Chapter 19

CHAPTER

NINETEEN

Anya

A fter Saverio is gone, I read the history he mapped out for us. It's a beautiful story. Believable. Under different circumstances, it would've been romantic. I bet if he tells the tale at a party, people will hang on his lips. The falseness is bittersweet, tormenting me with something I'll never have, and as I try to make the untruth my own, a silly but deeply hurtful sentimentality settles in my chest.

Not wanting to dwell on the sweet narrative of the make-belief love story, I slam the laptop shut with a sigh. This isn't my life. My life is a lot more complicated than the one in the Word document. For now, Saverio may pay my medical bills, an arrangement I'm both grateful for and uncomfortable with, but when our fake relationship comes to an end, I still have to take care of my baby and my mom. Making sure I'm financially independent remains my priority, which means my job still comes first.

I grab my bag and test if Saverio is good for his word by deactivating the alarm by the front door before unlocking and opening it.

One of the men in the dark suits steps up. "Can I get you anything, Ms. Brennan?"

My gaze is drawn to the gun in the body holster where his jacket has slipped aside. "I'm going to work."

"Wait here," he says, taking a phone from his pocket. "I'll signal the driver."

"What about Saverio? Didn't he just leave with his driver? I can take the subway."

"Mr. De Luca drove himself," the man says in an emotionless tone before addressing the person on the other end of the line. "Ms. Brennan needs to go in to the office."

Not a second later, the black car rolls down the circular driveway from the side of the garage and pulls up in front of the house. Another car with two men in suits stops behind him. My bodyguards, I assume.

The driver gets out and opens the door for me. He's an elderly gentleman with a tuft of white hair and a stern expression. The collar of his shirt is starched, and his black suit doesn't sport a single crease.

"Thank you, Kevin," I say as I get inside.

He closes the door without replying.

When he gets behind the wheel, I smile at him in the rearview mirror. "Thank you for driving me."

He gives a tight nod. It seems Kevin isn't big on making conversation. Respecting his boundaries, I stay quiet.

It's already three o-clock when he drops me off in front of the accounting firm. Ms. Price doesn't hide her disgruntlement when I knock on her door to tell her I just got in. I've barely settled behind my desk before she barges into the office with a pile of folders in her arms.

Dumping them in my in-tray, she says, "Make sure everything is filed before the end of the day."

I stare at her with bafflement as she marches with a stiff back through the door. I catch the gaze of my colleague, Jasmine, who sits on my left. She gives me a pitying smile.

The balance sheets I'm working on are on a deadline, but I don't dare to argue with Ms. Price. Normally, the senior accountants hand out the work, but Ms. Price steps in from time to time when tasks are allocated.

Taking the heavy pile of papers in my arms, I trudge down to the vault. The two women who do the filing look up from the table in the far corner where they're working. They spare me a fleeting glance before lowering their heads over the papers spread out in front of them again.

Sighing, I go to the empty desk that stands on the other end and start the tedious task of organizing the invoices and receipts by date and in alphabetical order.

The windowless room is brightly lit, but it smells of dust and appears gloomy. I let my gaze wander over the rows of metal shelves and the cardboard filing boxes stacked to the ceiling.

Why did Mr. Lewis come here on the night of his murder? What did he do in the vault a few minutes before he left the building with a panic button in his hand?

"Get to work," one of the filing clerks suddenly says in front of me, tapping her nails on my desk. "These papers aren't going to file themselves."

I lift my head.

Her face is pulled into a scowl. "We're going for a tea break."

The two women leave, slamming the fireproof door behind them.

When the door opens again a short while later, I don't glance up from my work, expecting it to be them, but someone puts a paper cup on the corner of the desk.

I look from the cup to the person who put it there.

Jasmine stands in front of me with a cocked hip and a similar cup in her hand. "I brought you ginger tea from the coffee shop." She smiles. "I noticed it's all that you drink."

"Thanks," I say, frowning. "That's kind of you."

"You must've really pissed Price off. Dishing out filing is her way of punishment." She wags her eyebrows. "What did you do?"

"Took time off?" I say, not sure if Ms. Price is annoyed about that or about the advance she gave me. Probably both.

Jasmine laughs. "That'll definitely rub her up the wrong way. She's all work and no fun."

"I hope she doesn't think I'm not serious about my job."

"She always thinks the worst. You can't change the way she's wired."

That's the last thing I need.

"Hey." Jasmine leans closer, bracing a hand on the desk. "Are you and Saverio De Luca really an item?" She straightens. "I mean, words goes around the office, if you know what I mean. Zack saw the two of you leaving here together."

"Um, yes."

Pointing a finger at me, she laughs. "You're a dark horse, Anya. I didn't think you were into the bad kind of hot guys."

