy at a bar, and I was drunk. You did the job, and I walked away.”
He keeps watching me. Just watching. I hate how he does that. He shouldn’t be able to wield silence like a weapon. I want to fill the space between us with arguing. I want him to know how much he’s pissed me off.
“Answer the question I asked you. The first one,” he orders.
I exhale sharply. “You flaunt how above the law you are and you don’t care who you hurt.” My voice is steady, but my pulse is hammering. “Your sister was willing to forgive and help her other two brothers, but not you. Not your father.”
His expression doesn’t change, but I don’t stop.
“If a woman who admitted to setting a desk on fire, armed assault, and collecting dues from businesses hates someone, there’s a reason.” I meet his gaze, unflinching. “She said you’re the worst.”
His brows lift. “Did she?”
I lean forward. “Considering you almost killed a man in lock up despite being jumped by six, it doesn’t take an expert to know you’re lethal.”
A slow incline of his head. A silent acknowledgment.
“And your family does nothing clean. You threatened my partner’s life.
You threatened his child, Angelo.” My voice is razor sharp, my breath ragged.
“Your moral high ground is gone. If you ever had it, you lost it in an avalanche of violence that makes you impossible to trust, to like, let alone want.”
The words taste like venom. He blinks. Once. Twice.
For a second—just a flicker—I think I see hurt cross his face. Then it’s gone, wiped clean like it was never there.
“You hate me, Luisa?”
My throat tightens. I swallow barely. “I wish I’d never slept with you,” I whisper. The confession burns like acid, but I force it out, anyway.
“I wish anyone else was here babysitting you so I could be out stopping the criminals fighting to take your place.” My breath shudders. “Yes. I hate you.”
A muscle in his jaw ticks. He leans in.
I should move. I don’t.
His muscles flex, shifting as he lowers himself closer, his body crowding mine. Why doesn’t this man ever wear a damn shirt?
I brace myself, but he keeps going, lowering until one of his legs slides between mine, his face inches from mine.
My gaze drops to his lips. So damn tempting.
“Then why do you look at me like you want to fuck me?” His voice low, taunting. “Like it’s taking every ounce of hatred just to keep yourself from jumping me whenever I get close?”
My stomach clenches. My pulse betrays me.
“Y-you ... you’re just seeing what you want to see,” I snap, but my voice wavers.
The corner of his mouth turns up, slow and knowing. “I want to fuck you.”
“No!” My breath comes too fast. “You want to ruin me.”
His smirk deepens.
“Topina,” he croons, his voice a velvet warning.
I grit my teeth. “You want me off the force? You want to replace me with someone you can control. That’s what this is about.
” My chest rises and falls too quickly, but I force myself to hold his stare.
“Control. That’s all that matters to you.
It matters so much, I bet you’re willing to kill anyone who gets in your way. ”
His eyes darken. “Maybe I am.” His voice dips, but there’s no hesitation. No apology. Just quiet certainty.
“Perhaps I’m prepared to do terrible things to protect my own.” He leans in, every movement deliberate, predatory. “To serve the city in a way you can’t. To hold on to the control people refuse to admit is necessary.”
“Don’t turn this around, asshole.” I shove him back and stand. “You’re nothing but a common criminal searching for a way to validate yourself.”
We glower at one another. Tension thrums between us.
Angelo sneers down at me, dark amusement flickering in his eyes. “So self-righteous. So sure your way is the only way. Luisa, ask yourself this—what can the police do to criminals without finding bodies? If the victims don’t come forward because they’re already in trouble with the law?”
I open my mouth. “Well-”
“Nothing.” His voice sharpens. “Because those people don’t come to you.”
He steps closer, his presence suffocating. “Think about who they come to. Think about what they’re willing to give me if I put a bullet in the man who violated their child and send them proof.”
His breath is steady, his tone too even.
“Think about how good I must be at what I do considering the criminals you’ve never even heard of never touch anything but the bottom of the Chicago River. And I’m still this fucking attractive,” he growls.
Angelo towers over me, his gaze searing through me. My body betrays me with a shiver, but it’s not fear—it’s fury, frustration, something I don’t want to name. I don’t believe a word he’s saying.
He doesn’t help people out of the goodness of his heart. He gets something out of it. The thrill. Money. Power.
He’s not a good guy. He’s not allowed to be.
“You’re a criminal. I’m an officer. That’s all this will ever be, Angelo,” I warn as my pulse pounds.
He smirks, slow and dangerous. “Say whatever you want, Luisa.”
He takes a step closer. I don’t move.
“I have a hundred percent satisfaction rate. I’ve gotten more justice than your system ever will.
” His voice lowers. “So tonight, when you’re trying to convince yourself I’m a monster, think about the number of people I’ve helped—compared to the bullshit system that considers ‘guilty’ an opinion,” he snarls.
His words hit like a punch.
I clench my jaw. Neither of us moves.