Chapter 5
Chapter Five
Basili
Movement beside me wakes me; slowly I reach for the gun beneath my pillow — an instinct ingrained in me over the past twenty years. But then my mind registers that the small weight on the bed is familiar. Emmanuel. And I relax.
Opening my eyes, I look at him, my son, my life, my treasure. The one person who keeps me going when things are truly terrible. He’s sitting up in the middle of the bed, his dark hair sticking out in all sorts of directions. Eyes still puffy from sleep, he rubs at them with the back of his hand.
“Buongiorno, figlio mio.” I push myself up to sit beside him, careful not to disturb Chloe on the other side of the bed.
His eyes find mine, and for a moment, he seems hesitant, like he’s not entirely sure I’m there. Or perhaps he is afraid. The idea that my son is afraid of me is a knife between my ribs.
“Hungry?” I ask, and his stomach growls in response.
We both laugh softly as his hands fly to it, like the touch will silence its complaining.
“That’s a yes. Go run a brush through your hair and brush your teeth; I put some items in the bathroom for you.
I’ll get Omero to take you down for breakfast.”
He glances at Chloe with a worried look, his brows furrowing together in an expression that I recognize as one I myself wear often.
“I’ll wake Chloe soon, and we will come down and join you. I just don’t want you to have to wait on us when you’re obviously already hungry.” I make a gallant attempt at being reassuring, moving to knock on the wall that our room shares with my men’s.
“Omero,” I say loudly, just one command, nothing more, earning myself a disapproving look from my son as he points to Chloe’s still sleeping form and then puts his finger over his lips.
“I won’t wake her, I promise.” I chuckle slightly, proud to see the slight confidence renewed in the boy. He isn’t so afraid of me that I’m beyond reproach; that’s at least a good sign.
A soft knock sounds on the door a moment later, and I move to open it just enough to see Omero’s concerned face.
“Boss?”
“I want you to take Emmanuel down to breakfast. He’s brushing his hair and his teeth right now; give him a moment. I’ll be down in twenty minutes.”
Omero’s eyes flicker past me to where Emmanuel appears from the bathroom, then back to me. “You sure?”
“I need to take care of something first.”
Clearing his throat, knowing better than to ask, he just nods. “Yes, boss.”
Turning back to Emmanuel, I gesture for him to come to the door, “Go with Omero. Get breakfast. I’ll be downstairs shortly. I promise.”
Reluctantly, he follows my instructions, his gaze sliding once more to the woman still lying under the covers on the other side of the bed. He signs something too fast for me to catch, but I understand just from the look in his eyes. Just as last night, he doesn’t want to leave her.
“She’ll be fine. She needs sleep. You need to go eat. Now go on.”
Omero holds his hand out, and after another brief hesitation, Emmanuel takes it, slowly letting go of the door as he follows him toward the elevator. It closes with a soft click, and now it’s just her and me.
The bed shifts as I move back to stand beside it, and that’s when I allow myself a moment to really look at her.
She’s curled on her side, facing away from me, her dark hair spread across the sheets like spilled ink.
The covers shimmied down to her hips, revealing her white tank top, and I note the surge of heat that the realization that she’s not wearing a bra beneath the thin fabric sends through my groin.
A sense of arousal that’s completely inappropriate given our circumstances.
She looks young in sleep. Vulnerable. Nothing like the fierce, defiant woman I’ve come to know thus far. The woman who had handed Raffaello his ass last night and had the audacity to demand I prove I was Emmanuel’s father.
I can’t stop looking at her. This woman, who has suddenly become a thorn in my side.
Infuriating me at every turn. She’s vexing and stubborn and sarcastic to the point of insubordination — all things I never thought I’d find intriguing in a woman.
Yet here she is, a temporary fixture in my life. In my son’s life.
As she turns to face me in sleep, reaching for the child who is no longer beside her, I can’t help but notice the way the fabric clings to her curves — the outline it creates around the swell of her modest breast, the dip of her waist, the flair of her hips.
Instantly, my thoughts go back to that kiss, the way she’d felt against my body, the way she’d responded to me.
It was a mistake. I knew that.
