Chapter Fifteen
Raya
WORKING WITH STEFANO IS the worst.
Unlike Lorenzo who always equips me with the tools and information needed to get tasks done quickly and efficiently, Stefano offers nothing. Zilch. He just expects me to figure it out.
If I were any less capable, I’d be ripping my hair out by now.
With a growling stomach, I hack into the encrypted server, find the relevant identifiers from past correspondence, and send off the meeting minutes. What should have taken me a few minutes takes me nearly an hour because he’s a spiteful jerk.
Task complete, I sit back and wait for my reward of a delicious meal.
And wait.
And wait…
For food that never comes.
After nearly an hour, I snatch up the office phone and call him.
“What is it?” he answers, tight with impatience, as if I’m interrupting his world domination endeavors.
“You know,” I say, sweet as vinegar, “I distinctly remember signing a contract stating that as long as I’m Castello property, you’re obligated to feed me.”
“Are you this pesty when you work with Lo?” he asks, clipped. “My brother’s not a patient man, so I’m honestly baffled how he puts up with all your whining.”
Whining?
Is he serious? “W-w-whining?” I splutter. “You’re starving me!”
He sighs like I’m his greatest burden. “What do you want to eat?”
“Is your cold, black heart on the menu?”
“You couldn’t afford such a delicacy.”
God, he’s such a jerk. “Stefano Castello, king of Vegas, I am hungry. Bloody feed me, or I swear I’ll come find you and claw your soulless eyes out!”
I end the call, and I don’t care if it pisses him off.
A starved Raya running on fumes has no patience for masks and pretenses.
Another twenty minutes tick by. Still no food.
That’s it. Screw his orders. I’ll feed my damn self. If we tussle, we tussle.
I shove up from behind the desk and beeline for the door. Yank it open and…break to a halt.
Standing there, behind a brass serving trolley, is Stefano.
He arches a brow. “Were you about to disobey my order, little liar?”
“Just testing the hinges on the door,” I deadpan. “They could use some WD-40.”
Greedily, I grab the trolley and wheel it in like it’s treasure. A medley of mouthwatering aromas tease my nose as I hurry to the two-seater table by the wet bar.
Lifting the stainless-steel dome cover, I nearly moan. Lobster tail over a bed of asparagus. A thick, juicy wagyu steak. Roasted potatoes and vegetables, glistening with herbs and butter.
And it’s then I remember that Black Gold has three restaurants downstairs: one for greasy junk food, one for high-end gourmet, and one for pastries and hot beverage.
Meaning, he could’ve easily sent up food ages ago.
Son. Of. A. Bitch.
He’s been starving me on purpose. A petty, deliberate punishment. No wonder he didn’t want me leaving the room.
Righteous indignation flares under my skin as I slowly turn to glare at him, now comfortably settled behind his desk, pleased with himself.
“Ti degheneraat, you know that?” I hiss.
“Pick a dialect and stick to it,” he drawls, bored. “You toss around so many I can’t tell where the hell you’re actually from.”
“That’s Russian for ‘you’re a degenerate,’ asstwit.”
He smiles. Smiles. The smug little shit. “You’re welcome.”
My hands twitch with the urge to smash this delectable plate of food right into his face. Alas, my growling stomach reminds me that’s not an option.
Ceding him the win, I unwrap the silverware and dig in.
And oh…
Oh...
This dish is perfect. The flavors, divine. Every bite, a symphony.
Maybe… just maybe… it was worth the wait.
A knock comes at the door just as I’m stuffing in a perfectly crisp roasted potato.
Stefano doesn’t even look up. “Come in.”
A slender blonde woman walks in, closing the door behind her. When she notices me, she offers a slight nod then looks to Stefano. “Should I come back later?”
“Don’t mind her.” He stands, shrugging out of his jacket. “She’s merely an unplanned nuisance.”
“Ditto,” I mutter under my breath, forking another slice of potato.
“You’re right on time,” he continues, tossing his jacket over the back of his chair and moving toward the leather recliner in the corner. “It’s been a very testy day.”
The woman crosses to the side table beside the recliner, retrieving a small wooden box. She flips it open to reveal several tiny glass bottles, each labeled in neat script. Essential oils.
Stefano settles back in the chair like a Roman emperor, and the woman gets to work, fingertips massaging his temples, forehead, scalp, neck, behind his ears…
Chamomile. Peppermint. Lavender.
The familiar scents drift through the room, tugging at old memories.
I’ve seen this ritual before. Countless times, sprawled on the floor of my dad’s office while his personal masseuse worked to ease the pain of his chronic migraines.
