Chapter 17 Mara
MARA
Every inch of me aches. My shoulders burn, my wrists feel bruised, and there’s a dull throb in my lower back from where Nicolo slammed me onto the mat. It’s not the kind of soreness I had in mind when it comes to him, but it will do for now.
I should feel humiliated. Normal people would feel humiliated. But all I can think about is the way his chest pressed down on mine, his knee braced between my thighs, the lethal calm in his voice when he told me words could get me killed.
Pathetic. I’m pathetic.
I roll onto my side with a groan, glaring at the ceiling like it personally offended me. The man is infuriating. Cold as steel one second, pinning me to the floor like I weigh nothing the next…and still somehow acting like it didn’t affect him at all.
Meanwhile, I haven’t been able to stop replaying it in my head. His eyes. The weight of him. The way he shoved off me like I burned him.
Good. Let him burn.
I push up to sit, wincing when my muscles scream in protest. Whatever. Pain fades. Pride doesn’t. And if Nicolo Esposito thinks he can win every round of this little war between us, he’s wrong.
He might own the Castello. He might make the rules. But I know how to break people too. And I’ll break him.
I drag myself out of bed. Muscles I didn’t even know I had ache. The bastard didn’t just pin me; he rearranged me. And not in the good way. Ugh.
And for what? To prove a point? To remind me he’s stronger? Please. I already knew that.
But the worst part isn’t the soreness. It’s the silence. He hasn’t said a word to me since he left me sprawled on the mat like roadkill. Not a glance, not an order, not even one of his grunted insults.
It should be a blessing. Instead, it’s infuriating. Because if he thinks ignoring me means he’s won, he’s dumber than I thought.
I go to grab my phone out of habit before remembering…it’s still gone. Still hostage to his stupid rules.
My lips press into a thin line. Fine. If that’s how he wants to play it, I’ll just have to find another way to remind him I don’t break easy.
Every step down the hall is a reminder of yesterday’s “lesson.” By the time I make it down to breakfast, the Castello is buzzing. The guards move sharper than usual, their radios clipped tight at their belts. A low hum of tension threads the air, thick enough to taste.
Something’s brewing.
I glance toward the kitchen doorway, and there he is. Nicolo. Standing with one of his men, his head bent as he listens to a rapid stream of Italian. His expression doesn’t change, but the muscles in his jaw flex once, twice.
When he looks up, his gaze collides with mine, sharp as a blade. And for a split second, my breath catches.
Then he turns back to his men, dismissing me like I’m nothing.
Anger coils hot in my chest.
Okay, Esposito. Two can play this game.
The dining hall is too big, too quiet, and filled with too many guards pretending they don’t notice me. I spear a piece of fruit with more aggression than necessary, biting into it like it personally offended me.
Across the table, Nicolo sits with his usual morning spread: black coffee, toast, a newspaper in Italian I can’t be bothered to translate. He doesn’t even glance my way. This has been “our routine” since training started. His silence, my simmering irritation.
Not today. Instead of letting him continue ignoring me, I decide to poke.
“You know,” I say sweetly, leaning my chin on my hand, “for someone who lectures about discipline and focus, you really don’t practice what you preach.”
His eyes flick up, void of any emotion and sharp, then dart back down to the paper. “Eat your breakfast.”
I grin. “I’m just saying, if you spent half as much time working out those control issues as you do as glaring at me, maybe you wouldn’t already have gray hairs.”
“I’m in my late forties,” he grumbles, eyes still on the paper.
“So?” I push.
The air shifts. Subtle. Dangerous.
His jaw tics once as he folds the newspaper in half with lethal calm and sets it down beside his plate. “Mara.”
My pulse jumps, but I mask it with another bite of fruit. “Yes, Daddy?”
The scrape of his chair against the stone floor echoes like a warning shot. In two strides, he’s at my side, one large hand braced on the table beside my plate, his shadow falling over me.
“You want to provoke me?” His voice is low, quiet enough that the guards across the room won’t hear, but every syllable coils in my stomach. “Then understand the cost. You keep pushing, and I’ll break you in ways you won’t recover from.”
For a moment, neither of us moves. His eyes burn into mine, and my throat goes dry, but I force a smirk.
“Promises, promises.”
His nostrils flare, and for one terrifying second, I think he might actually snap. Instead, he straightens, smooths the cuff of his shirt, and walks back to his seat like I didn’t just call him Daddy over breakfast.
But I know better. I got under his skin. And that’s all I need.
I spear another piece of fruit, forcing myself to chew, slow and steady, while my blood hums with adrenaline.
He pretends he’s unaffected, but I know better. He’s rattled.
And I’ll keep pushing until I find the crack that finally makes him break.