Chapter 14
LOCHLAN
We don't talk about what almost happened in the car. At all. We just dance around it like it’s the huge ass elephant in any room where we both happen to exist.
It's been two days. She works in the bedroom with the door closed when she’s not at the office. I work in the living room with Reaper at my feet. We pass each other in the hallway, exchange a few superficial words at dinner, and then go back to our separate corners like boxers between rounds.
It's exhausting to pretend.
It's also not working.
Because every time I see her, I remember the way she looked at me in that parking garage. The way the air between us was charged like a livewire. I can’t forget the way she leaned forward in the car in that second before my goddamn phone ruined everything.
Cillian's timing has always sucked. But he set a new record that day.
This morning, she left early for her office. “Real work,” she said with a forced smile. I got her meaning. The kind of work that doesn't involve capos or Russians or contract marriages. I offered to drive her, but she said she needed space to think about things.
I didn't push. Can’t say it didn’t sting, though.
I pace around the penthouse with Reaper at my heels.
I stare at the time on my phone for the millionth time today, as if I can will the minutes to tick by faster.
I've already gone through my emails, checked in with my security team, and reviewed the security protocols I've put in place for Adriana's building.
There's nothing left to do except think about things I shouldn't be thinking about.
My ring tone interrupts the thoughts looping through my mind. I grab my phone and let out a sigh when I see my brother Wolfe’s name flash on the screen.
As if I thought it’d be her calling.
I answer on the first ring. “Hey. What do you have?”
“Good morning to you, too, brother.” His voice is dry. Completely monotone. Classic Wolfe. “I've been looking into the Kozlov hit on Castellano's shipment. Pulled some port records, security footage, the usual.”
“And?”
“The container they grabbed wasn't just packed with consumer electronics. Castellano was also moving a smaller package for the DiMichelis. It contained medical equipment, high-end imaging stuff. Legitimate, but expensive. Street value is probably around half a million.”
I sit up straighter. “So they didn't just hit Castellano. They hit DiMicheli products, too.”
“Exactly. Which makes me wonder if this was really about testing new leadership, or if they knew exactly what they were taking.”
“You think they targeted that specific shipment?”
“I think it's worth asking how they knew which container to grab out of two dozen on that dock.” Keys click in the background.
“Could be surveillance. Could be a bribed dock worker. Could be they just got lucky. I'm still pulling footage and cross-referencing schedules. But I don’t have anything concrete yet.”
I bring a hand to the back of my neck. “Keep at it.”
“Of course. I'll let you know if anything pops.”
He hangs up. I stare at the phone for a long minute, thoughts of Adriana now squelched by suspicion about this shipping shit show.
It's probably nothing. The Russians are professionals. I know how they operate. They don’t make rushed moves.
Everything they do is calculated and well planned.
That means they rely on solid surveillance and intel.
But Wolfe's instinct is usually right, and if he thinks there's something worth digging into, there probably is.
Reaper lifts his head off the couch and whines. He's been restless all morning, jumping off the couch, wandering between rooms, checking the elevator door every few minutes. Looking for her, obviously.
“I know, buddy.” I scratch behind his ear. “Me too.”
He sighs and drops his head back to his paws.
I fist the sides of my hair. I need to do something. Move around. Think. Anything except sit here replaying that moment in the car for the hundredth fucking time.
Maybe I’ll go to the gym. Get in a good, hard pump to take my mind off of almost kissing my wife. I head toward my bedroom to change when I notice the bag.
I don’t know how I missed it earlier. It’s one of Adriana’s… a carry-on she probably uses for quick business trips. She must have been looking for something this morning and left it there.
The zipper is half open. A book pokes out.
My brow furrows. I should leave it alone. It's her stuff. Her privacy. Invading it would be wrong.
But Reaper spots it at the same time as me and trots over to investigate. He noses at the bag and knocks it over. Books spill across the hardwood floor.
Paperbacks. Four of them. Dog-eared, spine-cracked, clearly read multiple times.
I crouch down to pick them up, ready to stuff them back into the bag when the covers stop me cold.
Bare-chested men. Women in lingerie. Titles like “Claimed by Her Boss” and “His to Command” and “The Billionaire's Pet.” Fuck me.
A smile lifts my lips.
