Chapter 4 Rocco
Rocco
Inever wanted a relationship. None whatsoever. Not after I saw what love did to my brother. I swore I’d never put myself in that position, being infatuated with someone to the point I’d risk everything. Fuck, no.
Instead, I poured all my energy into rebuilding the Rossi name and becoming one of New York’s most successful real estate lawyers and investors. I had no time, no interest in dating, and no woman tempted me—until Harper.
Now, I’m on my hands and knees, helping the blonde hellcat pick up Legos after she tucked her adorable son into bed. I’m in deep. They’re family, I tell myself. I’d do it anyway. But this is different, very different.
Harper has awakened a protective instinct in me, a trait shared by all Rossi men when they find their person. From the moment I saw her struggling with Danny on those icy stairs, I was triggered, hooked.
Perhaps it’s the vulnerability she tries so hard to hide, or the fierce way she loves her son. Maybe it’s the anguish in her crystal-blue eyes, or how I sense, deep down, in the marrow of my bones, that she needs me.
I recognize the faraway stare, the rigid shoulders. Her body is tense, always braced for the next catastrophe. She’s been hurt, abused.
I’m twenty years older than her, old enough to be her father. Still, the desire to claim, protect, and provide twists so tight in my chest, it aches.
“Thanks for helping me.” She reaches for a Lego that somehow ended up underneath the couch. “You don’t have to.”
She bends closer to the floor, her round ass in the air, and I force myself to look away, to not gawk like a creepy old man.
“I want to.” The words hang between us, weighted with meaning. I want more, and I’m highly skilled at getting what I want.
She glances up, and our gazes catch briefly before hers drops. “Danny likes you. He rarely warms up to people so quickly.” She tosses the Lego into the box, then begins straightening the portion we built on the coffee table.
I take her hands in mine, calming her nervous fidgeting, her impulse to make everything perfect. Her skin is incredibly soft, and her touch sends a wave of desire swirling through my gut. “Leave it there. It’ll be okay. No one minds.”
Her head dips in an uneasy nod. “So…” She stretches her neck to peer around the open-plan living room and kitchen, likely keeping an eye out for Reece. “You’re a lawyer.”
I hold her hand far longer than necessary, pulling her with me when I move to the couch. “Real estate law, yes.”
She sits facing me, a pillow shielding her body, her legs tucked under her, taking up as little space as possible. “And you like it?”
Fuck, I wish we were at my condo. I’d offer her a glass of wine, pull her feet onto my lap, and kiss every inch of her until she relaxed.
“I like winning.” I flash a wolfish grin. “But mostly, I enjoy building, constructing, and amassing wealth.”
“Oh.” She lowers her head and picks at the frayed edges of the throw pillow.
Silence drags on between us, and I break into a cold sweat.
I remind myself I’m not speaking to a colleague, a competitor, or a woman interested in wealth and power. Harper doesn’t give a shit about any of that. She probably thinks I’m trying to impress her, or worse, bragging.
“I’m sorry. That came out wrong. What I meant was, I enjoy providing financial freedom for my clients and family, helping them build generational security.” I gesture to the walls around us. “And I find the challenge of remodeling these old buildings fascinating.”
She takes in the room. “You worked on this? It’s beautiful.”
I smile, clarifying, “With my brain. Not my hands—not that I couldn’t, but it’s been a long time.”
She returns my smile, eyes brightening, and my heart seizes. Fuck me, she’s gorgeous—barefaced, unpretentious, all delicate features and a scattering of freckles across her nose and cheekbones.
The urge to touch her is overwhelming, and I cut straight to the point. “Where exactly are you in the divorce process?”
She scoffs, her brief happiness fading instantly. “The part where he refuses to grant me one and threatens to take Danny if I try.”
That motherfucker. I can’t say I fully blame him. I wouldn’t grant her a divorce either, but I’d never use her son to manipulate her.
Still, I need her husband to disappear. “What did your lawyer say or do?”
A bitter laugh escapes her. “Right.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Nothing.” Her tone is razor-sharp. Her cheeks flushed. “Forget it.”
I lean closer, and the olive-colored velvet Chesterfield couch from the nineteen-seventies creaks beneath my weight. “I can’t forget it. I like you too much. Do you have legal representation or not?”
She jerks her head no, her lips pressed in exasperation, or maybe hopelessness.
