22. Casey
A week later, I’m starting to understand that Adriano Mancini is apparently incapable of doing anything halfway.
Not work, not family, and definitely not whatever this is between us now.
I had worried that sleeping with him would make things awkward when he inevitably said it was a mistake and got cold and distant.
He’s surprised me in the best way by doing none of those things.
We’ve slipped quietly into the spaces of everyday life with an ease I didn’t realize was possible.
Those small moments that make a transition from what we were to what we are now.
A hand at the small of my back as he passes me in the kitchen.
His coffee appearing beside mine in the mornings without either of us asking how the other takes it anymore.
The way he reaches for me instinctively whenever we’re alone, like touching me has already become habit rather than choice.
Every night that week ends the same way, too—us tangled together.
Sometimes in his bed. Sometimes in mine when he slips into the annex long after Letty has gone to sleep, still smelling faintly of cedar and expensive whiskey and winter air, his tie loosened and his expression softening the second he sees me waiting for him.
Then mornings come with stolen kisses in a quiet kitchen while Letty brushes her teeth, and heated looks over Letty’s head while she chatters through breakfast, completely oblivious to the fact that her father keeps staring at me like he’s trying and failing not to imagine me naked.
It should feel reckless. Instead, it feels frighteningly natural.
Which is probably why I’m currently lying flat on a yoga mat in a class Izzy dragged me to on a Saturday morning.
She watches me over the rim of her water bottle with a deeply smug look on her face while I stare at the ceiling, questioning my life choices.
“You slept with him.”
I close my eyes immediately, a blush staining my cheeks as I look around and pray nobody heard her. “Hush, someone will hear you.”
“That’s not a denial.”
I glare at her with no heat. “You’re impossible.”
“That’s also not a denial.”
I drag a long-suffering groan from somewhere deep in my chest before lifting my arm to cover my face dramatically. “I hate how smug you sound right now.”
Across from me, Isabella laughs softly, tucking one leg beneath herself as winter sunlight spills through the enormous studio windows around us.
The yoga class had sounded like a good idea an hour ago.
Now my muscles are shaking slightly, my hair is sticking to the back of my neck, and my best friend is interrogating me with the relentless focus that once helped dismantle a money laundering operation and accidentally led her to marry into organized crime.
Terrifying, amazing woman that she is.
“You’re glowing,” she says.
“I’m sweaty.”
“You’re glowing because Adriano’s been looking at you like he wants to drag you into the nearest locked room for the last seven days and bang you until you scream.”
Heat crawls straight up my neck. “Please never say that sentence again.”
Her grin only widens.
God, I’ve missed this.
Being with her without stress or heartbreak sitting between us, talking nonsense while soft music hums through the studio and snow drifts lazily outside the windows overlooking Manhattan. For the first time in years, I feel… light.
It’s unfamiliar enough that part of me keeps waiting for something to ruin it. I barely survived Jasper, but Adriano could break me completely. It’s reckless getting involved with him, but it’s like a runaway train now and I don’t want to get off.
“So,” Isabella says casually, though her eyes are sparkling now, “how was it?”
I narrow my eyes immediately. “You’re a journalist. You should know how to ask less obvious questions.”
“You’re deflecting.”
“I’m not talking about your brother-in-law’s sex life with you.”
She laughs again, then tosses a rolled towel lightly at my head.
I catch it on instinct.
“So, you did sleep with him. I knew it.”
“Oh, my God. Now I know how your victims feel.”
Izzy rolls onto her back and kicks her legs up, as people around us start to pack up to leave, casting slightly snooty glances at us as they do.
“I’m so pumped about this. You deserve this, Case.”
The softness in her voice makes me look at her properly this time.
She’s smiling now, but gentler than before.
Less teasing.
More relieved.
“He makes you happy.”
The simple honesty of it catches me off guard enough that I go quiet for a second.
He does make me happy. In ways I wasn’t expecting.
In ways I don’t entirely know what to do with yet.
He isn’t showy or extravagant; he’s quiet and thoughtful.
His care is in his every action, rather than performed as a loud spectacle.
“He’s…” I exhale slowly, tracing absent circles against the edge of the yoga mat beneath my fingertips, “different with me than I thought he’d be.”
Isabella snorts softly. “That man has been gone over you for months.”
“That’s absolutely not true.”
“Casey.” She gives me a look. “He nearly murdered Matteo for joking about you wearing another man’s coat at Christmas.”
I blink. “What? The coat was Rossi’s.”
“Hmm. I know.”
“That seems a little excessive.”
“He’s Italian. And his father was the head of the Mafia. It’s in his blood.”
“That cannot be the excuse for everything.”
“It’s the excuse for most things.”
Despite myself, I laugh. Then my smile softens slightly as I stare toward the ceiling. “My mom used to make me do yoga with her,” I say absentmindedly. “Well. Mostly she used to fall over in the middle of the living room while we laughed at those terrible DVDs from the nineties.”
The memory is warm and bittersweet all at once.
“She sounds fun.”
“She was.” I smile faintly. “She loved anything artsy. Old bookstores, galleries, making jewelry at the kitchen table. Most of my childhood memories involve glitter glue and her pretending we were creating masterpieces.”
Isabella smiles softly. “I wish I’d got to meet her.”
“Me too. She would have loved you. She had this favorite book she was obsessed with about a female detective from the fifties who solved crimes in a sleepy little town in England.” I laugh quietly at the memory.
“She used to read it to me when I was little, and then later, when she got sick, I used to read it back to her in the hospital because she kept falling asleep halfway through.”
Emotion tightens unexpectedly in my throat.
