10. Damian

10

Ishoulder my way through the thick oak doors, the scents of Cuban cigars and aged whiskey enveloping me. As I enter the study, my men rise to their feet out of respect.

With a curt nod, I wave for them to remain seated and pour myself a drink from the crystal decanter. Taking my customary chair by the fireplace, my mind isn't on family business for once. Instead, my thoughts drift to a certain curly haired woman living in my home.

Alexis. Just her name alone is a dangerous distraction I can't seem to avoid, no matter how much I try. The curly-haired siren intrigues me like no other, but her past remains a mystery to me. Who is she?

I've had my best men discreetly dig into her background. So far, all they've been able to come up with is that she has a deceased mother, was placed in foster care, and worked at Cake My Day bakery. That bit of information surprised me as I love to go there and get their donuts. I wonder if I've ever interacted with her and just didn't know it?

But she has no other family and no friends to speak of. Her guarded nature only raises more questions. She is an enigma—one that increasingly occupies my thoughts. Alexis is as ordinary as they come. So, why is The Brotherhood determined to have her?

I hate this. I am not used to being so utterly in the dark about anything or anyone who steps foot on my property.

A soft clearing of a throat makes me raise my eyes to meet Edo's questioning gaze from across the study. Right, I'm supposed to be focused on business dealings right now.

I force my mind away from Alexis, drowning my fascination with a steadying sip of whiskey. There will be time later to unearth Alexis's secrets.

"You know, if you want to know more about Alexis, you should just ask her."

Whirling around, I spy an amused Nat leaning against a nearby wall, her lips curled up in a smirk.

"Fuck off," I snarl, wondering how much Nat had overheard. I've been making casual inquiries with the staff about Alexis's preferences and routines. So far, I've learned she likes to practice yoga early in the morning, hates bananas, and has a huge sweet tooth.

Nat snorts and pushes away from the wall, walking over to me. "I'm just saying. For a Mafia Don, you're pretty shitty at being inconspicuous."

To my horror, heat creeps up my neck. I fix Nat with a withering look. "Don't you have something more important to do than harassing me?"

"Nope," Nat says casually, popping the ‘p', an annoyingly smug grin on her face. "But I gotta say, it's really cute watching you trying to get information about her. By the way, she also likes to paint."

My jaw nearly drops at this new kernel of information. "How did you find that out?"

She shrugs. "I asked her." Nat's laughter is insufferable as she saunters away, humming an Elton John love song.

If I could tie my sister up and dump her into Lake Michigan, I would.

A painter. I wonder what inspires her. Does she paint haunting images or is she more abstract? I'm determined to find out.

A couple of days later, I steer my path to "accidentally" cross with Alexis's in the hallway. Her black hair is clipped back, with a few errant curls dangling enticingly by her ears. Even though cutting and dying her hair was a good idea, I miss her long, gorgeous curls.

"Alexis," I greet her. "I understand you're quite the talented artist."

She blinks owlishly at me, clearly not expecting me to know such a personal detail about her. "I… well, sort of, I suppose. I'm not very good. It's just a hobby, really."

"But you like to paint, right?"

"Yes. Yes, I do. I find it very soothing."

I nod. "I've had paints, canvases, and other materials brought over for your use. They're in the sunroom downstairs. Consider them yours."

Alexis's eyes widen in surprise and delight. "You didn't have to do that, I?—"

"I insist," I cut her off firmly, but not unkindly. "If you're going to stay with us, you should be able to do the things you enjoy."

Her grateful smile in that moment sparks something warm and dangerous in my chest that I swiftly stamp down. This is merely a pragmatic gesture. Nothing more.

"Thank you, Damian. This means more than you know," Alexis says sincerely, looking at me with an unsettlingly gentle expression.

"Maybe you could show me how to paint, too?" I ask, my heart thudding traitorously in my chest. "Fair warning, I can barely draw a stick figure."

Alexis laughs, the sound a soothing balm to my soul. "I think it will be the blind leading the blind, but sure. I would be happy to teach you some basic skills."

"How about this weekend?" I ask.

"It's a date—uh, I mean, yes, of course. The weekend works perfectly." Alexis worries her bottom lip as if berating herself for the slip.

I give one last nod of acknowledgment before turning on my heel, fighting to maintain my unaffected fa?ade. I can't help but replay the phrase in my mind, feeling startlingly thrilled at the inadvertent implication.

The weekend can't come soon enough.

The mansion feels eerily quiet with my staff, Nat, and Edo dismissed for the rest of the day. Edo had to drag Nat out of the house as she made kissy noises toward me. Sister or not, I'm going to fucking murder her.

I stand in the empty sunroom, the jarring silence only highlighting the thrum of nervous energy coursing through me.