The patterns, the oils, the dimmed hush of the room… it’s all too familiar.
With the thought of Dad comes a quiet twinge in my chest. This is the longest I’ve ever gone without speaking to him. Dad’s always been my person. My favorite human in the world.
But my mom is his. And she and I…we don’t see eye to eye.
If I called him now, just to hear his voice, he would try to convince me to bend. To do what she wants. To be the obedient daughter again.
But I’m not willing to let her win. Not this time.
After devouring every last morsel, leaving nothing but lobster shells gleaming in buttery defeat, I sit back and sneak a glance at Stefano.
Eyes closed, face relaxed, he’s the picture of tranquil detachment. He looks almost human under the soothing sweep of the masseuse’s fingers. Innocuous. Peaceful. Too peaceful.
Demons don’t deserve peace.
With pure, petty vengeance humming under my skin, I grab my cutlery and scrape it obnoxiously across the porcelain plate, corralling the empty shells into a clattering pile. Then, with one final dramatic flourish, I drop the utensils onto the tray and slam the dome back down over the dish.
The masseuse shoots me a berating glare.
But my intended target doesn’t even twitch. Still infuriatingly Zen.
Undeterred, I shove my chair back with a loud scrape, amble over to the mini fridge, and yank it open. I snatch a bottled water and, in an effort to make as much noise as possible, slam the fridge door shut with extra force.
Bad idea.
Pain rockets up my leg as the sharp corner of the door rakes across my ankle. Turns out, my foot was still in the damn way.
“Ahh, shit,” I yelp, collapsing into a crouch as I clutch my ankle, white-hot pain pulsing beneath the skin.
Blood trickles in a thin red line from a jagged gash.
Yep. That door got me good.
That’s what I get for being spiteful.
Accepting my karma with a grimace, I straighten up and turn—only to collide into a hard wall of muscle.
A wall that smells maddeningly like fire, spice, and power.
A wall named Stefano Castello.
Of course. A little blood in the water and here he is like a predatory shark. All that racket I made earlier and he didn’t even flinch. But a tiny yelp of pain from me and he materializes like a damn vulture in Brioni, ready to gloat over my karma.
Except…
He doesn’t.
Instead, he crouches in front of me, voice low. “Let me see.”
Uh... What now?
“It’s not that bad,” I say quickly, thrown off by the sudden concern. “No worries.”
But he’s already gripping my leg, steadying it with one hand as he tilts his head to examine the cut.
And now I’m feeling all kinds of weird with him down there, so close, so focused. “Do you have, um, a first aid kit or something?”
The words are barely out before I’m scooped into his arms like a wayward bride.
“Seriously?” I squawk, but he’s already carrying me toward the couch like it’s nothing.
“That’s it for now, Kate,” he tells the masseuse.
Kate nods and quietly leaves.
As he deposits me on the couch, I blink at him, trying to get my bearings. “This feels a bit dramatic, no? It’s just a scratch. I didn’t break a bone.”
“Don’t move.”
He walks off and disappears through a door on the left, and I consider bolting just out of spite, but he’s back before I can finish the thought, a first aid kit in hand.
He sits at the other end, lifts my legs onto his lap, and opens the kit like he’s done this a hundred times.
“Really, I can do this myself,” I protest. “I’m not a damsel. No need for a fuss.”
He ignores me, undoing the straps of my heels and slipping them off with surprisingly gentle fingers. Then, with practiced ease, he cleans the wound with methodical care, dabs on ointment, and neatly bandages it.
Okay. Now I’m officially rattled.
Where the hell did Stefano Castello go? Who is this nurturing impostor?
As he snaps the kit closed and sets it aside, I clear my throat and murmur, “If I didn’t know any better, I’d think the black heart in that ice chest of yours actually beats.”
He snorts. “Or maybe I just wanted to see up your skirt.”
With that, he shifts my legs off his lap and stands, then disappears through the side door again.
Frowning, I glance down at myself. My dress is slightly bunched up, but still hovering around knee level. No way he saw anything. Not that I’d mind.
Before I can spiral too deep into that thought, a knock sounds at the door just as he reappears. He pivots smoothly and answers it. There’s a quiet exchange, and then the door clicks shut.
When he returns, it’s with my laptop bag.
“You’re working here for the rest of the day.” He drops the bag unceremoniously into my lap. “Check your email. Lo sent instructions.”
“Why here?” I ask, sitting up. “I’m perfectly capable of working from the villa.”
