Chapter 11
LUCA
Early afternoon sunlight streams through the kitchen windows when I finally drag myself downstairs, and I feel like death warmed over.
Four days. Four straight days of negotiations with Frank Lucas that have bled into early mornings and left me sleeping through entire afternoons.
The man is not easy to appease—not easy to negotiate with, and definitely not easy to tolerate for extended periods without wanting to put a bullet in his smug face.
He thinks he runs the entire city just because he has a direct line to heroin suppliers in Southeast Asia, and every meeting with him is an exercise in patience I do not naturally possess.
Dante and I have been on a completely nocturnal schedule, up all night handling business in Harlem, sleeping all day while the rest of the world functions normally.
Which means I have barely seen Rosalina in almost a week.
Which means Gabriel—lucky bastard—has had her all to himself since he volunteered to be her personal bodyguard during the day while Dante and I handle the Lucas situation.
I am absolutely not jealous about this.
Except I am completely, irrationally jealous about this.
I am halfway down the stairs when I hear it—music filtering up from the kitchen. Something with a good beat, something that makes me smile despite my exhaustion because I know exactly who is responsible for the noise.
I round the corner and stop dead in my tracks.
Rosalina is in the kitchen, and she is dancing.
Actually dancing—hips swaying, shoulders moving, completely unselfconscious as she assembles what looks like a turkey sandwich on the counter.
She is wearing the tiniest black shorts I have ever seen and my hoodie—my favorite black hoodie that I have been looking for all week—hanging off her frame in a way that should look ridiculous but instead looks so fucking good it makes my mouth go dry.
Her hair is piled on top of her head in a messy bun, exposing the elegant line of her neck, and she is singing along off-key to whatever is playing, using a butter knife as a microphone while she spreads mayo on bread with her other hand.
The sleeves of my hoodie are rolled up to her elbows, the hem hits her mid-thigh, and every time she moves it shifts and gives me tantalizing glimpses of bare skin at her lower back, the curve of her spine.
She does a little spin move, completely absorbed in her sandwich-making concert, and I have to bite back a laugh because this might be the most adorable thing I have ever seen.
I lean against the doorframe, crossing my arms, taking a moment to just appreciate the view. Her ass looks incredible in those shorts, and the way she moves—completely unguarded, completely herself—does something uncomfortable to my chest that I am not ready to examine.
"Lina," I say finally, pitching my voice low and amused.
She jumps, coffee sloshing over the side of her mug, and whips around to glare at me. "Jesus, Luca. Announce yourself."
"I just did." I push off the doorframe and move into the kitchen, watching the way her eyes track my movement, the way her grip tightens on her mug. "Nice hoodie."
She glances down at herself, then back up at me, chin lifting in that defiant way she has. "Thanks."
"Where did you get it?"
"Found it."
"Found it," I repeat, moving closer. "Just found it. Lying around."
"Yes."
I stop right in front of her, close enough to see the faint flush creeping up her neck, close enough to smell my laundry detergent on my hoodie mixed with whatever soap she uses that makes me want to bury my face in her throat. "That's my hoodie, Lina."
"Is it?" She takes a sip of her coffee, all fake innocence. "I couldn't tell."
"Liar." I reach out and tug on one of the too-long sleeves. "This is my favorite hoodie. I've been looking for it all week."
"Well now you found it." She smirks over the rim of her mug. "On me."
God, I love it when she gets bratty. Love the challenge in her eyes, the way she refuses to back down even when she is clearly in the wrong, the way she seems to enjoy pushing my buttons just to see what will happen.
Everyone else has had time to play with her but me, and I plan on remedying this today.
"Why are you wearing my hoodie?" I ask, even though I already know I am going to let her keep it. She looks too good in it, and the possessive part of my brain that I usually keep under tight control is purring at the sight of her wrapped in something that belongs to me.
She shrugs, the movement making the hoodie slip off one shoulder, exposing smooth pale skin and the strap of whatever she is wearing underneath—or not wearing, because I am not entirely sure there is anything under there.
"They didn't send most of my clothes from the Irish compound.
Something about needing to inventory everything first to make sure I wasn't smuggling weapons or contraband or whatever. "
"So you stole mine."
"Borrowed," she corrects. "Without asking. Temporarily."
"That's called stealing, Fiorella."
