Page 36 of Mob Boss's Second Chance

I let out a slow, shaky breath and step forward, carefully placing the tray on Ethan’s desk. I linger for a moment, unsure why. The silencestretches, heavy and still, as I take a hesitant step back to assess the setup, ensuring everything is in order.

The cold air prickles my skin, but it’s not just the room. It’s the weight of being here, in his space. I know what that feels like from being in his room—in his house.

“Center placement,” I mutter as I tick off an invisible list. “Caviar carbonara with wagyu beef sauce. It smells delicious.” I grin as the smell whiffs past my nostrils. “It’s the perfect lunch.”

Tucking my hands into the pockets of my apron, I turn around… only to stop dead in my tracks. I didn’t notice his presence when he arrived, but it’s Ethan Cross standing at the door, watching me with his arms across his chest.

The dim light from the hallway illuminates his figure—somewhat—enough for me to make out his silhouette, but I can tell he’s lookingstraightat me.

With those eyes.

The same eyes that have, on more than one occasion, made me stutter and stumble. Not today, though. Not today.

“I brought your lunch,” I say, biting my tongue so I don’t add, “because you never eat with Anthony in the dining area.”

He remains at the door, saying nothing.

I wonder if I should move forward and if he’ll make room for me to leave, but I’m not about to chance a face-to-face with Ethan, so I remain in my position.

“It’s pasta,” I add with a clear voice as I dig my fingers deeper into my pockets. “And beef sauce. Mr. Cross suggested the menu, but if you don’t like it, I can make something else.”

He doesn’t say anything.

Alright, this is getting weird.

I can feel him, even with the distance between us. I can smell him—the faint scent of sandalwood never left me from day one, but there’s something new. Musk.

“Mr. Cross, I—”

“What is your intention?” He cuts me off and takes a step in.

I frown, my eyebrows almost meeting from either end because I don’t understand what he means. “My intentions?”

He nods and takes another step. Then another.

Until I can see him clearer. He’s wearing slacks and a shirt that’s buttoned halfway. The other half of his chest is exposed, showing off muscled and chiseled skin.

His hair is tousled like he ran his fingers through it. When he tilts his head, the light hits just right, and I can see a reddish mark underneath his eyes.

Another mark?

What is he, an underground fighter?

A fighting ring with little rules and lots of people wanting revenge would explain the injuries.

“Yes,” he repeats in an icy tone, cutting through the air filled with tension. His eyes seem to lookintomelike he can see my hidden thoughts. I shake my head, forcing them in the right direction. “Your intentions. You’re in my office. I can only assume you came here to get something.”

He’s mere inches away now, his height casting a shadow over me, and my heart is pounding so loudly that his words come muffled and distant.

The intensity of his gaze locks me in place, and it feels like there’s no air left in the room. Instinctively, I go up on my toes, trying to meet him on equal ground, but the moment I realize what I’m doing, I step back.

“What is it you’re looking for, Natalie Monroe?” His voice is sharp, slicing through the tension like a blade, and the use of my full name only deepens the chill running through my veins.

His eyes are void of warmth, piercing through me as though he’s trying to see my every thought. “Who sent you? What do you want? How did you work your way around Anthony?”

My throat goes dry. What the hell is he talking about?

Who sent me? Anthony? He’s sent me on errands, sure. What am I looking for? What could I possibly be looking for in a dimly lit room?

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