Adriana DiMicheli reads romance novels. And not just once, either, if the folded-down corners and Post-its are any indication.
I shouldn't open them. I should put them back in the bag and pretend I never saw them.
But I can’t help myself. I have to see for myself what makes this woman hot and bothered. The book practically falls open on its own to a scene she’s underlined and highlighted. Yes, both.
“You've been in control all day,” he said, his voice low. “You don't have to be in control here.”
She shivered. “I don't know how to let go.”
“Then let me show you.”
I flip to another marked page.
“You're beautiful,” he murmured against her skin.
“You don't have to say that.”
“I know I don't have to. I want to.” His hands traced down her sides. “And I'm going to tell you every day until you believe it.”
She made a sound, something between protest and surrender. “Why?”
“Because someone should have been telling you all along and didn’t.”
I close the book and let out a low whistle.
She doesn’t just read romance novels. She fucking devours them, over and over. Paperbacks, not e-books, which tells me she wants to feel the pages, mark her favorite parts, and carry them with her so she can return to her favorite scenes.
And those scenes? They're all the same.
A man who takes control, who gives the woman permission to stop being in charge. A man who tells her she's beautiful, who praises her, who sees her for who and what she really is.
She runs a company. She's running a crime family. She holds the world together through sheer force of will, never letting anyone see her sweat, never asking for help, never showing signs of weakness.
And when she's alone, she reads about someone taking care of her.
I carefully put the books back in the bag, exactly in the same order they fell out. Then I zip it closed and set it back in the corner like I never touched it.
The thing is... I've been holding back with Adriana. Trying not to push. Trying to give her space, let her set the pace for whatever we are and whatever we’re going to become. I’m trying to not be another man trying to tell her what to do, how to think and behave.
But maybe deep down, that's not what she needs.
She'd burn down anyone who tried to control her in any of her domains, and she'd be right to. But there's a difference between controlling someone and being the kind of man who notices when she hasn't eaten and makes her dinner, who tells her she's impressive when she doesn't believe it herself.
I've been doing that already without thinking about it. Because that's who I am.
And maybe it hits her in a way that all of these book scenes do, even though she might not be able to admit it to herself.
After a few minutes, I table those wayward thoughts and drag myself to my room to change and head for the gym.
Every rep is murder. I pile on more weight, hoping it’ll chase her face out of my mind.
But she’s all I see, all I can think about.
And now —without me even realizing it — we’re acting out her biggest book fantasies, which makes things even worse.
Back at the penthouse, I turn on the cold shower spray and stand underneath it, willing my hard-on to deflate. It doesn’t.
So I finally give in and stroke myself off to my newest highlight reels, despite the fact that I’m practically submerged in an ice bath. My cock doesn’t seem to mind the cold water, not when my insides have morphed into an inferno of lust. But it appeases the monster for now.
Adriana comes home at seven, looking exhausted.
Her hair is pulled back in a messy bun. Her blazer is wrinkled. There's a small coffee stain on her sleeve that she probably doesn't know about.
She's still the most beautiful woman I've ever seen.
“Long day?” I ask from where I stand in front of the stove stirring pasta. The sauce in the pot next to it simmers, the scent of tomato and basil filling the kitchen.
She didn’t tell me when she was coming home but when I got a text from my security guys letting me know she was on the way, I started dinner so she’d have a hot meal waiting.
“Endless.” She drops her bag by the door and kicks off her heels. “I had a board meeting first thing. Then a client call that went two hours over. Then Patrick cornered me about third quarter projections like the world isn't falling apart around us.”
“Eat something.”
She shakes her head. “I'm not hungry.”
“I don’t believe you.” I lift an eyebrow. “But eat anyway.”
She looks at me, still keeping her distance from the kitchen. There’s something uneasy in her expression, maybe even a little wary. We haven't been alone together since the car. Since the moment that almost happened.
“You cooked for me?” she asks.
“I knew you wouldn’t have taken the time out of your day to eat. So I wanted to make sure you had something hot and ready here.”
I swallow a smirk. Shit, that has so much more meaning than she knows.
“Thank you,” she says. “That was really thoughtful.”
I slide a plate across the counter toward her. She hesitates, then sits on the stool across from me and takes a bite.