Chapter 3
POV: Amanda
I followed him into his car—sleek, black, the kind of machine that cost more than most people’s homes.
And even with all my training, I couldn’t keep myself completely cool.
Not when I was wearing a dress that hugged every inch of my body.
Not when the man sitting beside me was Adrian De Lucca.
And not when I didn’t know what I wanted more— to arrest him… or to kiss him.
He drove in silence, the city lights streaking past the windows, each block tightening the coil in my chest.
When we finally arrived, I shifted, ready to slide out the door, when his hand shot out and clamped around my thigh.
Firm. Commanding. Heat seared through the slit of my dress, scorching straight into my core. My body burned at the contact, the electric jolt of skin against skin making me ache in ways I hadn’t felt in too long. God, I’d missed being touched like this.
My gaze snapped down to his hand—his long fingers pressing hard, possessive. I didn’t flinch. Didn’t move. My pulse thundered in my ears, but I lifted my chin and stared him down.
Adrian’s throat bobbed as he swallowed. His jaw flexed, locked tight. And then, like my skin had branded him, he released me—abrupt, almost violent—his fingertips twitching as though the loss of control had unsettled him.
His voice was rough, low, edged with steel. “In there, you don’t speak unless spoken to. I’ll present you as my new… friend.” The pause was heavy, his mouth tightening like the word tasted wrong. “Stay close enough to be seen, but not too close. Do you understand?”
My instinct was to nod. Obey. But screw that.
I leaned in instead, deliberately invading his space, so close my breath brushed his jaw. His eyes tracked me, pupils dark and wide, the air between us humming like a live wire. His chest rose, sharp inhale, like he couldn’t breathe right.
“I’ll stay,” I whispered, lips grazing dangerously close to his ear, “as close as I think is necessary.”
The sharp hitch of his breath was victory enough. His knuckles whitened against the steering wheel, like he’d rather grip me instead.
Every inch of space vibrated with tension—his cologne, my perfume, the rustle of fabric when I crossed my legs. His gaze flicked, once, to the bare line of my thigh before he wrenched his eyes forward and shoved his door open.
Inside the Esposito estate, his hand slid to the small of my back, guiding me forward—half a step behind him, exactly where he wanted me.. The heat of it sank into me, grounding and possessive. I nearly moaned right there.
The dining room looked more like a throne hall than a table. The Espositos spared no expense—polished mahogany, chandeliers heavy with gold light, a spread of food that belonged in a king’s feast.
And yet, when Adrian walked in, it wasn’t the chandeliers or the feast that drew attention. It was him.
The men already seated—some old, some slick with youth and money—shifted in their chairs. Quiet fell sharp, and instinctively, they leaned back, clearing the head of the table. Not a word was spoken, but the message was clear.
Adrian was not a guest here. He was the center of gravity.
I stayed behind him, half a step, eyes sharp on the movements around us. Watching the way respect—and fear—moved like an invisible current. And then, just like that, he sat. Head of the table, without question.
The air settled.
The men devoured me with their eyes. The women scanned me head to toe with thin smiles and sharper envy.
“Adrian,” someone drawled—a slick Esposito cousin with too many rings. “And who is this stunning creature?” His eyes dragged down my dress, lingering where they shouldn’t. “Your new friend?”
The table hummed with laughter, voices oily with suggestion.
“Maybe you can present her.”
“Or share her.” Another man stepped forward, reaching like he had any right.
My muscles tightened on instinct. One wrong move and I’d break his wrist before anyone blinked.
Don’t you dare.
The sound cracked through the air—Adrian’s hand slamming against the polished wood. The chatter died instantly. His voice was low, venomous, but it carried like a knife slicing the silence.
“She is not yours to look at. Not yours to touch. Not yours to talk about.” His gaze cut across the room, daring any man to challenge him. “She’s with me.”
Something in me stuttered. His claim had no right to brand me the way it did, but God help me, I wanted to lean into it. I’d never felt protected like this. And the worst part? I was his bodyguard.
The tension shifted—fear and respect thickening the air.
I should’ve stayed still. Silent. The pretty ornament on his arm. But my pulse was racing, my skin burning with the weight of his words. I glanced at him, jaw clenched. He looked like a man fighting two wars—against every enemy in the room, and against himself.
And I was fighting the same damn thing.
“Okay, she is yours. Take a shot, Adrian,” came a voice from the side. Armani Esposito, another boss. I recognized him from the files: charming, untrustworthy, but powerful. He handed Adrian a glass of whiskey, then turned to me.
“And you are?”