It meant nothing, I chastised myself. But even as I do, I can’t help but want her anyway. Mistake or no mistake. I wonder if the rest of her is as responsive as that mouth of hers is. What would it take to make her lose control — to give in completely?
Shaking my head as if it will shake away the thoughts, I crack my neck before moving to get my clothes from my bag.
She is inconvenient, remember? I have a million things to do, revenge to seek, and I’m pining for a woman I barely know. I really have lost it.
The truth is, having her around isn’t just inconvenient; it is downright dangerous. I don’t trust her; how could I? I don’t even know her.
As I get dressed, I hear her stir in her sleep, and I freeze, turning back to watch her carefully. Her hand comes up to brush the hair from her face, and her eyes blink open sleepily.
The way she shifts, searching the empty expanse of the bed with her hand, makes the tank top situation significantly worse — or better I suppose, depending on perspective.
Now, I can see the outline of her nipples through the thin white fabric and the way her breasts rise and fall with each breath she takes.
Christ.
I force myself to look up at her face, which I realize is only marginally safer. She has delicate, soft features, a fine bone structure, a small nose, and lips surprisingly full for someone so small. A gift from her mixed heritage, I’ll wager.
“Emmanuel?” She queries sleepily. Her searching hand is met only with cold bedsheets, and she bolts upright. Looking around frantically before meeting my eyes. “Where’s Emmanuel?”
“Downstairs with Omero. Eating breakfast. I was trying to let you sleep a while longer.”
“And you’re not with him because…?”
“We need to talk.” I move to sit on the edge of the bed. She freezes at my statement, her eyes taking on a doe-like, deer in headlights look.
“About?”
“About last night.”
The blush that blooms across her cheeks is so deep and rosy it reaches down her neck, and I am struck with wonder at how far down her body it’d go.
Get your mind out of the gutter, I shake the thought away. Clearing my throat to continue.
“Do you know who I am? What I am?” I ask, shifting on the bed to face her fully, giving her my full attention. She takes a deep breath, pushing herself up to lean against the headboard, averting her eyes momentarily as she ponders my question.
“Well, from what I gathered last night. You’re a part of the New York Italian crime family,” her voice is steady despite the color in her cheeks.
“Judging from how Omero and Raffaello take orders from you and what Omero said in the car,” she swallows harshly, “you’re not just any part of that family. ”
I nod, “You are correct. I am the Don of the Italian Mafia in New York.”
I take a moment to watch her reaction to my admission, but to my surprise, she doesn’t appear overtly afraid. No, if I had to name the emotion I saw running across her features, it would be resigned. Like running into the Italian Mafia isn’t that unique an experience.
Hmmm, the response is perplexing, and I file it away for later.
“So, Chloe, does that scare you?”
“Should it?”
And there it is, that challenging, infuriating way she has about her that drives me mad.
“It would scare most people.”
“I’m not most people.”
I study her for a moment. “No. That much is obvious. Which is part of the problem.”
“Now, I’m a problem?”
“You’ve been a problem since the moment I met you.”
Something flashes in her eyes — hurt maybe or perhaps anger — as she strains to keep her expression neutral.
“You have convinced me that Emmanuel needs you — for now, at least. But that does not mean for a second that I trust you.”
Her jaw tightens. “I haven’t done anything to warrant your distrust, Basili.”
The sound of my name on her lips is distracting. Definitely a problem.
“Oh, but haven’t you?” I let the question hang between us for a moment, making her think about my implication. “Your last name just happens to be Tao, which is Chinese, coincidentally the same ethnicity as the faction that I suspect is responsible for taking my son.”
“That’s purely coincidence,” she quips back. The response is too fast; yes, I’d definitely struck a nerve.
“I don’t believe in coincidences, Chloe.
” I can feel the wicked grin spread across my face, the one that promises retribution if I find out it is anything but a coincidence.
“Hear me clearly; I will be watching you. I will find out where you came from; I will find out why someone with your background just happened to be in the right place at the right time to end up being the caretaker for my son after he was kidnapped.”
“My background? You don’t know anything about my background!” Her voice rises.