His gaze flicks to the side, avoiding mine, then dips to my legs. “Your foot’s hurt.”
“Oh, good gollywash, it’s just a scratch. You can’t possibly think—wait…” I narrow my eyes. “You had this bag sent from the villa before I even hurt my foot.”
He doesn’t respond.
“I promised Gio I would keep his company while he’s sick,” I plead. “If Lorenzo’s tasks can be done from here, then it can be done from the house, too.”
A muscle jumps in his jaw. “What I say fucking goes, Delilah.”
The hell is his problem now? Goodness gracious, I can’t keep up with his moods.
Burned out from sparring with him over every little thing, I huff and settle back into the couch, pulling out my laptop as he strides back to his desk.
Lorenzo’s email is waiting in my inbox. Clear, detailed, informative. I read it over, then tap out a reply:
I’m going to get you back for sticking me with your asshole brother today. Just you wait…
We work in silence. Icy, stubborn silence. As I’m determined not to utter another word to that mercurial man.
But as the minutes tick on, it becomes impossible to ignore the signs of his mounting misery and discomfort.
He keeps massaging his temples. Pressing the heel of his palm into his left eye socket. A low groan slips from his throat every so often, though he doesn’t seem to be aware of it.
Despite myself, I can’t help feeling bad for him. Especially since I deliberately disrupted his massage session.
Even assholes don’t deserve migraines.
Empathy makes me break my vow of silence. “You battle the migraine demon, too, huh?”
“Demon is exactly the word,” he mutters, pressing two fingers between his brows.
“My dad used to get them. Had a full-time masseuse on staff. If he missed even one session, it ruined his entire day.”
He opens his eyes and pins me with a look. “Is that why you were making all that noise earlier? To ruin mine?”
Okay, so he had noticed. “Payback for starving me.”
He just stares at me. And something in his eyes—tight, pained, vulnerable—makes my guilt twist deeper. I feel awful.
I glance down at my laptop, then back up.
“You know, after trying every pill, patch, and placebo under the sun, my dad ended up hiring a pharmaceutical scientist to develop a custom formula for him. It was a patient-specific beta-blocker that drastically reduced both the frequency and intensity of his migraines.”
His gaze narrows slightly, wary.
“If you want, I could reach out to my dad…”
There’s a long beat of silence as he watches me with open distrust and suspicion. “Have you spoken to your family since you… ‘ran off?’”
“Indirectly.” I shrug. “My mom, our relationship is…complicated. My twin brother, I avoid like the plague. But my dad, I love him to pieces. Things are tense between us right now, sure, but if I asked, he wouldn’t deny me the beta-blockers.”
“Why do you avoid your brother?”
“Because he’s fucked in the head.” A dry, humorless laugh escapes me. “If you peeked up my dress like you claimed, then you probably saw the scar on my inner thigh. That’s where he shot me while we were…hunting.”
His brow lifts.
“He said his finger ‘slipped’ on the trigger,” I expound. “And that’s just one of many delightful attempts he’s made on my life. I’m convinced that psycho tried to eat me in the womb.”
Stefano studies me, his expression unreadable. “Parents who want to sell you off like cattle, and a sibling who wants to end you. No wonder you think living among killers is a safer option.”
“Yep,” I mutter, then pivot. “How do you like being a twin?”
His gaze drifts toward the ceiling, thoughtful.
“I don’t particularly enjoy sharing a birthday, but I’d die for Lo.
” His voice shifts, softer. “Mamma said she had to get an emergency C-section. We came out at the same time, still unaware we’d been born.
She said my arms were locked around Lo’s neck, like I was shielding him.
That I was the first to open my eyes. They ran water over us, trying to wake Lo, but I kept kicking at the doctors’ hands.
Wouldn’t let go of him until he finally woke up to the world, screaming. ”
The image of those two large, menacing men as tiny, innocent infants—one clinging to the other, defying the world—makes me smile.
“Yeah,” I murmur. “I can believe that.”
He lifts a brow. “Can you?”
“You’re paranoid, distrustful, and hyper-observant,” I say.
“But I don’t believe you are this way for yourself.
You’re like this because you are protective of the people around you.
Your family. Because you’re built to protect.
You were brand new to the world and didn’t even trust the doctors with your brother. ”
His gaze lingers on me as he runs two fingers along his jaw, as if weighing whether to respond. But before he can, his phone buzzes, stealing his attention.
He answers, listens for a moment, then curses under his breath and stands. Shrugging into his jacket, he commands, “Do not leave this office.”
And then he’s gone.