Page 32 of Violent Delights

“I should go,” he whispers.

I nod, but neither of us moves.

He runs a hand through his hair, sighs, then leans down and presses a kiss to my shoulder. It burns.

And then he slips away.

Back into the dark.

Back into pretending.

By morning,the house has returned to its usual rhythm—cold, calculated, and full of eyes.

“Buongiorno,” I greet the staff as I walk into the kitchen.

I play my role.

I always do.

Fiancée of the Boss.

Pretty enough to parade, quiet enough to keep the peace. The girl they all think is harmless.

But I’m not harmless anymore.

I have a secret. And his name is Nico.

The staff nod to me as I pass through the kitchen and make my way to the fridge. They watch me, but they don’t stop me. I grab a yogurt and head out onto the patio where there are guards standing focused on the perimeter.

Growing up in this world, I’ve become accustomed to the ways of the organization and the staff. Some of them smile. Some leer. I return none of it. My eyes stay forward, my hands stay still. I don’t let myself think about last night.

I eat my breakfast slowly, and as I finish the yogurt, I’m brought coffee and fruit in a bowl. Each of them nods to me, but they don’t speak. It’s as if they’ve all been ordered to be silent.

I settle on the patio and listen to the waves crashing below us. But as much as I try to read and focus on the story before me, I know I can’t ever think of anything other than the man who’s risking his life being here.

Mid-afternoon brings heat and tension. The air is thick. A storm is coming. I can feel it in my bones and I’m pretty sure the men moving around the house can feel it as well. I’ve moved from the patio, the breeze has picked up, and I needed to think in silence.

I’m in the library—a sanctuary—curled in the window seat with a book I haven’t touched in ten minutes. I keep thinking about the way Nico looked when I left him. Tired. Fractured. Like he’s unraveling piece by piece and I’m the thread that keeps pulling.

I’m still lost in the thought when someone clears their throat.

I look up.

Marco.

My stomach flips.

“Signorina,” he says with a nod.

I close the book slowly. “Marco.”

He steps inside the library like he owns the space. His eyes scan the shelves, the windows, and finally, me.

“The Boss wanted to speak with you before dinner this evening,” he says.

I offer a tight smile. “Isn’t that what’s expected of me? To be available at his every whim?” I’m being a brat, and I know it will get me in trouble, but I can’t help myself.

He chuckles, toothpick twitching in the corner of his mouth. “Your husband doesn’t like to be kept waiting. He wants you to know when you are expected and what is expected of you. Over time, you will learn how to please him.” His words send a cold shiver down my spine.

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