Page 144 of My Sweetest Temptation

He sat on the bench at the grand piano, fingers poised above the keys, looking like some sexy, tattooed prince, wearing a dark wine-colored dress shirt with half the buttons undone. My stupid heart was doing somersaults.

“Nico, we need to talk,” I said, crossing my arms over my chest like I was about to lecture a wayward child instead of flirting with a Greek god.

Nico raised an eyebrow, looking at me with an expression that was a mix between curiosity and mischief. “Talk about what, Winter?”

I opened my mouth to respond, but then I noticed Matteo, Luca, and Lo in the background, clearly enjoying the show based on the grins plastered on their faces. All they needed was a bucket of popcorn.

“Looks like we’re crashing the party,” Luca declared, shutting down his laptop and standing up with a smirk that could charm the pants off a statue.

“Hello, Winter,” he said.

“Hi, Luca,” I replied, unable to resist smiling back.

Luca leaned in closer and whispered in my ear, glancing back like a secretive little spy at Nico. “Don’t be too hard on the boss, but make sure he doesn’t dodge whatever bullets you’re about to shoot at him.” He chuckled deeply before sashaying out of the room.

Matteo and Lo shot me broad smiles as they passed me. Just like that, they were gone, leaving me alone with the smoldering distraction that was Nico.

Okay, I thought, it’s time to get serious. But first, I had to figure out how to keep my heart from doing the tango while I talked to the man who looked like he just stepped out of a dark romance novel.

“Are you going to just stand there, or are you going to bring that cute little ass of yours over to my lap?” Nico teased, his sly grin growing wider as he closed the piano lid. He downed the rest of his whiskey and rose to his full height, sauntering toward the bar.

“Do you want something to drink?”

“No, thank you,” I replied, my eyes glued to the way his pants clung to his tight backside. It was hard to focus on why I was here when his every curve was so distractingly perfect.

“Suit yourself,” he said, glancing back over his shoulder with a playful wink. “But just know, refusal only heightens my obsession. Sweet and tempting, like a dessert you can’t have but are desperately craving.”

I rolled my eyes, trying to feign nonchalance, but the truth was, I was terrified.

“Seriously, what is this about?” His deep voice rumbled as he leaned casually against the bar, arms crossing over his broad chest. His posture had an air of confidence, but his eyes were sharp and assessing. “Not that I’m not happy to see you.”

Taking a steady breath, I met his gaze. “I heard some things today,” I began, my voice shaking despite my efforts to sound brave. “And I need you to tell me the truth.”

Nico’s head tilted slightly to the side, his blue eyes unwavering as they held mine. “What did you hear?” His words came out low and intense.

I sighed, my gaze dropping to the floor. “That you’re... involved... with... the mafia, drugs, murder. Because of your wealth, I assumed it was just gossip, but now...” The fear I was trying to suppress was evident in my quavering voice.

The silence that followed felt like an eternity. When I stole a glance at Nico, his expression was unreadable.

“It’s not true, is it?” I asked, my voice laced with desperate hopefulness.

He didn’t respond immediately, and at that moment, my imagination ran wild. Finally, he spoke, his voice deceptively calm. “And what if it was?”

My breath caught in my throat. Nico pushed off the bar, his movements deliberate as he took slow strides toward me. “You want the truth?” he asked.

“Fine. I run a very profitable business. I own several condo properties and a nightclub, but that’s just the surface. I smuggle drugs into the U.S. using wine bottles.”

He paused, letting his confession sink in. “I’ve killed more people than the number of seats that could fill in a football stadium. And I don’t regret any one of them.”

“Drugs?” The words felt like ash in my mouth.

“Heroin,” Nico replied, his voice devoid of emotion. The cold, hard facts sent a shiver down my spine. “The cartel owns 100 thousand acres of poppy fields. Ten kilos per harvest, equating to approximately 13,000 dollars. But that’s merely the tip of the iceberg. As you travel further in the US, the profits multiply exponentially.”

He talked with a cold sense of satisfaction, as though he was describing a significant accomplishment instead of a terrifying reality. I was struggling to breathe, the weight of his words tightening around my throat like a noose.

“I was born in this life, Winter,” he continued. “There’s no way out for me.”

I recoiled, my hand instinctively covering my mouth. “Is it true that you have cops and judges on your payroll?” I dreaded hearing the answers but still needed to hear him confirm what I’d just heard.

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