"Then arrest me." She sets her coffee down and spreads her arms wide, the movement making my hoodie ride up and expose a strip of her stomach that makes my mouth water. "Go ahead. I'm sure you have handcuffs somewhere."
The image that puts in my head—Rosalina spread out on my bed, wrists cuffed to the headboard, wearing nothing but my hoodie while I take my time exploring every inch of her—is so vivid I actually have to take a breath.
"Careful what you offer," I murmur, letting my gaze travel deliberately down her body and back up. "I might take you up on that."
She rolls her eyes, but I see the way her breathing picks up, the way her thighs press together. "You're insufferable."
"And you're wearing my clothes without permission." I step closer, crowding into her space until she has to tilt her head back to maintain eye contact. "If you needed clothes, Lina, all you had to do was ask."
“Well,” she sings. “I didn’t need clothes. I like wearing this.”
And I like seeing you in it.
“You still need your own clothes.” I lean forward, stealing a bite of her sandwich, and humming appreciatively. "Good sandwich."
She whirls around so fast she nearly elbows me in the ribs, eyes flashing with indignation. "That's my sandwich!"
"Was your sandwich," I correct, taking another bite while maintaining eye contact. "Now it's our sandwich."
"You—" She reaches for it, but I lift it out of her reach, grinning when she has to stretch up on her toes, the movement making my hoodie ride up and expose an even larger strip of her stomach that I want to put my mouth on. "Luca, give it back!"
"Make me, Fiorella."
She glares at me, weighing her options, and I can practically see the gears turning in her head as she decides whether this is worth fighting over. Then her expression shifts into something sweeter, softer, and she steps closer, placing one small hand on my chest.
"Please?" she asks, looking up at me through her lashes. "I'm hungry."
Oh, she is good.
"Nice try," I murmur, finishing the sandwich in two more bites. "But you're going to have to do better than that."
Her mouth drops open in outrage. "You ate my entire sandwich!"
"Half your sandwich," I correct. "The other half is right there."
"That's not the point!"
"Then what is the point?" I lean back against the counter, crossing my arms, thoroughly enjoying the way her cheeks are flushed with anger, the way her eyes are sparking with fire.
“The point is…” she pouts. “I’m hungry.”
"We’ll grab something while we’re out," I reach out and tug the hood up over her messy bun, grinning when she swats at my hand again, her fingers lingering against mine for just a second too long.
She freezes, suspicion flooding her expression immediately, eyes narrowing. "Out?"
"Yes, Lina. Out. Shopping." I let my hand drop from the hood to trail down her arm, fingertips barely grazing the fabric. "You know, that thing people do when they need clothes and don't want to steal them from innocent men who just want their favorite hoodie back."
"I'm not stealing it. I'm borrowing it."
"Without asking."
"I'm asking now!" Her voice pitches higher with frustration.
"And I'm saying no." I let my hand trail down from her arm to catch her wrist, thumb pressing against her pulse point where I can feel her heart racing. "So. Shopping. Today. You and me."
She pulls her wrist free, taking a step back, her hips hitting the counter. "Why would I go shopping with you?"
"Because Gabriel got to take you on a run." I take a step forward, closing the distance she just created. "Dante got to spank you at dinner—which, by the way, was incredibly hot and I'm still thinking about it—and I haven't gotten any alone time with you yet."
Her breath catches audibly, lips parting slightly. "That's not my problem."
"It could be your solution though." I lean in closer, bracing one hand on the counter beside her hip, watching her pupils blow wide. "Come shopping with me. Let me buy you an entire new wardrobe. Let me watch you try things on and model them for me like the gorgeous creature you are."
"That sounds like it's more for you than for me," she says, but her voice has gone breathier, less certain.
"Oh, it absolutely is." I grin, letting my gaze travel deliberately down her body and back up. "But you get new clothes out of it, so everybody wins."
She stares at me for a long moment, tongue darting out to wet her lips—a nervous gesture that makes me want to pin her against this counter and kiss her until neither of us can think straight. She is clearly trying to find the trap, the catch, the reason she should say no.
"Fine," she says finally, lifting her chin. "But I'm keeping the hoodie."
"We'll see," I murmur, reaching out to trace the neckline where it has slipped off one shoulder, fingertip barely grazing her collarbone.
She shivers.