Chapter Sixteen
Raya
I’M PACING LAPS AROUND the office to get my blood flowing when Stefano returns nearly two hours later.
He eyes me with suspicion as he strides to his desk.
“All this sitting is terrible for my health,” I explain.
“You got everything done?”
“Almost.”
He rocks back in his chair, lacing his fingers behind his head, watching me like I’m prime-time entertainment as I stretch and walk.
“You were gone a while,” I say, pulling one arm across my chest. “Did you kill anyone?”
He snorts. “What, you think I just go around shooting people for sport?”
“Well, you do have a reputation for being a savage.”
“And yet bad reputations are often built on embellished rumors, not facts.”
I switch arms. “So, you’re denying being a bloodthirsty savage?”
“I’m a businessman. A family man. Not a serial killer.” He scratches his jaw. “If someone ends up dead at my hands, it’s because they messed with my business or my family. I give fuck all about anything else.”
Lacing my fingers behind my back, I lean into a chest stretch. “It’s not that you kill that fuels the rumors. It’s how you kill.”
His attention lingers on my bust before he snaps his gaze back up to my face and lifts a brow. “And how else would I make it clear that my family and my business are not to be fucked with?”
“So, you are a savage. Just not bloodthirsty.”
He tips his head to the side, weighing it over. “Hmm. I guess I am.”
“No mercy?”
He smiles. Beautifully. “No mercy.”
I smile back. “I respect that.”
His phone buzzes on the desk. Another short, clipped conversation, and he’s gone again.
After another ten minutes of pacing and stretching, I settle back on the sofa to resume work and notice a text from Gio.
Gio: Where are you? Aren’t you supposed to be my special nurse today?
Me: Black Gold. Stefano is forcing me to work from his office.
Gio: Was he beside you when you called earlier?
Me: Yep. Why?
Gio: No worries. See you when you get here.
By the time Stefano returns an hour later, I’ve finished all my tasks and am just wrapping up a call with Lorenzo.
Once the call ends, Stefano steeples his fingers beneath his chin and fixes me with that cold, interrogative stare.
“What now, Master Miserable?” I ask, powering down my laptop.
“Are you going to tell me what you observed at the meeting,” he says, “or do you only reserve your findings for your precious Lorenzo?”
“Precious?” I almost laugh. “I hardly consider being threatened every hour on the hour by a moody growler precious.”
“Don’t change the subject.”
“I don’t even know what you’re asking.”
“I’m not asking,” he replies coolly. “I took you to the meeting because I was told you’re sharp. That you’re good at reading people, figuring out what they want. Was that assessment wrong?”
I tuck my laptop and notebook back into my bag. “Definitely.”
He doesn’t blink. “Do you only do what you’re told when you’re threatened?”
Dog with a bone, much? I sigh. “What, you want me to confirm what you already suspect? That Lucy Rainford’s either backstabbing you or playing both sides?”
His brow lifts a fraction. “What makes you assume I already ‘suspect’ that?”
“There are cartoon gangsters. Pussy-behind-a-gun gangsters. And smart, brain-between-the-ears gangsters,” I say. “The first two rise fast and die just as fast. The latter almost always outlive their enemies and tend to live full, complete lives.”
He scoffs and gives me a once-over. “And how would you know?”
“You didn’t get to where you are by being an idiot.” I cross my legs. “The real question is, if you already know what Lucy is up to, why haven’t you done anything about it? Are you letting her off easy because, well…she gets you off?”
He leans back in his chair. “Maybe.”
Hmm. No denial about them hooking up.
“Ah, so you do show mercy,” I say, ignoring the irritating little stabs of jealousy. “As long as the threat to your empire is a bombshell with legs for days.”
Impassive dark eyes lock on mine for a long moment. He leans forward, lips parting like he’s about to respond…
But his phone buzzes again, slicing through the tension.
Another clipped conversation. Another muttered curse. And again, he’s gone.
Fifteen minutes later, I’m pacing again, stir-crazy from being cooped up in this windowless cave.
Yeah, I’m leaving the room.
Breaking the rules is never not fun.
I try to slip on my shoes, but the strap chafes against my bandaged ankle. Barefoot it is.
When I amble out the door, I’m met by an armed hulk patrolling the corridor.
“You ain’t supposed to leave the office,” he rumbles. “Boss’s orders.”
I blink up at him, all sweet and innocent.
“Did he happen to mention what you’re supposed to do if I ignore those orders and leave anyway?
Are you supposed to shove me back in? Hit me if I resist?
Are you even allowed to touch me at all?
” I tilt my head and lift a brow. “Because we both know how he is about people messing with what’s his… ”
The man shifts awkwardly, brows pinching together in confusion and uncertainty. Just the reaction I was going for.
