Chapter Twelve CHIARA
Days after Leo walked out of that room and left me burning for him, humiliation still sat like poison beneath my skin. Not because he rejected me. Because I begged. Actually begged.
Every time I remembered it, heat crawled violently up my throat until my face felt feverish. I would be brushing my hair, drinking tea, staring out at the skyline, and I’d hear my own desperate voice echoing in my head again.
Please touch me.
God. I buried my face deeper into the black silk pillow stretched across Leo’s enormous bed and groaned loud enough for the sound to disappear into the mattress.
The sheets smelled like him now. Expensive cologne layered over whiskey and cedarwood, masculine and dark and dangerous.
I hated that I recognized it. Hated that my body relaxed into it anyway.
The worst part wasn’t even the embarrassment. It was that I still wanted him.
The rejection should have cured me. Shamed me back into my senses. Instead, it made everything worse. My body had become hypersensitive to him afterward, like he’d awakened something starving and left it pacing around inside me with nowhere to go.
Every brush of silk against my thighs made me think about his hands. Every low male voice in the penthouse made my pulse jump before disappointment followed. Every night I laid awake imagining heavy footsteps outside the bedroom door.
Waiting. Always waiting.
And Leo? Leo barely came home anymore.
Or maybe he did, and simply avoided me so expertly I never saw him. Sometimes, long after midnight, I heard distant movement in the penthouse. Men talking in low voices. Ice clinking against crystal glasses. The quiet hum of the elevator opening and closing again.
But he never came in. Never came to me. Like he was punishing both of us.
I rolled onto my back slowly, staring up at the black ceiling overhead while the city glittered through the towering windows beside the bed. Rain streaked faintly across the glass tonight, turning the city into smeared silver and gold.
Tomorrow I was marrying him. My stomach twisted violently every time I thought about it. Tomorrow I would stand in front of the entire Five Families and become Chiara Moretti. The Serpent’s wife.
A cold shiver slid over my skin despite the warmth of the penthouse.
I sat up abruptly, silk sheets slipping down my bare legs.
One of Leo’s black dress shirts hung loosely off my body, exposing one shoulder.
The soft fabric brushed against my nipples every time I breathed, making me painfully aware of my own body all over again.
Pathetic. I hated this version of myself.
Eighteen years terrified of men touching me. Terrified of marriage. Terrified of becoming some monster’s obedient little wife. And now?
Now I was sleeping in Leo Moretti’s bed voluntarily like some lovesick idiot while he ignored me on purpose.
I heard the front door opening. I dragged a hand through my hair with a sigh and forced myself out of bed.
The penthouse smelled faintly of espresso when I wandered downstairs barefoot.
Sergio was sitting at the massive marble kitchen island cleaning a handgun with the casual boredom of a man polishing silverware.
Black tattoos curled over his forearms beneath rolled sleeves. His dark hair was slightly messy, expensive watch gleaming beneath the kitchen lights. He looked up once, then smirked.
“Well,” he drawled. “You look like you haven’t slept in days.”
“Good morning to you too,” I hissed.
“It’s two in the afternoon.” I flipped him off automatically while reaching for the coffee pot. Sergio clicked his tongue. “Careful, princess. That finger gets people shot in this family.”
“You people threaten murder over everything.” I rolled my eyes.
“You’ll fit right in,” he chuckled.
I snorted softly despite myself.
That was the problem with Sergio. He was impossible to dislike. Somewhere between being assigned as my bodyguard and stealing half my desserts, he’d turned into something dangerously close to a friend. Or maybe a heavily armed emotional support Doberman.
“You’re wearing boss’s shirt again,” Sergio observed casually.
I nearly choked on coffee. “It was the only clean thing I found.”
“Mm.” He laughed at me. “You sleep in his bed too.”
Heat exploded across my face. “You are literally insane.”
“I’m observant,” he corrected me.
“You’re nosy,” I hissed.
“I’m mafia. Same thing.” I glared at him over the rim of my coffee cup while he grinned outright now, completely entertained by my suffering.
“You should be nicer to me,” I muttered. “I’m technically your future queen.”
Sergio barked out a laugh so sudden he nearly dropped the gun magazine.
“Jesus Christ,” he wheezed. “You really are becoming a Moretti.”
“I hate everything about you, Sergio,” I replied.
“No, you don’t.” He pointed lazily with the gun cleaning cloth. “You’re lonely and I’m the only person here besides homicidal billionaires.”
The garment bags hanging beside the dining room table caught my attention then. My wedding dress. My pulse stumbled. Sergio followed my gaze.
“Ah,” he said darkly. “The hostage couture has arrived.”
