Chapter 45 RóISE

We slow down only a little to cross the Brooklyn Bridge and a little more when we enter Lower Manhattan.

Two turns on the surface streets and I'm confused, pretty sure that neither the Oscuro Building nor the De Luca's family home are this way.

Where is he taking me?

Fifteen minutes later, we pull up in front of a building I've never been to. Not that I spend a lot of time in the City, but I know where I've been and this isn't it.

The shiny glass exterior isn't anything like the Art Deco fa?ade on the building where the De Luca's family home takes up the top two floors and rooftop. It doesn't tower nearly as high as the Oscuro building either.

Only when we park in the underground garage, do I realize our security details aren't with us.

I pull off my helmet. "Where are the bodyguards?"

"They stopped following us as soon as we crossed the bridge." Miceli shoves the fingerless leather gloves he'd been wearing into the helmet and leaves it on the seat.

I let him take mine and put it beside the other one. "I didn't notice."

Ollie is probably calling my uncle right now to tell him about Miceli dismissing the team. Not that it will do my bodyguard any good. If I've learned anything about Miceli, it's that he does what he wants.

The parking bay we are in is cut off from the rest of the garage by cement walls and a garage door that is lowering back into place. Miceli taps something on his phone and a red light above the door starts to blink .

This is a serious level of security. Whoever we're going to see must be someone important in the mafia.

Is he taking me to meet the godfather?

No. Not dressed like this.

The Italian mafia is way more formal about stuff like that than the Irish mob, or so my uncle insists. Uncle Brogan isn't exactly casual though.

Anyway, I don't know why we're here. I don't know what we're doing. What I do know is that if I ask, Miceli probably won't tell me. So, I'm not giving him the satisfaction.

"You told me you were taking me home." That's not a question. It's an observation.

I follow him toward the far wall.

"I will. After."

After what? Sex? Even though it makes no sense he's brought me to this high-security, undisclosed location (How James Bond does that sound?) for that, my thighs press together in hopeful anticipation.

My ovaries scream yes, yes, yes! But my brain is all, no, no, no. Do not let Miceli De Luca sex you up until you'll agree to anything he asks.

It's too real a possibility with this man.

Miceli presses something on the wall and it slides back to reveal a stainless steal elevator door. He steps up to a biometric eye scanner and lets it do its thing.

The doors open revealing a small elevator with enough room for maybe six people. This building has at least ten floors. No way is this elevator adequate. There are no floor designations, just another biometric scanner, confirming the suspicion formed when I saw the size.

It's a private elevator.

To where though?

Miceli's hand settles on my lower back and he presses slightly so I step onto the elevator. The ride is short, but with no stops that could mean we're on the top floor or the second.

I'm guessing the top. The De Luca's are penthouse kind of people. I'm sure their friends and associates are too.

The door slides open with a whoosh directly into a large, open space.

The scent of linseed oil and turpentine teases my senses. Lights come on, and a second later, the soft whir of an invisible fan fills the air around us.

There's enough light from the floor to ceiling windows, the extra illumination isn't really necessary but maybe the owner likes really brightly lit spaces?

Unframed paintings hang gallery style on the wall to the left.

Is this some kind of private art gallery ?

No. Not a gallery, a painter's studio.

Empty canvases stand, stacked against the wall on the bare wood floor. To the right, there's a kitchen with butcher block countertops.

Instead of dishes on the open shelves, there are jars smeared with paint, some filled with paint brushes. On this side of the island there are two art supply cabinets with lots of wide shallow drawers tucked under the breakfast bar.

Devoid of couches or chairs, there is only an artist stool and three easels. All sit on top of paint splotched drop cloths and have other, smaller cloths covering the canvases sitting on them.

We are standing in a private studio for an individual who does not expect to entertain.

"Who are we here to see?" I ask.

Miceli looks at me for a long silent moment. "Not a who. A what. This is my studio."

To stunned to speak, I stare back at him, my mouth hanging ajar. Attractive? I doubt it. But seriously?

The underboss has a studio? He's an artist?

"My father brought me here the first time when I was ten."

"That was kind of him." Surprisingly so for a ruthless don like his dad. "I mean, if you're an artist."