As I saunter past him toward the elevator, I toss over my shoulder, “Next time, ask your boss to be a little more specific with his orders.”
I ride the elevator down to the ground floor and craftily dodge the patrolling guards until I get to the casino.
Black Gold Casino is a living, breathing creature.
Buzzing with lights, music, laughter, glitter and greed.
The harmony of slot machines, clinking chips, shuffling cards, boisterous betting calls, tumbling dice, and the whirl of the roulette wheel creates a sweet, sinful melody of reckless but fleetingly felicitous life decisions.
There’s a pulsing energy in the air, a coaxing dulcet inducing the urge to spend…spend…spend…join in on the fun.
Pausing at the edge of the chaos, I scan for an easy mark.
There. A crowded roulette table dominated by an overly large man, drunk off his ass and riding a winning streak.
Perfect.
I weave my way into the raucous crowd, sidling up to the table just as two skimpily dressed women lean into the corpulent drunk, squealing and fawning as he insists each of them blow on the dice before every toss.
Biding my time, I cheer along with everyone, blending in like just another tipsy thrill-seeker.
Then, when everyone’s locked in on the spinning wheel, holding their collective breath for the winning number, I make my move and stealthily swipe a stack of chips from where the lucky drunk has his winnings lined up along the edge of the table.
The crowd erupts as the winning number hits again, and I slip away in the chaos. No one the wiser.
Twenty-five hundred dollars richer, I meander through the casino until I find myself at a blackjack table occupied by three jowly geezers puffing fat Cuban cigars and sipping their weight in top-shelf liquor.
“This ain’t a table for little girls like you, sweetheart,” one of them drawls. “You’ll lose what little ya got there. Might as well go on over to one of ‘em slots and try ya luck. Hear?”
“No need to sound worried, old man,” I reply with a sweet smile. “I won’t bite.”
He scoffs wetly. “Can’t say I didn’t warn ya.”
Half an hour later, my chips have quadrupled. The dealer offers me a tray to stack them in. His smile is polite, but I know he knows. Knows I’m counting cards. And I know he’s already sent off some silent signal.
The geezers, however, are none the wiser. Too deep in their liquor haze, too thrilled by the illusion of control. That’s why I picked this table. They just keep betting big with sloppy grins and glazed eyes. It’s gamblers like these who keep casinos in business.
Two more winning hands, and here they come…
The men in black. Approaching from either side of the room. Took them long enough.
Chuckling under my breath, I toss a wink and a five-hundred-dollar chip to the dealer, then stand with my tray of loot in hand. Waiting.
When they reach me, they flank me without fanfare. “Ma’am, please come with us.”
“Ooh, tonight’s my lucky night,” I purr. “Getting tag-teamed by hot, tattooed men in Italian-cut suits? That’s my dirtiest fantasy.” I bite my lip and flutter my lashes. “What happens in Vegas, right?”
They don’t so much as blink.
Silent, stone-faced, they guide me off the casino floor and toward a set of ornate gold elevator doors on the far right.
We’ve just reached the elevator, one of the men scanning a card on the security panel, when Stefano steps into our path, his face taut with restrain.
“I’ll take it from here,” he tells the men, gripping my upper arm.
Without another word, he hauls me toward the double metal doors at the back, dragging me into the patron-restricted corridors. Once we’re alone in the dim hallway, he shoves me up against the wall, firm and controlled.
“What the fuck did I say about leaving the office?” he grinds out.
“I was bored.”
He studies me for several beats, eyes narrowing slightly. Then he reaches into his jacket and pulls out…
My inhaler.
What…how did he get my inhaler?
“Here.” He holds it out. “Use it.”
“Why?” I blink, thrown a bit off kilter, slightly dizzy. “I’m fine. I don’t need it right now.”
“Your breathing is off. And loud.”
It is? “I don’t—”
“Open.” He pops the cap, shakes it, and lifts it to my mouth. “Now.”
That inexplicable hint of concern in the crease of his brows is the only reason I lift my chin and seal my lips around the mouthpiece.
He pumps it once and I inhale deep, holding the breath for ten seconds to let it settle in my lungs.
“How much?” he asks, watching me closely.
I raise one finger. He nods, takes the inhaler back, and recaps it.
Strangely, my lungs feel more open. Relaxed.
But…they hadn’t been closing before…
Were they?
There’s no way this man noticed an attack coming on before I did. No way.
More importantly, why does he have my inhaler?
“Let me understand,” Stefano begins as he slips it back into his pocket. “You were ‘bored,’ so you decided to wander down here, barefoot, and suck in secondhand smoke?”