"Saverio isn't a bad guy," I say, not sounding convincing.

"Oh, come on. Everyone knows in which circles he moves."

My argument is weak. "That doesn't make him a criminal."

"If you say so," she says in singsong voice. "How did the two of you even meet?"

"We ran into each other on the High Line. He went for a jog, and I was getting some air. I'd lost an earring, so he helped me to look for it."

She stares at me like someone transfixed by a spellbinding story. "Did he find it?"

"Yes. To thank him, I invited him for a drink."

"Oh my God." She places a palm on her neck. "I'm going to dress up in tiny shorts and drop an earring on the High Line." Lowering her voice, she asks in a suggestive tone, "Does he have any single friends?"

My smile is stilted. "If I meet them, I'll let you know."

She laughs, pointing at me again. "You do that."

The filing clerks who return from their break shoot her a hostile look.

"I better go," she whispers, making a face. "Good luck with the filing. Don't worry. You won't be stuck here indefinitely. Tomorrow, Price would've forgotten about her grudge, and you'll be back at your desk."

"Thanks," I mutter as she finger-waves before tiptoeing away with a grin that she shoots over her shoulder.

For the next couple of hours, I finish sorting the piles of paper. While I go around the room, looking for the appropriate boxes in which to file them, I scan the shelves and the names of the clients that are printed on the boxes. There's nothing under Bianchi. I go down the alphabet until I get to L, but there's no Luigi either. Neither a label for Giorgio nor Saverio. Nothing under De Luca. If there was anything, it may be filed under one of the names of the various companies they own. From what I read, Luigi is the proprietor of several clubs and hotels around the country.

Saverio said Mr. Lewis stole money from them. He didn't say Mr. Lewis did their books. But I can't imagine another way of Mr. Lewis getting his hands on mafia money. It would've been easier to have access to both the information and the funds if he managed their accounting. In that case, Mr. Lewis may not have kept any records on paper.

"We're locking up," one of the clerks says behind me.

I give a start. "I'll get my bag."

After tidying the desk, I walk outside to find Kevin waiting for me. The two men who followed us lean on the hood of their car, their eyes shaded by sunglasses. They get into the car when Kevin opens the door for me, and when he turns the car into the road, they follow.

"Home, Ms. Brennan?" Kevin asks in a gruff voice.

Home. What an odd term to use. Saverio's house isn't home for me, but Kevin may not know that. He may not be aware that our relationship isn't real.

"Go straight here, please," I say. "I'd like to go see a friend."

I direct him to my apartment building where I pay Livy a visit. When I tell her Saverio asked me to move in with him, she's so overcome with excitement, telling me I'm doing the right thing and wishing us only the best, that I feel every bit the despicable liar I've become. I don't stay long, opting to go to my apartment to pack a few personal items, but when I insert my key in the lock, the door opens in my face.

I step back, almost losing my balance.

Saverio grabs my elbow to steady me. He stands on the threshold with a box under his arm, looking dashing in a dark suit and every bit the rebel with that hoop in his ear.

"What are you doing here?" I ask, taken aback.

He only looks at me with a tight-set jaw.

Something in his obstinate, non-faltering gaze sets my instinct on high alert.

"What are you doing in my apartment, Saverio?"

Still, he doesn't reply.

Why do I get the feeling it's because he knows I'm not going to like the answer?

Striking out fast, I snatch the box from him. He could've easily prevented me from taking it by simply raising it above his head or wrenching it out of my fingers. I can never win against him in physical strength. Yet he didn't. He allowed me to grab that box either because he doesn't care that I know what the content is or he thinks the fight isn't worth it.

Holding my breath, I peer inside. Electronics fill the bottom. Between a crow's nest of wires, button-sized microphones peek out as well as the lenses of … cameras.

My heartbeat picks up as betrayal rushes hot through my veins. When I lift my head, he meets my eyes unflinchingly.

"You spied on me," I say in a breathless whisper.

That's what he came to remove—surveillance equipment.

He doesn't deny the statement. He only stands there and looks at me with a stony expression.

I take a step backward. "You son of a bitch."

"Anya." His voice holds a warning. "You know why it was necessary."

It never crossed my mind. Shit. I'm such an idiot. I really am no match for him, not on any level.

"You… You intruded on my privacy," I say, shaking with the injustice of the invasive act.

"Does that shock you?"

I clench my fingers around the box. "You bastard."

"Are you upset with me or about your naivety?"

Tears of anger burn behind my eyes. "What about your house? Are there cameras there too?"

His answer is gruff. "It's not necessary. We had the chat about obedience. I think you understand what's at stake."

My eyes flare as a thought hits me. "Did you watch me while I was naked?"

