Chapter 18

VALERIO

W as lovemaking healing?

A panacea against the tide of greed and evil?

Perhaps, a balm in the face of grief?

It appeared to be all three.

For Chiara especially.

I reclined in my chair, my gaze ensnared by her every movement in the living room.

Her grace and presence were akin to those of a feline.

It was heartwarming how she sought my attention, almost instinctive, like a cat nuzzling into a warm hand, her affectionate nature a comforting influence.

Now and then, she’d wander over, brushing her arm against my shoulder, seeking affection.

I stroked her hair and ran my fingers down the curve of her spine, loving the way she purred under my touch. Her eyes fluttered closed in contentment.

Grief still lingered in the corners of her eyes, but it was fading like the last wisps of a storm clearing away.

I indulged her through it without pressure or expectations—being there for her, a constant anchor in the ebb and flow of her emotions.

I sensed the tension leaving her body as she settled against me. She released a deep, slow breath; her face relaxed in what appeared to be the closest thing to the peace she’d enjoyed in days, perhaps even years.

‘You seem chill,’ I murmured, stroking her back.

My tone had a hint of a smile as my hand rested at the nape of her neck, my fingers playing with her hair.

Chiara let out a soft laugh, her head resting on my chest. ‘It’s my morning meditation,’ she replied. ‘All that mindfulness, grounding me.’

I chuckled, pressing a kiss to the top of her head.

‘Oh, right. Your contemplation,’ I rasped, my lips brushing on her temple. ‘That must be it. Not the absolute fuck fest and grinding we’ve been enjoying.’

She sat up a little, stretching like a cat waking from a nap, her body languid and fluid. ‘Actually,’ she began, her eyes lighting up with that familiar spark, ‘I’m considering attending a yoga class today. Just to, you know, further relax.’

Her smile widened as she leaned into me. ‘You should come with me. It’ll be good for you.’

I faltered for a second, a brief shadow crossing my face.

Thinking of the unidentified man in a dark car parked down the street, watching her house.

I’d taken note of his number plate and typed it into our private app, which Ciprioni Security used to track down suspects.

The results made me suck my teeth.

The vehicle came back as owned by a shell company, which I soon uncovered operated under the Barbieri umbrella.

Cazzo !

I hesitated to let Chiara know, unwilling to burst her bubble yet.

She was finding her peace again.

The last thing she needed was to be dragged back into the mess of the Tirone mafia world, nor to unidentified individuals still hunting her, with enemies waiting for the right moment to strike.

‘Why? What’s wrong?’ she said, cutting through my thoughts.

I dodged. ‘ Che palle ! Yoga? It’s going to be torture,’ I growled at her.

‘Like on a serious note, grow some,’ she clipped back.

‘I don’t have the appropriate gear,’ I grumbled.

‘Your gym shorts and shirt will be fine,’ she countered. ‘You have those in your luggage, si ?’

I growled my displeasure. ‘I can’t think of anything less suited for me—stretching in strange positions and breathing exercises.

Worse, a bunch of people sitting cross-legged, humming like they’ve achieved the pinnacle of enlightenment. It isn’t my thing. Never had been, never will be.’

‘You’re getting paid for the privilege of traveling me everywhere, so shut it,’ she smiled. ‘As your client, I insist.’

I had to keep her safe but short of keeping her inside, the only option was to accompany her everywhere.

‘Yoga, huh?’ I conceded, smiling again, though my mind was racing. ‘I could use the stretch, I suppose.’

Chiara beamed, thrilled that I was coming along.

She imagined a pleasurable session; I braced to keep a hawk-eye on her the whole time.

I planned on watching her, shadowing her movements, and staying one step ahead of anyone who might try something.

I’d be scanning each face in the yoga studio, checking every car in the parking lot, perhaps even crashing down her instructor if he so much raised a hand to her.

She was happy, and that’s all that mattered—for now.

As we prepared to head out, I slipped my gun into my holster under my jacket, its weight familiar against my side.

A half-hour later, I was standing in the middle of a bright, incense-filled studio surrounded by people who believed that contorting their frame was peak fitness.

I stood out like a sore thumb, starting to question my decision to come along.

I glanced at Chiara, who was already rolling out her mat like she’d done this a thousand times.

‘This is ridiculous,’ I muttered, my arms crossed over my chest. ‘Do yoga fanatics know how absurd they look?’

She peeked up at me, her eyes twinkling with amusement. ‘Yes, Rio. They know, and they don’t give a flying fuck. Get down, you need to blend in.’

I scoffed, pulling out the mat she’d brought for me, missing my firearm, now tucked in a locker in my bag. ‘Blend? In ‘this’?’

I gestured around the room, shaking my head.

‘I merge in with tactical gear and a Wilson and a Glock, not with—’ I glanced at the instructor, who was already humming under their breath, ‘—whatever the hell this is.’

Chiara smiled and nudged me. ‘Come on, just do it.’

‘What if my balls hang out of my bottoms? Worse, what if they hang out of his pants?’ I growled, pointing at some fucker with way too loose high-cut shorts on.

‘It’s natural, let them breathe.’

I scoffed as the yogi started the class, talking about ‘breathing into the poses’ and ‘finding our center.’