Hmm. Is this the real reason he didn’t want me leaving the office? “I avoided the smoky areas. I’m not that reckless.”
“What about blatantly counting cards and stealing from the business?”
“Just testing your security.” I smile brightly. “Had to see what your response time was like. Verdict? Bit of a lag between when the dealer hit the signal and when your guys showed up. You might wanna tighten that up.”
Stefano blinks slowly. “You really do have a death wish, don’t you?”
“Every day and twice on Tuesdays.”
Something flickers across his face. Like he’s trying to hold something back. He drags a hand down his mouth, glances up at the ceiling, then turns his back to me, hands on his hips.
His broad shoulders lift and falls, and then...shakes. Wait, is he laughing?
Oh my god, he is laughing. Or trying not to. And failing.
“Are you crying?” I poke. “My bad. I assumed you could handle constructive criticism. Would you like some privacy to tend to your hurt feelings?”
He stays turned away for several beats. When he finally faces me again, he’s back to blank-faced boss mode. Not a trace of amusement. Bummer.
Like the past minute never happened, he asks, “How’s your foot?”
I glance down at my bandaged ankle. “Oh, it’s fine. I just can’t wear shoes with straps right now.”
“Come on, then.” He takes my hand and pulls me along. “Time for your ass to go back to the villa.”
“Do I get to keep my winnings?”
“You stole all of it.”
“Fair and square.”
The look he shoots me could wither roses.
God, messing with him is so much fun.
~
“TAKE HER STRAIGHT to the villa,” Stefano tells Oscar once I’m loaded into the back of his Lincoln. “Don’t let her convince you otherwise. She’s good with her words. Block her out.”
“Aw. You flatter m—”
He slams the door in my face and I crack up.
Oscar takes his orders seriously, blocking me out the entire ride, no matter how hard I try to engage. Yeah, he’s a tough one to crack. Perfect for Stefano.
Back at the villa, I head to the Pink House first. Grab a shower, sneak in a secret phone call, then cart over to Lions House.
Cora opens the front door and eyes the bag of cashews I’m snacking on. “Would you like some seafood paella?”
I’m nodding before the question is fully out of her mouth. “Yes, please.”
Cora laughs with her whole body, crow’s feet out in full force. I love it.
“How’s Gio doing?”
“He’s been sleeping a lot,” she says. “The fever is still high, but he’s awake now. He’s down in the entertainment room.”
“Thanks. I’ll be back for my paella soon.”
I trek downstairs and find Gio bundled up under a thick blanket in one of the oversized recliners, cartoons playing on the big screen.
“My delinquent nurse is finally here,” he croaks.
“Sorry.” I press the back of my hand to his forehead. “Still roasting.”
“Yet I feel so cold.” He gives me sad puppy-dog eyes. “Feel sorry for me, pretty eyes.”
I laugh. “Aw, you poor thing.”
“Stay. Watch TV with me.”
“Of course. But first, take off your shirt.”
“Ooh. Frisky.” He waggles his brows at me, then weakly shrugs off the blanket and pulls his shirt over his head. “Have your way with me, naughty nurse.”
Pulling out a small bottle from my pocket, I shift to a perch on the arm of the recliner. “This is shilling oil. My secret remedy for, well, everything.” I twist off the cap. “The smell is intense, and it will burn a little, but it works like a charm.”
I pour a few drops onto his upper chest and begin rubbing it in.
“Ooofh, that’s potent,” he mutters, wincing and grinning at once.
Laughing at him, I add a little more, massaging it up to his neck, then wave my oiled fingers under his nose. “Inhale.”
He does, no questions asked, smiling up at me the whole time.
When I’m done, I screw the cap back on and tuck the bottle into the cupholder. “Keep it. Use it.”
“Will you come rub more on me again?” he asks with lidded eyes.
“Call me when you need me.” I plop into the recliner beside his. “Powerpuff Girls, huh? That’s what does it for you?”
With a sicky grin, dimples popping, he cloaks himself in his blanket again. “Every time.”
He looks so boyishly human like this. Not the “cruel third twin” he’s known to be. Right now, he’s just Gio. And something rustles in my chest at the thought that I could’ve lost him today. That I might never have gotten to share this warm, quiet moment with him.
“I got a message for you today,” I say.
“From who?”
“The Big Guy.”
He scoffs. “Highly doubt it.”
“He wanted you to know that today…you were His favorite.”
At that, his eyes find mine. Something ghosts across his face. Subtle, soft, dawning. And somehow, in the silence between us, as we hold each other’s gaze, he seems to understand.
With a slow, appreciative nod, he whispers, “Tell Him thanks for thinking of me.”