Aggravation grips me, and my brows furrow deeply. “Why the hell not? You just gonna let him bully you?”
No response.
I throw my hands up. “You can’t possibly want to stay with him. He’s manipulative, abusive, an asshole—”
“I know.” She skewers me with a glare, eyes glassy. “You don’t need to remind me. I don’t have a lawyer because I can’t afford one. I’m living off my brother and sister. I have no degree. No skills. No experience. I have nothing except my son—and I’ll run before I let Daniel take him from me.”
I drop my tone an octave. “So that’s where we’re at?”
She lifts her chin. “That’s where we’re at. Rock bottom.”
On my ride home, I am incapable of thinking of anything but her. I panic at the thought of her running, but I know Reece would never allow her husband to take Danny. If she ran, he’d search for her—we’d search for her.
My building comes into view, a sleek tower of steel and glass stretching toward the night sky. The doorman waves as I enter. I give him a curt nod on my way to the private elevator. The doors close, and I lean against the cool metal, Harper’s situation ruminating in my mind.
I step into my penthouse. The automatic lights activate, illuminating the sprawling first floor. I drop my keys into the Italian crystal bowl on the console table and pause.
Christ. This place is a death trap for a child.
A floating staircase—an architectural marvel with no railings—leads to the four bedrooms upstairs.
Every surface gleams with polished edges.
The coffee table, end tables, and dining table are all made of glass.
The pure Carrara marble island has dangerously sharp corners, and the barstools have no backs.
I run my hand down my face. “Fuck.”
The city skyline glitters through the panoramic windows, a view I’ve never tired of. But tonight, I see the space through new eyes. Through Harper’s. Through Danny’s.
This place is my pride and joy, designed by one of Manhattan’s most sought-after minimalist architects—and absolutely lethal to a four-year-old. He could fall from the second floor, for fuck’s sake.
They can’t live here—we can’t live here.
I walk over to the fully stocked bar surrounded by glass and mirrors.
It’s elegant, sophisticated. Everything about my life has been curated for maximum luxury and minimal clutter.
I pour three fingers of whiskey into a crystal tumbler and down it in one gulp.
The liquor doesn’t touch the knot of anxiety in my chest.
I pour another. And another.
By my fourth, I’m pacing the length of my treacherous apartment, mentally redesigning everything. Rounded corners. Safety gates. No easily accessible alcohol. Carpet instead of the Brazilian hardwood…
It’d be easier and more cost-effective to sell this place and rebuild elsewhere.
This is ridiculous. I’m fifty-two years old, not some lovesick teenager. Yet, here I am, obsessing over a woman I barely know.
“You’re losing it, Rossi,” I mutter to myself, swirling the amber liquid in my glass. “Known her for, what, a day? Two?”
It doesn’t matter. Harper’s face haunts me. She’s in my blood.
The fifth whiskey either boosts my courage or dulls my common sense. I scroll through my contacts until I find her number—a number I shouldn’t have.
It’s Rocco. I have a proposition for you.
She answers immediately, and I wonder if she’s been thinking about me, too. I’m pathetic.
Kitten
How’d you get my number?
Your brother. After your husband refused to answer, he sent me your number to help.
A complete and total lie that’ll probably bite me in the ass. I got her number from the twins, who probably got it from Lucas, who probably obtained it illegally.
Suspicious, but okay. Go ahead.
She’s even wittier via text. I like it.
Work at my law firm. I have an opening.
I told you, I have no experience except working at my sister’s salon.
You don’t need experience. It’s not difficult or glamorous. It’s filing. Everyone starts with filing, even my paralegals, but it pays well.
I don’t have childcare or clothes.
The firm has a daycare. If that’s not suitable, I have family who’ll help. And I’ll give you a clothing allowance.
What’s the proposition?
I’ll handle the divorce. You’ll have steady employment and benefits, health insurance for you and Danny. You need stable housing—do you want to live in the same building as Reece?
What if I don’t plan to stay in NYC?
You plan to live with your newlywed sister? That doesn’t sound fun.
Fuck, I hope she doesn’t ask how I know that—also.
I’m currently staying with my brother, who’s in a foursome.
Excellent point. How about your own place? Two floors down. I can have it constructed in a few weeks.
A well-paying job, in-house childcare, a clothing allowance, health insurance, an apartment, AND a divorce? What’s the catch? What’s in it for you?
I thought that was obvious.
You.