“Amanda.” I extended my hand. He bent to kiss it.
“Nice to meet you, Amanda. Champagne? Wine?”
“I’m fine, thank you.” I didn’t need alcohol dulling my senses.
“Pick something,” Adrian ordered, voice dark with command. His eyes burned holes through me. “Wine? The Espositos brought the best from Italy.”
My lips curved, defiant. “As much as I’d love Italian wine, I’m more of a whiskey girl. I saw a bottle of Macallan Rare Cask.”
Armani’s brows lifted, impressed. “A whiskey girl. The best kind.” He left to fetch it.
The moment he was gone, I tilted my head toward Adrian. “Jealous?”
His mouth curved, humorless. He leaned close, his breath hot against my ear. “Andrea was about to touch you. And I know you—you would’ve put him through a wall. I didn’t want to risk your cover.” His voice was husky, dangerous, and it slid straight down my spine.
I smirked, low. “You’re right. I totally would’ve.”
He exhaled hard, a ghost of a laugh, before his voice dipped lower. “Whiskey girl, huh?”
Before I could answer, Armani returned with the glass. I took a sip, savoring the burn, letting a soft moan slip from my throat.
Adrian’s gaze snapped to me, jaw tight. His knee brushed mine beneath the table. Accident. Or not.
He didn’t move it. Neither did I.
Plates clattered, glasses filled, but the meal was secondary. This was business.
“The carpets from Turkey won’t pass customs in time,” one of the Espositos muttered, tension around his mouth.
Another added, “Inspectors are sniffing too close. We’ll lose the shipment before it even docks.”
I tracked the conversation silently, filing away weaknesses, solutions forming faster than I could shut them down.
I didn’t mean to speak. But the words slid out before I could stop them.
“What if you re-route through the art exhibit shipments? They get waved through customs without full inspection. Carpets become installations.”
The table went silent. Every pair of eyes snapped to me.
Heat flushed my neck, but I held my ground.
Slowly, Adrian’s gaze cut to me. Dark. Assessing. Something almost feral burning beneath.
Then his mouth curved, slow and lethal.
Then, from across the table, Exposito let out a low laugh. The old man’s silver hair caught the chandelier light as he tipped his glass toward me.
“Furba ragazza… la volpe.”
The others murmured, nodding. I caught the word again—volpe.
Confused, I glanced at Adrian.
His dark gaze cut to mine, heavy and unreadable. He leaned in just enough that only I could hear the rumble of his voice.
“La Volpe. The fox. Clever. Sly. Sharp. Exactly who you are.”
The way he said it wasn’t casual. It was a mark. A claim. Something in me shivered.
The dinner carried on, negotiations bending around Adrian’s will.
He didn’t raise his voice, didn’t argue.
He decided, and the rest followed. Watching him in his element was dangerous—it made something hot coil low in my belly, and I hated how aware I was of every shift of his hand, every flex of power.
Then the door opened.
Every man at the table turned, some rising to their feet as Don Delacqua entered. I recognize him from the reports. His presence commanded attention even here, though I noticed one thing: he still inclined his head toward Adrian first.
But it wasn’t the old man that caught me off guard. It was the young woman trailing him. Slim, poised, dressed to be noticed. She slipped into the room like she belonged, chin tilted high.
I didn’t recognize her. But the way her eyes went straight to Adrian, lingering, told me everything I needed.
Later, after the talks cooled and men began to mingle with cigars and whiskey in hand, she finally made her move. This woman stepped into Adrian’s space, too close, her hand grazing his sleeve, lingering far longer than polite. Her laugh was soft, meant only for him.
My jaw tightened before I could stop it.
But Adrian didn’t bend. Didn’t indulge. His eyes flicked down at her hand—sharp, dismissive—and then he simply turned away. Walked past her like she was invisible.
I followed, pulse racing for reasons I didn’t want to name. “Who was that?” I asked, sharper than intended.
His smirk was slow, deliberate.
“Aine Delacqua. Don Delacqua’s daughter.”
I narrowed my eyes. “And what does she want with you?”
He stepped closer, close enough that my breath caught. His voice dipped low, velvet and dangerous.
“Why, Amanda… you sound jealous.”
Heat flashed hot under my skin. I scoffed, trying to mask it. “I’m assessing threats.”
Adrian’s gaze dipped to my mouth before climbing back to my eyes. He smirked, a wolfish curl of lips that made my stomach flip.
“If I didn’t know better… I’d swear you were jealous, La Volpe.”
The worst part?
I wasn’t sure I wasn’t.