This seemed like an innocuous enough idea when I asked Alexis to show me how to paint, a simple creative reprieve from the weight of my responsibilities. But now, faced with the reality of the situation—just Alexis and me, alone—doubts start creeping in. When was the last time I allowed myself to be so utterly unguarded with someone outside my inner circle?

The sound of approaching footsteps stills my pacing. Alexis appears at the doorway, all loose, dark curls and soft smiles. My breath hitches at the simple vision she makes in leggings and a form-fitting V-necked shirt.

"Hi," she says shyly.

"Hi," I say stupidly, barely managing to maintain my veneer of unshakeable composure. Biscotti trots in after Alexis, racing to me and jumping at my legs.

Alexis smiles widely, my stomach flip-flopping at the sight. "I have to admit, when I ever thought of a Mob Boss owning a dog, I always thought it would be a great, scary dog—like a pit bull or a German shepherd. I really wasn't expecting a wiener dog."

"Dachshund," I correct, lifting Biscotti into my arms to pet her. "Don't let her small size fool you. She's vicious when she wants to be. She's taken a bite out of Edo before."

Alexis smiles softly. "I don't doubt that."

I make a sweeping gesture toward the arranged canvases and brushes on a gleaming table. "Shall we begin while we still have the light?"

She situates herself at the table, deft fingers sorting through paints and tools. My eyes trail appreciatively over her lithe figure. It's dangerous territory to allow myself such an indulgence.

"We should start with the basics, like color theory, brush techniques, that sort of thing," Alexis says as she dips bristles into rich pigments. "But since you claim you can barely draw a stick figure, maybe we should stick with finger painting."

The teasing lilt to her voice, combined with the playful grin she flashes over one shoulder, immediately heats my blood. My thoughts stray to those delicate fingers trailing through more than just oil paints…

Jesus. I already need a cold shower.

I clear my throat harshly. "I'm a quick learner. But we can start wherever you think is best."

Alexis hums agreeably, her focus already absorbed in mixing a particularly vivid shade of pink. I allow myself to step closer, allowing the subtle citrus scent of her shampoo to envelop me.

Fuck. This is going to be torture.

"Let's get started," Alexis says, dragging over a stool and perching on it, our knees grazing as she settles in close. "Remember, this is just for fun. No expectations."

I raise an eyebrow. For someone who deals in ultimatums and power plays, having zero expectations is an utterly foreign concept. But her reassuring smile and close proximity make me want to try.

I attempt to lose myself in the ebb and flow of brushstrokes across the canvas, making swirls and slashes. Alexis leans forward, her citrus scent intoxicating, her fingers warm against mine as she adjusts my hold on the paintbrush. "Like this," she murmurs. "Loose but controlled."

Kind of like my resolve right now. But I give her a stiff nod, struggling to focus on her instructions rather than the gentle sweep of her thumb grazing my knuckles.

Dipping my brush into the paint, I attempt to follow her instructions, but my heavy-handedness takes over, resulting in harsh, uneven lines across the canvas. I curse.

"You're overthinking it," Alexis chides gently. "Painting is feeling, not precision. Let the emotions guide your strokes."

I tense at her words. Allowing myself to be governed by passion rather than sheer force of will? The very notion goes against every ingrained element in me.

Yet here in this sunroom, Alexis seems to dismantle my restraints without even realizing. Watching the way her own nimble hands dance across the canvas in bold, expressive movements… it's utterly captivating.

I try again, swiping dark blue across the canvas in one harsh, slashing gesture.

Alexis's lips curve into a mischievous smile. "Angry brushstrokes for our brooding artist, I see."

"Hardly," I scoff, though my ears heat at being so transparently read. "I deal in absolutes."

"Do you? Because your painting tells a different story."

What on earth could the few paint strokes say about me? This I have to hear.

"I see a struggle between control and craving, desperation and restraint," she says softly.

A tremor cascades through me at her perceptive assessment, one that feels a bit too intimate even from an artist's perspective. I lick my suddenly dry lips, painfully aware of each scorching point where our bodies align. She is too close, clouding my senses with her presence.

"Perhaps we need a break," Alexis breathes. "Clear our heads."

The energy crackling between us is palpable, thrumming with a dozen unspoken possibilities. Of its own volition, my free hand drifts to her hip, fingers splaying possessively over the thin cotton as I tug her nearer.

Alexis's eyes briefly flutter shut before opening again, shimmering with a combination of nerves and want. At this moment, I'm acutely aware of how easy it would be to surrender. To discharge the ironclad control I cling to and give in to these incredibly inescapable urges that leave my body thrumming.

She seems to sense the warring factions within me, her generous mouth curving. As one slender finger trails down the plane of my chest, I shudder violently at her sensual exploration. Rational thought is rapidly becoming an effort in futility.

When she rises on her bare tiptoes, her full breasts brushing my torso, my resolve finally shatters. In one fluid motion, I cradle the nape of her neck as I crush our mouths together in a searing, desperate kiss.