12. Piadina Doesn’t Count As Stalking…Right? #2
He took a step closer, placing one hand against the side of my head and leaning in. His musky scent swarmed my senses, and I breathed in deeper, as if I wasn’t in control of my own body’s reactions.
“Niente accidentale.” He grabbed my wrist and forced my hand over his left pec beneath his leather jacket. Cristo, he was so solid. Like steel but molten, radiating heat. “A severe heart condition. Doc says it could be fatal.”
“Let’s hope so.” I smiled, yanking my hand out of his grasp. His smirk widened as if my irritation only amused him.
“Feisty tonight, no?”
I reached for the emergency button to release it, but he blocked my path. I huffed back, knowing there was no way I could wrestle this brute and win.
“There’s only one cure,” he husked, glancing down at my lips. I lifted my chin higher, burying the fear and arousal beneath my rage because all of this was because of him. My life was quickly becoming a dark, twisted thriller because of the man in front of me. And I know exactly how they end.
“Let me guess? Is it me? You should really work on your flirting. Find something more original.” I cocked my head to the side, faking a smile, and his eyes darkened with demented humour.
My smile dropped, and I lifted my hands to my face, hiding.
“Seriously, what do you want from me? Did you need to add stalking to your list of crimes? I know I should be afraid of you. Aren’t you going to blackmail me?
Hurt me? Threaten my life unless I get my father to back off?
What? I’d rather you just get to the punchline and stop messing with me. ”
I heard some rustling and peeked through my fingers to see him pulling out a mozzarella and prosciutto piadina from my favourite piadineria down the road, a box of pastries, and a flask of coffee from his rucksack slung over one shoulder.
I dropped my hands, glaring at the goods with confusion before I peered up at his face.
“I thought you might be hungry. It’s been a busy shift, and you haven’t stopped once. So stop. Eat. Drink. Rest. I’ll even rub your feet if you’ll let me. You already know how good my hands make you feel.”
I stared at him. This had to be a joke. Or a trick. It was the only explanation. He lifted the food and drink in his hands and waved them in front of my face when I still hadn’t moved.
Narrowing my eyes, I crossed my arms over my chest. “Nice try. I’m not eating or drinking anything you give me. It’s probably poisoned or drugged, and I’ll wake up in the back of a van somewhere.”
He shrugged his shoulders, leaning against the wall and placing one boot over the other.
“Not really my style,” he said, unwrapping the piadina and taking a bite.
I glared at him when he moaned, rolling my eyes.
God, he even chewed with effortless sex appeal.
He was infuriating. He lifted the coffee next and took a sip.
My mouth watered, and my stomach grumbled in protest. He made ignoring him impossible when he had my favourite meal.
I snatched the flatbread from his hands and bit into it, closing my eyes as the flavours hit my tongue. I didn’t even want to know how he knew my go-to order. It was better to live in ignorance for a few more minutes.
"So what? You work for a delivery company now?" I teased with a mouthful of bread, refusing to melt under his soft, heated gaze.
"I guess you could call it my new favourite hobby."
"What?"
"Looking after you."
I stopped chewing to give him my best look of disapproval, but really, it was my heart I disapproved of. It needed to calm the hell down.
He watched me, his smile wide and lazy, completely unbothered by my hostility. “I’ve got something to show you. I think you’ll like it.”
He yanked his shirt away from his neck. Bread lodged in my throat when I saw the fresh tattoo over my bite, with lips around it and the word Ribelle inside the teeth marks. I choked, spluttering as I tried to dislodge the food and swallow it.
“What is that?”
“Your claim. I wanted to make it official.”
If I hadn't worked it out before, now I knew. He was crazy. Utterly unhinged. Who the fuck does that?
“Is that real?” I leaned forward and ran my finger along the healing ink. That was one hundred percent real. “You’re actually insane,” I breathed.
“I prefer to call it Italian-level passionate.” He took the wrapper from my hand, scrunching it in his fist, and swapped it for a bag of desserts while I stood speechless.
He released the emergency button, and the elevator started moving again. Lifting his thumb to my mouth, he wiped away a bit of cheese I had missed, and my cheeks flamed with mortification. My eyes tracked his thumb back to his mouth, and he sucked it clean, reigniting that desire in my lower belly.
“Buona notte, la mia bella ribelle,” he husked before the doors opened.
I stared at him as he shoved his helmet back over his head, unable to believe that was it.
Wasn’t he going to seduce me again? Kidnap me?
Kill me? Anything? He literally fed me and turned, strolling straight past Damiano when the doors opened.
My overbearing babysitter stormed into the lift. “Aria. My apologies. I was distracted and—”
“It’s fine,” I said, realising he had blamed himself entirely and not seen it as my own devious little scheme to get away from him.
“What happened? I thought the elevator had stopped working. I’d called for backup.”
“No. There was no need. I got out,” I swallowed, pushing away from the wall and walking towards my office. “I just grabbed some food.”
He nodded, still looking tense and unsure, but I didn’t elaborate. Why? Why the hell couldn’t I tell him that the man my father warned me about is genuinely an actual threat?
Because you’ll sound ridiculous, Aria. He sends you flowers. Dry-humps you against walls because you don’t stop him. You bit him, and he tattooed it on his skin! And then he corners you in lifts with your favourite food.
He’s not exactly committing any crimes. Being completely unhinged, yeah. But was I actually in any danger? I wasn’t sure.
When I made it back to my office, I rested my head on my desk, groaning.
No, stop this. It’s all an act. He’s manipulating me into believing he might be more than just violence and crime.
He’s trying to make me trust him. Like him, even.
And then he’ll switch, and I’ll be tied to a chair, gagged and begging for my life—all because I fell for a piadina delivery.
I’d watched enough crime documentaries to recognise the pattern of impending doom.
I wouldn’t be the na?ve, helpless girl who falls for the lies.
His behaviour would only escalate. But I didn’t have the first idea how to stop it.
Perhaps it was time to come clean and repent for my sins.
Or Santino Buccini would drag me to hell with him.