Chapter Nine LEO #2
The room smelled like leather, smoke, whiskey, and old violence soaked deep into dark wood. Floor-to-ceiling windows overlooked the glittering skyline below, though the blinds stayed half-drawn, slicing sunlight into sharp bars across the floor.
Business consumed the next several hours. Calls. Threats disguised as diplomacy. Money. Territory. Blood. Santino would take the bait. I already knew he would. Men like him always confused inheritance with intelligence.
Meanwhile, Chiara wandered the penthouse freely. The elevators stayed locked, of course. So did the front entrance. There were cameras hidden in every hallway and armed men downstairs.
She wasn’t escaping. But I wanted to see what she’d do with freedom. And deep down, I already knew she wouldn’t run yet. Not while her siblings still lived under her father’s roof.
Hours later, I stepped out of my office expecting silence. Instead, the scent of garlic and butter hit me. I stopped cold.
The penthouse usually smelled sterile. Expensive candles. Leather furniture. Marble polished so clean it barely felt lived in. But now warm air drifted through the space carrying rosemary, cream sauce, fresh bread.
It smelled like home. The realization unsettled me.
I followed the scent toward the kitchen and stopped in the doorway. Chiara stood barefoot at the marble island wearing one of my black dress shirts over her blue dress. The sleeves were rolled messily to her elbows, exposing delicate wrists dusted lightly with flour.
My shirt. Something possessive tightened violently in my chest.
Dark blonde hair spilled halfway out of her braid now while soft music played quietly nearby. She stirred sauce slowly, humming beneath her breath without realizing it.
For one dangerous second, the sight looked domestic. Like she belonged here. Like she belonged to me. Then she noticed me watching.
“Oh, you’re back,” she said softly.
My gaze dragged over her body slowly. The shirt hung off her tiny frame, swallowing her whole while still somehow making her look unbearably sexy. Bare legs. Bare feet. Pink lips parted slightly from surprise. Fuck me, she was beautiful.
“What are you doing?” I asked.
She frowned slightly. “Cooking.”
“We have staff for that,” I reminded her.
“I know.”
“Then why are you cooking?” I questioned. Chiara glanced back toward the stove, shy in a way I hadn’t seen before.
“I used to watch the cooks at home,” she admitted quietly. “I had to hide it from Papa, but I loved it. He always said it was beneath me.”
The confession caught me off guard.
“I’d sneak downstairs late at night sometimes,” she continued, stirring sauce carefully. “One of the cooks taught me things when Papa wasn’t around.”
Steam curled upward between us carrying garlic, cream, wine, basil.
“It made me feel…” She shrugged lightly. “Normal.”
The word sat strangely in my chest. Nothing about my world was normal. Least of all her standing barefoot in my kitchen wearing my clothes while making dinner for me like some spoiled little mafia princess pretending she wasn’t my prisoner.
And yet I couldn’t stop staring at her. At the curve of her calves. The elegant line of her throat. The way those blue eyes focused so carefully while she cooked. Beautiful.
I leaned against the counter slowly and watched her move around the kitchen. She cooked confidently, instinctively. No hesitation. No fear. Just graceful certainty.
“I didn’t expect you to know how to do this,” I admitted.
A tiny smile touched her mouth. “There are lots of things people don’t expect from me.”
I believed that now. When she finally plated the food and set it in front of me, the smell alone nearly distracted me. Fresh pasta coated in creamy sauce with herbs and parmesan melting across the top. I took a bite expecting decent. Instead, I froze.
Chiara noticed. “What?”
The pasta was rich and sharp and buttery all at once. Fucking incredible.
“This is…” I took another bite slowly. “Unexpected.”
A smug little smile curved her lips. “That means good.”
“It means my chef should be nervous,” I muttered.
She laughed softly. Christ. That sound was becoming addictive.
I sat across from her while evening slowly darkened the windows around us.
Chiara tucked one leg beneath herself in the chair, absently twirling pasta around her fork while strands of blonde hair escaped around her face.
She looked younger tonight. Softer. Less like my hostage. More like temptation.
I set my fork down carefully. “How was the call?”
The warmth faded from her expression. “I miss them.”
Not her Papa. Her siblings.
“Aurora cried,” she admitted quietly. “Sienna kept asking when I’m coming home.” Her voice softened even more at the mention of Matteo. “And Matteo threatened to kill you.”
A quiet laugh rumbled through my chest. “I’m devastated your twelve year old brother wants me dead.”
She rolled her eyes faintly, but sadness still lingered there beneath the gesture.
The soft lighting above the kitchen island caught against the diamond on her finger again, throwing fractured sparks across the marble between us.
My ring. Still there. Something dark and possessive tightened in my chest all over again.
The penthouse felt different tonight. Smaller somehow. Warmer. The scent of cream sauce and wine still lingered in the air while soft music drifted low from hidden speakers overhead. Outside the windows, darkness swallowed the skyline, the glass reflecting us back at ourselves instead.
Chiara looked tiny sitting across from me. Tiny and exhausted. She’d curled one leg beneath herself in the chair at some point, my black shirt slipping slightly off one shoulder now. The sight of smooth pale skin nearly distracted me from the conversation entirely.
Christ. I wanted her.