I laughed before I could stop myself.
“Try it on,” he added.
I blinked at him. “You are a man.”
“And?”
“And I’m not changing in front of you!” I said.
Sergio looked deeply unimpressed. “Princess, I once helped Leo interrogate a politician with a nail gun while eating ravioli. I promise your shoulders aren’t going to scandalize me.”
A horrified laugh escaped me. “You are both genuinely psychotic.”
“Correct,” he smirked.
I grabbed the garment bag anyway, muttering under my breath while disappearing toward the bathroom. A few minutes later, I stepped back out slowly. Silence hit the room.
The satin hugged my body like liquid ivory, molded perfectly against my waist before cascading down in heavy folds around my feet. The corseted bodice pushed my breasts higher than anything Papa would have ever allowed, delicate lace glittering beneath the penthouse lights like frost.
The back was almost completely exposed. Leo absolutely picked this dress himself. Heat crept slowly up my throat. Sergio stared openly for several seconds before rubbing a hand over his jaw.
“Well,” he muttered finally. “That’s fucking terrifying.”
“What?” I hissed.
“You look like the kind of woman men start wars over.”
Butterflies erupted violently in my stomach. I turned slowly toward the mirror near the hallway. And for one dangerous moment… I didn’t look like a prisoner anymore. I looked like a bride. My breath caught softly.
Loose blonde waves spilled down my bare back exactly the way Leo liked them. Diamonds glittered against my throat and wrists, cold and beautiful beneath the soft lighting. The dress made me look older somehow. Softer. Sinful. Like I already belonged to him. The thought hurt.
Because tomorrow made everything real. Tomorrow everyone would watch him claim me publicly. Tomorrow he’d put his ring on my finger in front of the city. Tomorrow I officially stopped being independent.
“You okay?” Sergio asked quietly behind me.
I swallowed hard. “Define okay.”
“Not trying to run away before the big day?” he corrected himself.
I looked at him through the mirror. “Do you think he even wants this wedding anymore?”
Sergio’s brows lifted slightly. “You wouldn’t be here if he didn’t want it.””
“He’s barely home,” I admitted.
“Leo’s losing his mind,” Sergio corrected.
My heartbeat quickened faintly. “What does that mean?”
“It means boss hasn’t slept properly in days, stabbed two men this week, and threatened a senator over dinner yesterday.” Sergio leaned back against the counter casually. “So… clearly, he’s doing amazing.”
I snorted despite myself. “Why is he avoiding me?”
Sergio’s amusement faded slightly. “Because Leo’s the kind of man who either controls himself completely…” He looked directly at me. “Or not at all.”
Heat rolled low through my stomach so suddenly my thighs pressed together instinctively beneath the dress.
“Oh, you are down for him bad.”
“Shut up.” A flush crept over my cheeks as I smoothed my palms down the priceless wedding gown.
“You want him so bad it’s embarrassing,” Sergio sighed.
“I hate him,” I said weakly.
“Liar.”
I grabbed a decorative pillow and threw it directly at his head. He caught it without looking. “You assault me again and I’m telling Leo.”
“Please do. Maybe then he’ll finally come upstairs,” I muttered. The words slipped out before I could stop them. Silence followed. Sergio studied me for a long moment. Then sighed.
“He comes home every night,” he admitted quietly.
My chest tightened. “What?”
“He stands outside the bedroom door sometimes.” Sergio looked away toward the rain-streaked windows. “Long time too.”
My pulse stumbled violently. “He what?”
“He’s trying not to touch you before the wedding.”
The air felt too warm. Too tight.
“He’s doing a terrible job,” Sergio added dryly. “You should hear the way he talks about you when you aren’t there.”
My stomach flipped hard enough to hurt. “What does he say?”
Sergio grinned slowly. “Trying to get me in trouble? Absolutely fucking not. I enjoy being alive.”
That night, I waited for him again. Only this time I stopped pretending I was in his bed accidentally.
Rain hammered softly against the glass walls surrounding the penthouse while the city glowed beneath me in smeared gold and silver. Leo’s enormous bed swallowed me whole, black silk twisted around my bare legs while one of his shirts slipped lower off my shoulder.
Midnight passed. Then one. My eyes kept drifting toward the bedroom door despite myself. Waiting. Always waiting.
The penthouse elevator finally chimed downstairs sometime after one-thirty. My body reacted. Every muscle tightened at once. My pulse slammed against my ribs so hard it hurt.
Footsteps echoed faintly through the penthouse below. Slow. Heavy. Male. Him.
The bedroom door opened several minutes later. And all the air disappeared from my lungs.