“No, I don’t. Which is exactly the problem. Perhaps you would like to enlighten me?”
She opens her mouth, then closes it, visibly swallowing before answering. “I told you. I’m an orphan. I grew up at the orphanage.”
“Yes. But before that?” I push.
Her eyes meet mine for a moment, and then she casts them to the side again, her hands wringing together in the way that they do when she is nervous.
“That’s what I thought.” I lean forward slightly.
“Whatever you’re hiding, I will find out.
Emmanuel is everything to me. And if I find out that you’re using him to get to me, putting him in danger in any way, if you’re working with someone who wants to hurt my family.
I will not hesitate to remove you from our lives. Permanently.”
The threat hangs between us, sharp and unmistakable. Her face goes pale, the blush fading away completely. But there’s something else there too — hurt.
“If that’s how you feel about me, then why did you kiss me last night?”
I straighten. “That was a mistake.”
Her eyes search mine, looking for any amount of compassion. “A mistake?”
“Yes. One that won’t be happening again. Whatever happened between us last night changes nothing. You’re here for Emmanuel. That’s it. Nothing more.”
I see the instant shift in her, the anger building in her body. Fists clenched, jaw pressed together hard. But not in the way that women do when they’re about to cry; no, this is true unguarded anger at my dismissal.
Interesting.
She doesn’t say anything further. The silence stretches between us uncomfortably. I expect her to argue. To defend herself with that sharp tongue of hers. To push back at my accusations with the same fire she’d shown me last night.
But she doesn’t.
She just sits there, staring at me with those dark eyes. The silence is more unsettling to me than her arguing would have been, and I’m momentarily caught off guard.
“Is that all?” She finally asks, her voice perfectly polite, perfectly in control. “Because if it is, I would like to get dressed and join Emmanuel downstairs.”
“Chloe —”
“I understand perfectly, Mr. Cierro.” She slides from the bed with careful poise. “You have made your position very clear. I’m a threat until proven otherwise. And my job is to care for Emmanuel as I wanted to do in the first place. Got it.”
Yes, but you’re missing the part where I can’t stop thinking about kissing you again. Where the idea of you being exactly what I fear you to be is at war within me. How watching you with my son makes me feel things I have no business feeling.
But I don’t say a word of any of what I am thinking because none of that matters.
“No,” I say instead, standing as well. “That covers it. I’m glad we understand each other.”
“Wonderful.” She heads toward the bathroom, her spine straight, her shoulders back, and head held high. “I’ll be ready in twenty minutes.”
The bathroom door closes behind her with a firm click, and I hear the lock being engaged from within. The conjunction of sounds is somehow louder than a slam would have been.
I sit back down on the corner of the bed, staring at the closed door, running a hand through my hair in frustration.
What the hell just happened?
Chloe’s reaction was nothing like what I’d expected.
Why?
Instead, she’d given me silence. Compliance. A blank mask where there should have been a raging fire. Her refusal to fight feels more like a defeat than a victory. It feels wrong. All of it was wrong, only further confirming my suspicion that she is hiding something from me.
I stand up and head to my bag for a clean shirt and jeans, trying to ignore the uncomfortable feeling settling in my gut. I said what needed to be said. Made my position clear. Set boundaries that I should have established from the beginning.
It was right, a smart move. So why do I have an uncomfortable flutter in my chest telling me that I just made a terrible mistake?
Fifteen minutes later, the bathroom door opens, and Chloe emerges fully dressed — jeans, a dark green sweater that brings out the warmth in her brown eyes, and her hair pulled up in a practical ponytail.
She looks composed. Professional. And completely unaffected. Moving about on her side of the bed, she gathers her things, refusing to look at me, refusing to acknowledge my presence where I sit at the desk watching her.
“Chloe —” I begin, really not sure what I’m about to say, when she cuts me off.
“Emmanuel will be wondering where we are.” Her tone is pleasant and impersonal. “We should probably get downstairs.”
Then she’s grabbing her things and heading out the door of the hotel room, and I’m left rushing to keep up with her. I run a hand through my hair as I follow her to the elevator, frustration building in my chest. The scent of her shampoo lingering in the air behind her.