"No," he says, his manner frank.

I search his face, looking for the lie, but he watches me with a serious, open expression, allowing me to see the truth.

"Why not?" I'm not sure if I believe him. "Why didn't you?" I challenge him with a question, mocking his alleged chivalry. "Wasn't it tempting?"

He closes the distance between us, stopping so close to me that the box is trapped between us. His pale blue eyes play over my face as he says in a soft but dark voice, "The first time I look at your naked body, it won't be through the lens of a camera. The day you shed your clothes for me, I'll be close enough to smell you." Bending down, he inhales deeply as he presses a promise on my ear. "To touch you. To taste you."

I backtrack so fast I almost drop the box.

A lazy smile tilts his lips as he reaches out and gently but firmly takes the box from me. "My question to you is why are you here?"

I'm still reeling from what he said. What he meant . "I told you I was going to come over to give Livy notice."

Wait. Why am I explaining myself to him?

"I remember." He gives me a half-smile. "My men informed me that you were on your way, but this isn't Livy's apartment, is it?"

"This is my place. I can come here whenever the hell I please."

"Was." He puts the box down and straightens in no particular hurry. "It was your place."

"My things are still here."

"I told you I'd have everything packed up and moved."

"I came to pack a few personal things."

His smile turns knowing. "Of course."

Oh my God. Did he go through my drawers? Why wouldn't he? After all, he planted damn cameras in my apartment.

"Do you need a few boxes?" he asks. "I can send for some."

"I have a bag," I mumble, pushing past him.

"I'll give you some privacy," he says to my back. "I'll wait in the lounge. I can carry the bag down when you're done."

Biting my tongue before I tell him to take a hike, I yank an overnight bag from the closet and start packing.

He doesn't ask what's in the bag or make a suggestive comment about my personal items as I expected when he escorts me downstairs to the car.

We drive to his place together. I'm still not talking to him, and he's absorbed in his phone.

He only speaks again when we arrive at his house. "Would you like to have a shower while I fix dinner?"

"Yes," I say, grateful to escape.

He gets out of the car and comes around to open my door. "Go ahead. I'll bring your bag upstairs."

I don't let him invite me twice. I rush up the steps and past the men stationed on the porch.

One of them lets me in.

I mumble a thank you and dart upstairs where I lock myself in the bathroom. It takes a long, warm shower and another while before I'm more or less calm again.

When I step out of the bathroom, dressed in a loose-fitting dress, a delicious fragrance of tomato and basil reaches me. At the smell of the tomato, my mouth waters. I suddenly have an absurd craving for tomato soup, which I never liked.

Following the appetizing smell, I go downstairs. Saverio stands in front of the stove with his back turned to me, stirring something in a pot. He's still dressed in his fancy suit pants and white dress shirt, but he removed his jacket and folded back the sleeves of the shirt.

"Grab a seat," he says without turning around.

He didn't see me. I'm wearing socks, so he didn't hear me enter either. "How did you know I was here?"

"I have sharp senses."

Going to the island counter, I sit down on a stool. "I suppose sharp senses are indispensable in your business."

He flashes me a disarming smile from over his shoulder.

My heart gives a funny little jerk.

"I'm making homemade marinara sauce," he says. "Think you'll be able to stomach spaghetti?"

"It smells delicious."

He carries the pot to the counter and puts it on a cork plate. "It's my mother's recipe."

"Was she Italian?" I ask carefully.

His reply is curt. "Yes."

"Did you learn to speak it?"

"She tried to teach me, but she didn't have the energy when she got sick. I remember only a few words."

"Like tesoro ?"

I noticed he sometimes calls me that when he's angry. Otherwise, he reverts to the English treasure . I'm not entirely sure how I feel about his pet name for me. I'm still undecided if it's an endearment or patronizing. Maybe it's a little of both.

A smile warms his eyes. "Yes, like tesoro ."

Suddenly uncomfortable with discussing the pet name he chose for me, I change the subject. "You really do know how to cook."

Taking a spoon, he dips it in the sauce, blows on it to cool it, and brings it to my lips. "What do you think? More salt?"

For a change, I'm starving without being nauseous. I'm just about salivating for anything with tomatoes.

I close my lips around the spoon, and then I almost moan in ecstasy. I swear it's the best tomato sauce I've tasted. The oregano and basil are subtle and the salty-sweet taste of the tomatoes not too overpowering.

"Mm." I lick my lips. "This is good."

His gaze homes in on the action, his eyes darkening as he withdraws his hand and puts the spoon on a plate. "I'm glad you approve. The pasta is almost ready." He rounds the island station, turns my seat so that I'm facing him, and plants a palm on either side of me on the counter, effectively caging me in between his arms. "While we wait, how about we practice our public appearance?"