I'm still having trouble wrapping my mind around the idea that my underboss fiancé… almost fiancé…is an artist.

"I started drawing before I learned to read. My father trained me to only draw on paper. Eventually." Miceli shakes his head, like he's dispelling an unpleasant memory. "He couldn't get me to stop sketching all together though."

"Why would he want to?"

"To protect me."

From what? The drawing police? "I don't understand."

"When I was ten, he realized two things about me." Miceli stops talking, lost in his memories?

Is he going to make me ask what they are. Well, I will. I don't mind being nosy. "Two things?"

This time my underboss shakes his whole upper body and then nods. "First, I'm talented."

There's no arrogance in his voice. It's not smug like it usually is when he's right about something. It's just matter fact, maybe a little sad.

Two questions fight for supremacy in my brain. The first, can I see? The second, what was the second thing?

I decide to find out what that is first. "So, what else did he discover about you? "

"I have a weakness that could be exploited if anyone else found out about it. As much as he wished I didn't have it, my father understood the obsession."

"He did?" The studio says yes , but Miceli's belief his painting is a weakness says no .

"This was my father's space before it became mine. We shared it until his death."

I look around me. Having a hard time picturing the merciless don I heard about while I was growing up as an artist. And maybe that's the point. The reason both he and Miceli felt the need to hide that side of themselves.

Sensitivity is not considered a strength for a made man, especially one in a position of leadership. Having an artist's soul? Also, not a benefit.

Is my heart cracking right down the center at the thought of Miceli hiding this part of himself behind the extreme security this place has? Yes.

"Not even my mother knows about this place." Miceli looks at me like he's willing me to understand the silent message in his gaze.

I don't. What is he trying to tell me? Why does it matter that he hasn't told anyone else in his family?

Then the truth crashes down on me like a falling brick. His dad never told his mom. Not about himself or their son. But Miceli is telling me . I'm in on the secret.

The walls erected around my heart against this man are shuddering from the direct hits they're taking.

"Why is being an artist so bad you have to hide it even from your mom and siblings?"

"It's an obsession. I cannot stop drawing. Or painting. Neither could my father. Anything with that strong of a hold on you is a weakness."

Hearing those words is painful because isn't love like an obsession?

Even if my heart falls beneath the onslaught of this man, his heart will always remain aloof.

He has one obsession, he'll never let himself have another.

"I don't see how an enemy could exploit your need to create. It's not like it's going to stop you from doing what you have to do to further the interests of your mafia."

I should know. I'm one of those things he has to do.

"People believe artists are sentimental. Emotional. That they are more susceptible to allowing their emotions to control them."

"There is no way anyone would ever believe that of you," I assure him.

"Maybe. Maybe not. But I am taking no chances. I am the underboss."

"Ares, the God of war. You are your brother's right arm. The one that holds the weapon." But that night in Portland, Ares was my lover.

Because Ares and Miceli are the same guy. Does he realize that ?

"Just like my father, my brother is capable of doing whatever he has to keep our enemies under us. But until now it has been my job to do that for him." He pauses and then adds, "In most cases."

I wonder what those exceptions are. Will Miceli ever trust me enough to tell me? The trust he's showing tonight blows me away.

Is his trust and lust and commitment enough when I feel my heart filling with that obsession we all know is love?

Something else he said snags my attention. "What do you mean until now?"

After almost a minute of silence, during which he stares at me with every bit of mesmerizing intensity his dark eyes are capable of, something shifts in his gaze like he's made a decision.

My breath is stuck in my chest while I wait for him to act on it.

"There is a reason the marriage has to happen now," he says.

Ugh. That's what he said before. Nothing new there. The anticipation buoying me up pops like a birthday balloon filled with too much helium.

Did he bring me here and tell me his secret to soften me up?

It's not going to work. Not about this.

"I am not giving up my education. I do not care if I get to use it," I inform him when he opens his mouth to say something else. "You all made that promise."

Him, the don, and my uncle. My dad made the same one years ago and even dead, he did his best to keep it. I'm not budging.

"I signed that contract contingent on me finishing my degree. How do I trust any of you to keep your word if you break it about this?"