Chapter 11 Mara
MARA
By the time we get back to the Castello, the sun’s gone and the place looks even more intimidating in the dark—all shadows, stone, and the faint glow of warm light spilling from the tall windows. I should be tired after an afternoon of walking, but I’m not.
Nicolo tells me to get inside and “remember the rules.” I have to fight the urge to roll my eyes at the constant reminder of his stupid rules. Why do all men need to be insufferable?
He doesn’t say another word as we step inside.
He doesn’t have to. The air here is thick enough with unspoken rules that you could choke on it.
His men glance my way, but quickly look elsewhere, like they been told not to risk their lives.
Nicolo orders them to grab my bags out of the car, passing the keys to one of the guards.
When only he makes his way toward the door, Nicolo says, “Take two other men with you. You’ll need the extra hands.”
I narrow my eyes on the robotic grandpa. I just know he thinks by saying that, he’s insulting me. Big, fat wroooong. I’m an unashamed shopaholic.
The men rush out, leaving a big, gaping chasm as they pass. Fine by me.
I climb the stairs to my room, leaving him in the hall without so much as a glance over my shoulder. Let him think I’m ignoring him. It’s better if he doesn’t see the smug curl of my lips.
Because I know I got him today. It wasn’t much—a bite of gelato, a few seconds of eye contact—but for a man like Nicolo, that’s something. He can pretend it didn’t mean a thing, but I saw the way his jaw ticked before he leaned in. Control is his drug.
In my room, I watch the three guards dropping the shopping bags onto the floor by the door, all of them avoiding looking in my direction. They all file out, shutting the door behind them as soon as the last bag hits the wooden floor.
I pull out each piece one by one. Dresses in jewel tones, crisp jeans, silky tops, the few lingerie I made sure to linger over just to see the way his eyes narrowed. I trace my fingers over one of the lace sets, imagining the look on his face if I strolled into his precious office wearing it.
Would he bark at me to leave? Or just slam the door behind me?
Either way, the thought makes heat curl low in my stomach.
I glance toward the chair by the window, and that’s when I see it: his jacket from the flight. Black. Sharp. Still draped there like it belongs in my room.
I walk over and run my hands over the fabric. Bringing it up to my nose, I inhale deeply, filling my lungs with the smell of him. Expensive cologne. Smoke. A faint trace of something darker.
And that’s when the idea hits. A wicked, dangerous little spark of inspiration.
My lips curve as I fold the jacket over my arm and carry it toward the bed. I already know exactly which pair I’m going to use. The delicate lace—pale blush, pretty, cute, enticing.
I pick them up, running the fabric between my fingers, then rip the tag off before slipping them into the inner pocket of his jacket.
No one has to know. Not yet.
Dinner is quiet. Too quiet. The staff fuss in the kitchen while I sit at the island, stabbing at my lasagna without much appetite. Nicolo’s nowhere to be seen. Probably in one of those rooms I’m not allowed in, pretending I don’t exist.
Good. Let him keep pretending. It won’t last long.
Afterward, I wander back upstairs. The shopping bags are still half-spilled across the bed from when I threw them on there, but the jacket is neatly draped again, exactly how I’ll hand it back to him.
I change into something soft and slip onto the balcony.
The air is cooler here, the scent of cypress sharp in the breeze.
Below, near the edge of the terrace, Nicolo is pacing with a phone to his ear.
He’s speaking in Italian, voice low and deliberate, every syllable a warning to whoever’s on the other end.
He doesn’t look up. Doesn’t see me watching. But I see him.
I see the way his broad shoulders move, the way his free hand brushes over his jaw when he’s thinking. I see control in human form.
And I want to see what happens when it breaks.
I lean against the railing, smiling to myself.
I just need to find the right crack in his armor.
I linger on the balcony just long enough to watch him finish the call, his voice dropping into that low, clipped register that makes Italian sound like a threat and a promise all at once.
Then he exhales smoke, flicks the butt of his cigarette onto the gravel below, and heads toward the side entrance.
Perfect.
I grab his jacket from the chair, draping it over my arm like I’m doing him some great favor. My steps are quiet as I head downstairs, but my pulse isn’t. It thuds harder with every turn in the hall, a strange cocktail of nerves and thrill fizzing under my skin.
He’s just inside, standing by one of the tall windows with the phone still in his hand.
The faint light from outside cuts across his face, shadowing half of it, making the green in his eyes look darker when they finally shift to me.
I keep my expression neutral, almost bored, as I hold the jacket out.
“You left this in my room,” I say casually, as if I haven’t just committed social arson with lace and intention.
He takes it without a word, his fingers brushing mine for the barest fraction of a second before he pulls it away.
My stomach does this stupid little flip, but I ignore it.
I’ve already done enough damage for one night.
Before he can inspect it, before even a flicker of suspicion can register, I step back.
“Goodnight,” I murmur, already turning away and walking down the hall like I have somewhere else to be.
I don’t look over my shoulder. I don’t have to. The real satisfaction will come later—knowing he’ll reach into that pocket expecting to find the paper he left in there and find…them. And then?
Then I’ll know exactly what kind of man Nicolo Esposito really is.