"Practice?" I say, my breath catching in my throat.

His pale blue eyes roam over my face, the light in them serious even as a playful smile tugs at his lips. "Let's see if we can push things a little further than a touch on the shoulder."

"Further?" I mumble like a parrot. "Further like how?"

"Like a kiss." He fixes a heated gaze on my lips. "How would you react if I kiss you, Ms. Brennan?"

As I stare at his mouth that's mere inches from mine, my heart starts to gallop in my chest. I freeze, my words drying up. I've kissed enough men in my twenty-three years, yet the prospect of pressing my lips against his does something to me that messes not only with my mind but also with my body.

Maybe it's because he's so far out of my league and I'm completely out of my depth. I have no idea why I don't move when he ever so slowly lowers his head because he's giving me ample time to react, to pull away, to say no. Yet I don't. I do nothing, nothing at all, and when he brushes his lips over mine in the softest of caresses, it's as if fireworks go off in my belly.

There's no way he could not have heard the soft but sharp intake of my breath. He had to have felt it in the air we exchanged. We stay like that for a second, frozen on the precipice of dangerous, foreign terrain, and then he molds his lips around mine like did outside the bar, claiming my mouth with faultless tenderness and undisguised heat that ignites an inferno inside me.

He's a good kisser. I'll give him that. But it's not just the skill with which he explores my mouth that elicits this powerful reaction. It's the honesty. Because he likes this too. It's evident in the bulge that grows against my hip.

I don't know what comes over me, why I open my lips for him when he teases the seam with his tongue. I only know that I'm not thinking straight any longer, not when he spreads my legs and yanks me to the edge of the seat while threading his fingers through my hair and tilting my head back for better access. Not when he cups my skull like a fragile glass bubble between his palms and plunders my mouth with hungry strokes of his tongue. Especially not when he rubs his hardness against the soft spot between my legs.

It's the single most exhilarating kiss of my life.

Unable to bite back the sound, I moan when he deepens the caress. I'm past thinking. Past forming coherent thoughts. All I can focus on is the fire that leaps inside me. I've never felt so out of control. All I can do when he sucks my bottom lip into his mouth before biting down gently is to wrap my arms around his neck and to hold on.

He cups the back of my head in one big hand while putting the other on my hip. I like the soft weight of his fingers there. I like the warmth that seeps into my skin. I like it even better when he brushes his fingertips down my thigh to the hem of my dress. My breath catches on a hitch when his palm makes contact with the naked skin of my knee. Flames lick over my body as he smooths a calloused palm up the inside of my leg. I arch my back, quietly begging him to touch the place that throbs with need. When he finally brushes his knuckles over my clit in a touch so featherlight it's barely there, I jerk in response.

He likes that too, groaning into the kiss as he doubles his onslaught on my lips while dipping his hand into the elastic of my panties. The pressure of his fingertip on the pulsing nub at the apex of my sex is as much as I can bear.

"Fuck," he says with a sound close to a growl. "You're soaking wet."

It's true. I've never been more turned on in my life.

I cry out when he circles my clit, tightening my arms around his neck. I'm so sensitive the softest pressure threatens to send me over the edge.

He tears his mouth from mine and pulls away to look at me. My lips tingle from the roughness of his stubble. They feel swollen and bee-stung in the most delicious way.

Studying my face, he dips his finger lower and curls the digit. I moan as need pulses in my core. I want him to fill me. I need the stretch.

I lean into the touch, seeking more friction. "Sav."

"Damn right," he says in a guttural voice. "I'm the one who makes you come. I alone and no one else."

When he parts my folds and slides the length of his finger inside me, the pleasure is so intense that my backside lifts off the seat. He keeps his finger still, not pumping like I expected but stretching me while massaging my clit with the pad of a finger. It only takes a second before I break apart, coming so hard that every muscle in my body locks into place.

"Fuck, Anya." He rests our foreheads together, breathing as hard as I am. "You'll fucking kill me."

I think he just did. I think I died. For the first time, I understand why they call it la petite mort . I must be dead if I'm no longer thinking and acting rationally. I've never been impulsive.

He doesn't let go immediately. He keeps his finger inside me, and I find that I like it. I like this strange kind of aftercare.

He lets me catch my breath before he pulls his hand from my underwear. Holding my gaze, he brings his finger to his mouth and sucks it clean.

"Delicious," he declares with smoldering eyes as he lowers my dress, making sure I'm covered in an odd, gentlemanly act. "I think that will do perfectly."

Still coming down from the high of the orgasm, I stare at his handsome features. "For what?"

"For our public appearance test." Adjusting the bulge in his pants, he says, "Now, how about some dinner?"