More irritation bubbling up inside me.

Chiara seemed content, flowing through the movements like she was made for this, her body arching and stretching with no effort.

On the other hand, I was holding in every sarcastic comment I wanted to let fly.

After about ten minutes of forcing my limbs into positions that no man should ever find himself in, I leaned over to her.

‘Do they all look constipated, or is it only me?’ I whispered, my voice dripping with disdain.

Chiara shushed me without even looking. ‘Stop it.’

I scowled and tried to focus on the instructor’s message, which seemed to involve opening your hips and feeling rooted.

Feel grounded? I felt like an idiot.

‘What does ‘open your heart’ even mean?’ I muttered louder this time. ‘Are we doing yoga or getting life advice?’

‘Rio,’ she hissed, shooting me a sideways glare. ‘Be quiet.’

I let out a deep growl of frustration, narrowing my eyes at the instructor as he demonstrated the subsequent stance.

It was some kind of impossible twist that made it seem he’d been practicing circus acrobatics since birth.

The other people in the class—most lithe types with ridiculous flexibility—mimicked him without a second thought.

‘This is not normal,’ I grumbled, bending into an awkward pose that strained my muscles, which ached in ways I hadn’t thought possible. ‘Who the hell enjoys this?’

Chiara sighed beside me. ‘You’ll like it if you let yourself relax.’

‘Relax?’ I scoffed, shifting into another clumsy stretch. ‘This is the least relaxing thing I’ve ever done.’

She glanced at me, lips pressed, trying not to laugh. ‘You’re doing fine.’

I wasn’t. Not by a long shot. But as the class dragged on, and I ran out of things to complain about, I realized there was no escaping it.

I was here, in it.

As much as I hated to admit it, my body was starting to loosen up, and the tension in my shoulders was easing.

I stopped muttering underhanded comments about the instructor’s zen-like attitude and the classmates who seemed born to contort themselves into pretzel shapes.

Instead, I focused on getting through the next pose without thoroughly embarrassing myself.

By the time we were halfway through, Chiara was grinning at me, that infuriating, knowing smile. ‘Would you believe it? You’re not dying.’

‘Shut up,’ I muttered, though I’d no argument in me anymore. ‘I still hate it—don’t get me wrong—but it isn’t as bad as I imagined.’

‘Fancy that,’ she pushed, with a wink.

Perhaps it was the fact that I stopped resisting it. Conceivably, the movements forced me to slow down and focus on the simplicity of inhaling and exhaling.

But by the end of the class, I wasn’t fighting it anymore. I relaxed into the flow.

We finished with a cobra pose.

Finally, something that didn’t make me feel like a contortionist. As we lay on the mats, deep breathing, the tension in my body melted away, even if just a little.

After the class, as we rolled up our mats, Chiara turned to me, her eyes sparkling with amusement. ‘That wasn’t so bad, was it?’

I glared at her though my baleful expression had no bite left. ‘You’re lucky we’re engaged.’

She laughed, slipping her arm through mine as we headed out. ‘Next time, you might even enjoy it all.’

I snorted. ‘Don’t push it.’

I said it softer, less annoyed. Maybe because, deep down, I’d enjoyed myself. Hell, as more time wore on, I liked being around someone like Chiara—who didn’t take my brooding to heart or shushed me like a misbehaving kid in school.

I was also partial to Chiara’s camaraderie and our back-and-forth banter.

Likewise, the idea of a ‘next’ time.

I enjoyed her company.

She provoked me, got me to laugh, with intense belly roars that ached, and between loving that had me growling, she kept me yearning all day long.

We were meant to be playing a part, but the lines between pretend and real blurred.

Like it or not, she was growing on me.

As was yoga, welcoming how limber it made me feel.

Much later, in her bed, I stroked the skin on her back as she lay on my chest, coming down a very pleasurable high,

She uttered two words that jolted me as her lips brushed my torso. ‘ Dolce metà ,’ she whispered almost in a reverie.

My limbs locked. ‘What did you say?’

She repeated the utterance. ‘ Dolce metà, because you’re so delicious, leone .’

I inhaled, trying to dampen the rush of emotion.

She sensed the shift and pulled her head back, tawny tresses trailing on my upper arm as she stared at me. ‘Shouldn’t I have said it?’

Fuck, she had the power to say anything she wanted with me balls deep in her. It’s what she said that shook me.

A rare wave of vulnerability hit on the back of wanting to tell her the truth. ‘They’re the same words my mother used to call me,’ I growled.

Her face blanched. ‘I’m sorry, I -.’

‘Don’t be,’ I rasped, pushing my hand through her hair. ‘I like it. Perhaps too much.’

She smiled, then wriggled her tush and squeezed, the movement sending arcs of electricity through my cock.

Damn this woman.

‘Woman, stop, you’ll have me going again.’

At the sound of my exasperating rumble, she shot me a cocky smile and pulled up, letting me glimpse her tits, her hips swirling once more.

So fractious, so infuriating, so freaking on fire.

I groaned as my traitorous body responded.

‘C’mon dolce metà , you know you want to.’

That ragged, raw whisper, with husky come hither tones, got me so hard that I growled.

With an exhale, I closed my eyes, canted my head back, and gave her the ride of her life.