Not the casual kind of wanting I was used to. Not some quick fix to satisfy a craving. This felt uglier than that. Possessive and deeply consuming.
I wanted to drag her into my lap and keep her there. Wanted her scent soaked into my sheets permanently. Wanted her wearing my clothes every night while carrying my last name and my child like she’d been fucking made for it. The intensity of it almost irritated me.
Chiara finally looked up from her plate, blue eyes softer now than they’d been all day.
“What?” she asked quietly. I realized I’d been staring. My gaze dropped slowly to her mouth before returning to her eyes.
“You made a deal this morning,” I reminded her.
Her entire body stiffened. The softness vanished from her face, replaced by immediate suspicion. “Leo…”
“You wanted the doctor canceled,” I kept going. A flush crept slowly up her throat. “And I told you what it would cost.”
Her fork lowered onto the plate with a soft clink. The tension shifted. Hotter now. Sharper. Chiara swallowed hard enough that I noticed it from across the counter. “You weren’t serious.”
A low laugh escaped me before I could stop it.
“Bellissima,” I murmured, leaning back in my chair slowly. “I’m always serious.”
Her breathing changed. Subtle. Faster. Fuck, I noticed every tiny thing she did now.
“I’m not sleeping with you,” she whispered.
“I didn’t say sleeping with me.” My eyes dragged deliberately over her body again. “I said sleeping in my bed.”
That seemed to somehow make it worse. Chiara pushed back from the island too quickly, nearly stumbling over her chair before catching herself. My attention snapped to her ankle.
Still hurt. Still vulnerable. Still mine to protect whether she liked it or not.
“You’re enjoying this,” she accused softly.
“Very much.” Her glare should’ve intimidated me. Instead it made me hard. I watched her hug my shirt tighter around herself, probably not realizing how fucking tempting that looked. Bare legs. Flushed cheeks. Blonde hair falling loose around her shoulders now. Painfully beautiful.
“You’re evil,” she muttered.
“Probably.”
“And arrogant,” she bit out.
“Oh, most definitely.” I smirked.
She opened her mouth again, probably preparing another threat, but I stood before she could say it. The sudden movement made her freeze. I rounded the kitchen island slowly, watching her pulse jump visibly beneath the delicate skin of her throat with every step I took toward her.
One. Two. Three.
By the time I stopped in front of her, Chiara was barely breathing. The heat between us wrapped thickly through the kitchen. I reached up slowly and tucked one loose strand of blonde hair behind her ear. She shivered. That tiny reaction nearly destroyed my self-control completely.
“Go get ready for bed,” I said quietly. Her blue eyes widened slightly. “And wait for me in our room.”
The words hung heavily between us. Our room. Chiara’s lips parted softly like she wanted to argue, but nothing came out this time. Good. Because if she kept fighting me while looking like this, I was eventually going to snap.
My thumb brushed lightly along her jaw once before I stepped away from her completely. Distance. I needed distance.
“Leo…” she whispered.
“I still have work to finish,” I said. Her shoulders loosened slightly in relief. That annoyed me more than it should have.
I grabbed my whiskey from the counter and headed back toward my office before I did something reckless like pinning her against the kitchen island and finally tasting that smart mouth again.
The next two hours were torture. I tried focusing on work. Numbers blurred together. Shipments. Meetings. Territory negotiations. Nothing held my attention for long because every thought circled back to Chiara waiting in my bed upstairs.
In my clothes. With my ring still wrapped around her finger. Fuck.
By the time I finally left my office, the penthouse had gone silent. The lights were dimmed low throughout the hallway, warm amber reflecting against black marble floors. Somewhere in the distance, the dishwasher hummed softly from the kitchen.
It felt like home. That dangerous word again.
I loosened my tie slowly while walking toward the bedroom, exhaustion mixing badly with anticipation. Then I opened the door. And stopped breathing.
Chiara was asleep in my bed. The sight hit me so hard it physically hurt.
She lay tangled in dark sheets right in the center like she belonged there, blonde hair spilled across my pillows in soft waves now that the braid had completely fallen apart.
One of my black shirts had ridden halfway up her thighs while she slept, exposing endless pale skin against the dark silk bedding. Christ.
The bedside lamp cast golden light across her body, softening every sharp edge in the room until nothing existed except her. Tiny. Warm. Mine.
One delicate hand rested beneath her cheek while the other curled loosely against her chest, the diamond on her finger flashing every time she shifted slightly in her sleep. She kept the fucking ring on.
Something possessive nearly snapped inside me at the sight. I closed the bedroom door quietly behind me, but the soft click still made her stir faintly. A sleepy little sound escaped her throat.
Fuck.
My entire body tightened. I’d had women in my bed before. Hundreds of them. Models. Socialites. Actresses. Mafia daughters desperate for attention.
None of them had ever affected me like this. None of them had ever looked this tempting simply breathing in my sheets.
I loosened my cuffs slowly, unable to stop staring at her. At the curve of her bare thighs. The soft shape of her lips. The pale gold hair spread across my pillow like spilled silk. My control was hanging by a thread now.
Because all I could think about was climbing into bed behind her, dragging her against my chest, and finally finding out if she tasted as sweet as she looked.