Chapter 9
Nine
Sloane
The knock comes late.
I'm on my couch with the remnants of a pint of mint chip melting on the coffee table, the spoon sticking up from the half-eaten carton at an angle that screams defeat.
Patsy Cline spins on the record player because apparently heartbreak has a soundtrack and mine is on repeat.
Her voice fills the apartment and makes me want to ugly cry.
I stare at the door. Nobody knocks on my door on a weeknight this late. Onyx would call first. Bree would text. My landlord slides passive-aggressive notes under the gap about recycling bins and hallway noise.
The knock comes again. Three sharp hits.
Shit.
I look down at my thin evening gown. The deep V neck does nothing to hide anything. The bra came off hours ago, along with the makeup and the pinned-up hair.
I am in no condition for company.
I push to my feet, drag my fingers through my loose hair, and pad across the hardwood in my bare feet, the old floors cool and creaking under my weight. I look through the peephole. If my father has come to beg me to fall in line…
My heart clenches.
Massimo Santoro stands in my hallway in a charcoal suit with no tie, the collar of his shirt open, the tail of his viper tattoo visible at his wrist where his sleeves are rolled.
I notice because damn it, that is sexy as hell and always has been.
His jaw is set and his whiskey eyes are fixed on my door with an intensity that makes my skin prickle through an inch of wood and a deadbolt. He's holding a box in one hand, a leather folio tucked under his other arm.
My hand grips the doorknob, and I intend to turn the knob, but my hand doesn’t move.
The last time I saw this man he was standing in my father's study doorway looking at me like he could see through every layer of armor I had on.
Hours of pacing my apartment, eating ice cream out of the carton, and replaying the look on his face when our eyes met over the Lorenzo disaster, and now he's at my door.
Yep, he knows.
I could pretend I'm not home. The lights are low. Patsy is barely a whisper. He wouldn't know.
Another knock. "Sloane. Open the door, tesoro."
Tesoro.
I spin and lean against the door, clutching my chest. Why did he have to go and do that? Say that sweet nickname like that. If I could love the man more, I’d be a puddle of goo on the floor. My eyes drift closed.
“Tesoro, let me in.”
His voice carries through the wood with a warmth that settles in my stomach.
My heart climbs into my throat, but I open the door anyway.
Heat flushes through me instantly.
We stare at each other. He takes me in, his gaze moving over my bare shoulders, the revealing dip of the gown. I can't control the way my nipples harden under his gaze, and from the way his eyes drop, he notices.
My breath catches. Raw heat tingles from the bottom of my feet all the way to the roots of my hair.
He takes in my fresh face, the loose hair and my bare feet with one sweep of his gaze. And I say this with my hand raised and a promise on my lips, but I swear I think the man growls.
His eyes move over every detail, then soften. The hard line of his jaw loosens. My secrets are right there on my tongue and it takes everything I have not to say them.
Using both hands, I wrestle my nerves into submission and shove them into the corner.
"May I come in?" my one-time lover rumbles and the vibrations penetrate me to the core.
Okay, then. We are doing this. There are a million ways I can handle this. Close the door, is one. Act like a brat and scare him off. Fall to my knees and beg for him to make me orgasm again.
Hmm.
I take the adult option and step aside. He walks past me and the scent of his cologne fills my small apartment, mixing with the vanilla candle still burning on my steamer trunk.
His hand brushes against mine and he might as well have bent me over and kissed me senseless with how fast my entire body lights up.
Before my brain can shut it down, heat blooms through my chest, my pulse climbs, and every inch of skin that his hands touched last night wakes up wanting more.
I close the door and lean against it, the cool wood against my back, because my knees need the support. "I didn’t realize you knew where I lived." Go me! Not a quivering vowel or consonant to be heard.
He pins me with a brooding look that drips with arrogance.
"I'm the Syndicate's legal counsel. I find people.
" He sets the box on my spacious kitchen counter, next to the melted ice cream and the empty wine glass from earlier.
The leather folio goes beside it. His eyes scan my apartment and I watch him take in the crown molding, the emerald sofa, the record player spinning Patsy on low, the string lights draped across the windows casting warm amber across every surface.
He sees the cupcake still sitting on the counter with its melted pink candles. He's cataloging everything about me.
