Page 7 of Ruthless Boss

Realistically, even love isn’t enough. My dad loved my beloved mom his way. Still cheated on her when she was alive. It still hurt her.

I don’t share Massimo’s sense of duty. I’m supposed to be the second in line, but I wasn’t able to marry Andie—or prevent her from dying. Maybe she would still be alive if I offered her the commitment she wanted. She wouldn’t have gone out with friends to vent about me and how difficult I was being. She wouldn’t have been out of the house and kidnapped.

“You don’t know what your nanny is into. Maybe she’d come back for more,” Nico says, pulling me from my thoughts.

“Two limbs now,” I say.

“Since you’re not interested, why don’t you go out with me sometime? You know… to meet women.”

“I don’t know if I’m in the headspace to meet anyone right now. My daughter and killing Ross Santini are my main priority.”

“You’ve always been a multitasker. Besides, bro, I mean fucking, not going down the aisle.”

Fucking would be great.

Going down the aisle, not so much. The hopeful look on Andie’s face comes to mind. We went out a few times, had unprotected sex once, and she got pregnant. When she returned to my life, heavily pregnant, she needed support. She had no family and was finding it hard to deal with expenses.

I offered to help and promptly told her to move in while we figured things out. I meant it as a pragmatic way of protecting her and my unborn child, not a gateway to eternal bliss. Of course, she didn’t take it that way. Looking back, I didn’t have any romantic inclinations towards Andie anymore, which hurt her feelings. I could tell. She mentioned marriage a couple of times, but I ignored her comments.

I was too comfortable to change my status quo. That’s me—a selfish bastard who saw how many times his mother cried when she thought she was alone in the closet. How many times did my dad pretend to be still interested in women he dated after her death so he wouldn’t be alone? He even married again and cheated on his second wife, too.

My mom suffered for love. My dad caused her suffering, but a part of me knows he struggled with his own need to have someone to build his egotistical ass at all times.

As for me? I’m able to have sex and not catch feelings. I don’t want to experience my mom’s heartbreak or my dad’s despair. I can do all right without any of that mess.

“Boss,” the driver says, then cocks his head in the direction of the airfield. “They’re here.”

Time to make some money. I’ll worry about fucking later.

A few hours later, I walk into my home.

Andrei, one of my bodyguards on rotation around the house, walks up to me. “Hey, boss. I have mail that arrived for your nanny,” he says, then hands a small box to me. “Since she’s new, I wasn’t sure you wanted me to give it to her or wanted to get it checked by security.”

I shake it and hear a little thump inside. What could it be?

The box doesn’t give anything away. Besides her printed name and my address, no logo or additional information hints at the brand or store. “I’ll take care of it, thanks.”

I carry it upstairs and knock on her door. I tell myself I’m doing this to check on a potential threat to an employee, not because I’m looking for a reason to talk to her.

A couple of beats later, Lucia opens it.

A lump of frustration lodges in my throat.

She’s wearing a cotton robe—it’s not silky or sexy but hints at her not wearing anything else underneath, and that’s enough to get my blood pumping. Her hair is damp, and the ends of her medium-length strands stick to her neck. She must have just showered.

I inhale her perfume, which has a hint of wildflowers and other spices I can’t pinpoint. It’s a lovely, feminine scent—not too sweet but sexy and unassuming.

She steps back, and I enter her bedroom. It’s tastefully decorated, with a king-size bed, marbled white nightstands, and abstract paintings on the wall. I’ve been in it before, but seeing her in here feels different. Like she’s part of it now, even though she hasn’t added her personal touch to anything, and I can barely see personal items on the dresser.

“Is there anything you need?” she asks.

I watch her in silence. A sense of intimacy lurks as my gaze drops to her kissable lips. Yes, there’s a lot I need. But I will those images away—images of her and her damp hair on my pillow. “You received a package today,” I say, giving it to her.

She takes it from me and holds it against her chest. “Thank you.”

I jam a hand into my pocket, unwilling to move. “How’s AJ?”

“She’s sleeping. I gave her a bottle, and she’s good.”

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