17. Trilby

T rilby

I step inside Cristiano's bedroom and close the door behind me, letting my towel drop to the floor. Standing beneath his scrutiny wearing only a square of fluffy cotton felt obscene, but I couldn't bring myself to slip the black dress on—not now it carries the memories of being back at that church, sitting in a car, with a gunman right outside, and having my jaw held tightly by a ravenous man who apparently wants me as much as I want him.

Standing naked in his bedroom feels wrong and rebellious. He could walk in here at any moment. He could touch me in any place he wanted. My cheeks grow hot at the realization I'd let him.

Or ... he could simply stare.

I know what it feels like to be turned on. I've read plenty of kissy books and let my fingers wander south enough times to know what triggers it, what draws it out, and what kind of pressure brings relief. But I've never felt the space between my legs weigh so heavily until Cristiano's disinterested gaze lingered on that part of me. I've never felt scorching blood course through my pelvic bone, making me throb in places I didn't think possible. I've never yearned for another person's touch like I did when I stood beneath his waterfall shower.

I can feel myself getting hot and heavy again, until I remember. He isn't the one I'm marrying. I shake my head, but no matter how brisk, he won't leave. So I shove the image of his burning eyes to the back of my mind and get back to the task at hand.

I head to the closet. Light illuminates the rails as soon as the large doors open. This is the closet of someone with a serious case of OCD. The hangers are spaced at equal distances apart, and the clothes are pressed to within an inch of their life. Suits are ordered by shade: black to charcoal, steel to midnight-blue. Shirts, too, in only two color groups: black and white. His ties hang on the inside of the door, again ordered from dark to light and largely monochrome.

No sign of a T-shirt or shorts.

I close the doors and open the next set. Another downlight illuminates five rows of shoes, all luxury Italian leather and polished until I can see nearly a hundred of my faces reflected back at me.

I swallow.

Apparently, it's entirely possible to be intimidated by a closet.

The next closet contains drawers. A brief look into each reveals Cristiano is a fan of Marie Kondo, or his housekeeper is. I've never seen underwear rolled and stacked in real life before, and he doesn't make a habit of storing secrets in his clothing. No guns, no business cards, no mementoes.

I pull a pair of running shorts from a drawer dedicated solely to this particular breed of shorts and pull a T-shirt from one of the hangers above me. Both drown me, but I have very few other options. Stay naked or walk around in a towel all day.

I cast my gaze across the rest of the room. It looks like it's never been slept in. The bed is enormous and made of solid wood. The sheets are dark and pristine. There are two nightstands, each boasting simple but very expensive-looking lamps. On one sits a John Grisham thriller and a pair of reading glasses. I try to imagine Cristiano wearing reading glasses and then immediately squash the idea, because even that makes my legs tremble.

I leave the room and walk back to the kitchen. Cristiano glances up and does a double-take. Then he wipes the back of his hand across his forehead.

"It smells good." I perch on one of the stools around the island. "Arrabbiata?"

He scoffs as if creating something so simple is beneath him. "Puttanesca."

My stomach rumbles despite the fact I don't feel any form of appetite.

A corner of his mouth curls slightly before he wipes that away too. "It's a specialty," he adds. "Whore's pasta." He picks up a bottle of vodka and splashes some into the sauce.

"Shouldn't a good little Italian boy leave the cooking to the mamas or the wives?"

He arches a brow and reaches for two bowls. "Who says my wife will know how to cook?"

Something flares inside of me, and I laugh nervously. "All Italian girls are expected to be able to cook."

"And who says my wife will be Italian?"

I frown. "But isn't that the Cosa Nostra way? All made men must marry an Italian woman."

"I'm no longer a part of the Cosa Nostra," he says, spooning pasta into the bowls. He picks them up and turns to face me, his eyes hard and dark. "So I can marry whomever I want."

I feel his words like a punch, and it knocks my gaze to the floor. "Are you trying to make me jealous?" I ask quietly.

I hear him place the bowls on the counter. "No." His footsteps grow nearer until he squats down and brings his face to mine. "I'm simply telling you the facts."

Emotions collide in my chest. Part of me wants to push him away, because being this close to him is taunting me. Tainting me. But another part of me wants to push my fingers through his hair, dig my tips into his scalp, and pull his lips onto mine. I breathe heavily, sure he can smell the lust on my breath.

"No one ever leaves the Cosa Nostra," I whisper.

His eyes take on a heavy tincture. "As I said, I'm the exception. On account of my mother's murder."

"Didn't you want to stay and get your revenge?"

He grinds his jaw. "Yes. More than anything. But I moved on. For her. She loved my father, but she hated this life. She lived in fear every day that one of us would be taken too soon. I made a vow to stick around for as long as I could, and that means getting out of this life. Of course, it helped having the city's most lethal don for a father."

My gaze roams his face. He really is staggeringly beautiful. It makes my knees weak and my heart hurt. Without thinking, I draw my bottom lip between my teeth, and his eyes dip. His chest seems to swell, and his breathing deepens. Then he stands quickly. He pushes a bowl and a fork toward me.

"Now eat."

Cristiano sits on the other side of the island as though he doesn't trust me or himself. But he watches me intently as I push the food around.

"It's delicious," I say, feeding another piece of penne into my mouth. It really is delicious, but there are so many butterflies racing around my stomach I'm worried I might throw up if I force any food down.

"Is that why you've only taken three bites?"

"I told you, I'm not very hungry."

"When you're in my house and under my watch, you'll do as I say. Eat three more bites."

My eyes widen. I'm about to protest, but his steady, threatening gaze halts me.

I count in my head as I swallow three more mouthfuls, then I place my fork in the bowl. His scrutiny has me tied up in knots. I burn under his eyes, but at the same time, I can't bear the building tension. It feels like something has to burst or erupt for it to simmer down.

I pull back my now dry, unruly hair, pull a band off my wrist, and tie it in a knot on top of my head. He watches me, his gaze thoughtful.

"I don't have my straighteners," I say by way of apology. "This is the best I can do."

He runs his tongue across his top lip and lets his gaze weigh heavy. "I prefer your hair like this." His voice drops to a cavernous whisper. "It looks like you just got out of bed."

My stomach rolls inward, and I realize I don't have the energy to make sense of it. "I'm tired," I say with a sigh. "Is it okay if I go lie down now?"

He sits back abruptly, as though he's just been broken out of a trance. "Of course. I'll show you to your room."

I follow him to a door a little farther down from the master. A blush threatens the edges of my cheeks at the memory of standing in that shower. He holds the door open and lets me walk inside. This room is the polar opposite of the primary. Light, airy, peaceful, and inviting, not dark and oppressive like his own.

"This is perfect. Thank you." I turn to face him and swallow a gasp. He looks agonized .

His gaze licks up from the hem of my shorts to the collar of my tee, and his jaw tenses. "When I close this door, lock it. Do you understand?"

Nerves that are already bristling near the surface of my skin cause the hairs along my arms to prickle. "Why?"

He inhales deeply, his chest filling out. "To keep yourself safe."

My brows knit in confusion. His apartment is like Fort Knox already—I haven't missed the myriad security systems. Not only that, but the building is managed, adding another layer of security.

"From who?"

He releases his breath, his gaze darkening even further. Then he straightens and draws the door closed.

I guess I'm not getting an answer.