He braces his hands on the edge of the counter, keeping his back to me. Instinct tells me to stay where I am, but my feet move toward him as he speaks.
"I know you were in my penthouse, Sloane."
I know he knows and yet, I can’t help the flush of heat firing through me. Every red blood cell in my body warms with the need to feel his hands on me. The need to hear his heavy exhales as he finds his pleasure inside me.
My God, I have it bad for this man. But at least I know what I want.
I grip the ledge of a nearby chair because my hands need something to hold.
"I know about Lorenzo. I know about your father's debts. And I know what you wished for." He slowly turns, revealing the brooding frown on his lips. He taps the box he came in with two fingers. "You left something behind, Cinderella."
He opens the lid.
My heart pounds wildly.
My red heel sits inside, cradled in tissue paper, the cherry leather polished and perfect.
The T-strap buckle gleams under my kitchen light, the brass catching the warm glow from the string lights, and the leather still holds the curve of my foot from years of wear.
He kept it. He didn't throw it away or leave it with security or toss it in a lost and found.
He put it in a box with tissue paper and carried it to my door.
Like a prince. No, my king.
My eyes burn. I press my teeth into my bottom lip hard enough to feel the skin dent under the pressure and hold on. The hand resting over my hip tightens around the material of my gown.
"How long have you known?"
"Since this morning. The wish. Your initials. Your perfume." His voice is steady but his hands are not. I can see the faint tremor in his fingers where they rest on the back of a nearby stool. "I should have known the second you walked through my door, but–"
"You couldn't have. I made sure of that," I cut in.
"I know. And we can talk about that later. Right now I need you to listen to me."
I fold my arms across my chest, my fingers gripping my own elbows.
The silk gown is thin enough that I can feel the cool air from the hallway through the fabric, and my bare face makes me feel exposed in a way that the baby blue dress in his penthouse never did.
At least in his penthouse I was a stranger.
Now I'm Sloane Whitmore standing in bad lighting with no makeup and nothing between my skin and his gaze except a few inches of silk that hides absolutely nothing. No place to hide.
"I heard everything today. The Ferraro deal, Lorenzo, the debts." His jaw tightens and the muscle jumps beneath his ear. "I'm not going to let that happen."
"You don't get to decide what happens to me. My father already tried that. It didn't go well."
"I'm not your father." He takes a step toward me. One step. He’s now close enough that I can smell the hint of whiskey on his breath and feel the warmth radiating from his chest through the gap between us.
"I promised you once that no one would harm you.
That you were safe. I keep my word. I'm offering you a way out. You’d be a fool not to take it. "
My pulse hammers so hard I can feel it in my fingertips. "What kind of way out?"
Massimo’s next words force me to accept a reality I am trying to run from.
"Marry me."
The room tilts. The string lights blur. I grip the back of the chair tighter, the wood biting into my palm and stare at him.
"A marriage of convenience?” I demand harshly.
There’s a moment of silence.
“Yes,” he states.
The word comes out so low it vibrates through me, and I can't decide if I want to jump for joy or demand he leave.
“Take my contract instead of Lorenzo's. It protects you from the Ferraro claim, shields your father's assets, and gives me legal standing to challenge any existing arrangement.
" His voice is pure lawyer now, measured and precise, each word placed with the certainty of someone who's been drafting this argument for hours. It’s obvious because there’s not an ounce of hesitancy.
But his eyes are not lawyerly at all. His eyes are burning and desperate and full of hunger.
He brushes away wisps of hair that have fallen across my face. "You'd live in my penthouse. You'd be under my protection. Lorenzo can't touch you if my ring is on your finger."
"A contract marriage." I hear my own voice and it sounds far away, thin, like it's coming from somewhere behind me instead of from my own mouth.
"You're asking me to sign another contract.
What's the difference? Your contract or his?" I’m not opposed to his proposal. But I want to hear him say the words. My heart of hearts wants to hear the man I’ve loved from afar for years say he wants me.
My heart quickens. Petty, maybe. But a girl can have her cake and eat it too, damn it.
"I'm asking you to choose. Lorenzo's cage or mine." He pauses. "And I'm asking you to remember whose hands you trusted last night."