God. I haven’t talked about my mother this much in years.
“You miss her,” Isabella says gently.
“All the time.”
And suddenly I’m hit with this strange awareness that lately, for the first time in forever, grief hasn’t felt quite so heavy all the time. Even though in some ways my life is more uncertain than ever, I feel more grounded and less untethered.
My grief is softer, not gone. It will never be gone; it’s just… easier to carry somehow.
Maybe because lately I’m not carrying everything alone anymore.
“He takes care of me,” I admit quietly before I can stop myself.
“Like really takes care of me. Jasper used to disappear whenever things became difficult. He’d pull away emotionally first, then physically.
Eventually, I stopped asking for comfort because it always felt vaguely humiliating to need more than someone wanted to give. ”
Isabella grabs my hand and squeezes it gently, offering me what she knows I need.
“Adriano is the opposite. He notices everything. If my energy dips slightly, he notices. If I’m cramping, suddenly there’s tea beside me and a heating pad plugged in before I’ve even fully processed what’s happening myself.”
Three nights ago, I fell asleep on the couch while he was working and woke up in his bed wearing one of his shirts because apparently, he carried me upstairs rather than wake me.
The memory still does stupid things to my chest.
“He’s a good man,” Isabella says softly.
I look over at her.
There’s no teasing in her expression now.
Just certainty.
“I know,” I say quietly.
The terrifying thing is—I think I’m starting to feel something for him, to trust him.
When I get back to the brownstone just after lunch, warmth hits me immediately the second I step inside.
The house smells faintly of coffee and cinnamon and something sweet Letty has probably convinced someone to bake with her.
Before I can even take my boots off properly, a small blur of dark curls launches directly at me.
“Casey!”
I barely manage to catch Letty before she collides fully into me, laughing as I steady us both. “Well, hello to you too.”
“We’re going to the park,” she announces breathlessly, already grabbing my hand. “Daddy said we can get hot chocolate after and maybe feed squirrels but only if the squirrels are nice.”
I blink once. “Aren’t all squirrels nice?”
“No, some bite people,” Adriano says dryly from somewhere behind her.
My pulse betrays me instantly at the sound of his voice.
God.
A week in and my body reacts to him like it’s addicted.
He’s standing near the kitchen doorway, phone pressed to one ear, dark sweater pushed up slightly at the forearms while his expression remains cool and unreadable in a way I’ve learned usually means business. He’s so handsome he makes me dizzy.
“No,” he says into the phone, voice colder than it was a second ago with Letty. “Pull the contracts. I don’t care what it costs him.”
Something sharp flickers briefly through his expression.
Then he looks up and sees me watching and his features morph into a devastating smile. The entire thing happens instantly, naturally, like seeing me brightened his day.
His gaze moves slowly over me, warmth replacing the coldness from before so quickly it steals my breath for a second.
“Call Matteo,” he says distractedly before ending the conversation entirely.
“Hi,” I say softly, suddenly very aware Letty is still holding my hand.
His mouth curves slightly.
Small enough that most people probably wouldn’t even notice it.
I do. I notice everything about this man.
“Hi.”
The look in his eyes says far more dangerous things.
Letty tugs harder on my hand before either of us can say anything else. “You have to come because Daddy doesn’t like the squirrels.”
“I like them fine.”
“You said they were tree rats”
“They are tree rats.”
“That’s very mean, Daddy. You wouldn’t like it if I said you were a stinky boy, would you?”
Adriano pinches the bridge of his nose. “I’m being bullied in my own home.”
I laugh before I can stop myself.
His gaze catches on the sound immediately.
The expression on his face changes for half a second.
Not lust this time, something softer, something that hits me far harder.
“You coming?” Letty asks again.
I look toward Adriano instinctively this time.
His eyes hold mine for one quiet beat before he gives the smallest nod.
“I’d love to,” I say softly.
Letty cheers like I’ve personally saved Christmas before sprinting toward the hallway. “I HAVE TO GET MY SHOES.”
The second she disappears upstairs, Adriano moves. One moment he’s across the room, the next his hand is around my waist, hauling me firmly against him until I’m pressed flush against his chest with a soft, startled breath.
“Adriano—”
“I missed you.”
The low, rough honesty in his voice completely wrecks my ability to think properly. “You saw me this morning.”
“Mm.” His mouth brushes mine once. “Exactly. Too long.”
I laugh softly against his lips just before he kisses me properly.
Slow and deep this time, drugging and sensual rather than urgent.
Like he’s savoring me.
His hand spreads against my lower back while the other slides into my hair, tilting my head slightly so he can kiss me deeper, and the quiet sound that escapes me makes his grip tighten instinctively.
God. This man is going to wreck me.
“You keep looking at me like you’re surprised to see me,” I whisper when he finally lets me breathe.
His thumb brushes slowly along my jaw, eyes still fixed on mine. “That’s because I still can’t quite believe you’re mine.”
The words hit deep enough to scare me a little. Not because he said them, but because part of me likes hearing it far too much. I want to be his, and that’s terrifying.
Upstairs, Letty yells something incomprehensible about boots.
Adriano exhales softly through his nose before pressing one last lingering kiss to my mouth.
“You should know,” he murmurs against my lips, “I fully intend to spend the rest of the day pretending to behave while thinking about you naked in my bed this morning.” His hand palms my face, his thumb brushing my cheekbone as he looks at me with those dark, hooded eyes.
“Your cheeks all flush from coming on my tongue.”
Heat rushes straight to my face at the memory. “You’re incorrigible.”
“And yet,” he says quietly, fingers tightening once at my waist before he lets me go, “you can’t get enough either.”