Page 23 of Dangerous King
His brother, Dante, whom I met last night, and Silvano flank him on either side, both holding their phones and a stack of papers in their hands. What looks like immense construction plans lay spread out on the desk.
"We'll finish this later, go get some coffee," he tells Silvano and Dante, and with short nods, the two take their leave, closing the door behind them. My throat feels even tighter now that it's only me and Enrico.
He rises from his chair and waves his hand toward the seating area where we sat last night. "Sit."
I walk over the soft carpeted floor on stiff legs toward the same padded chair I chose hours earlier. My hands clasp each other nervously after I lower myself down.
"Do you want anything to drink? Some water?" He asks politely.
"I'm good, thank you," I squeak, swallowing to get some moisture into my throat. I should have probably said yes, but I just want to get this over with. His presence is so big. So overpowering. But he's not scaring me; it's my jumbled emotions that make me so uncomfortable. I'm not sure what to make of them.
"Alright, right to business then. Do you know why the Giardonos took Izzy?" Despite the casual pose—his left ankle resting neatly on his right knee, shoulders angled like he has all the time in the world—there's no mistaking the presence Enrico carries. Even seated, even silent, he radiates the controlled stillness of a predator. One wrong word, and I get the sense he'd strike without hesitation.
I force myself to look into his intense gaze. "I don't know."
"Tell me exactly what happened." He demands.
I cross my ankles beneath the chair, not very ladylike, but the pressure helps—a small, grounding sensation to anchor myself. Otherwise, I might float—or fall—under the weight of his gaze.
He's by far the best-looking man I've ever seen. And that's saying something, considering I grew up in a house full of beautiful monsters. His black hair is swept back in effortless waves, not a strand out of place. His eyes are a bottomless black. There's no light in them, but they seeeverything,like he's cataloging my every move, every breath, every flicker of weakness.
The way his leg rests over the other stretches the fabric of his tailored pants tight across his thigh, offering an indecently perfect view of thick muscle, coiled and still. I force myself to focus on his knee, on the smooth line of his trousers,anywherebut higher.
But I see it anyway.
The shift of fabric when he sat down. The unapologetic bulge that my traitorous eyes dart to for a split second before I snap them back up.
Madre di Dio, I pray,don't let me look again. Don't let me look.
I don't even know why Iwantto. I've never been that kind of girl. Not the kind who ogles a man in silence, who wonders what's beneath all that elegance and control. But the urge is like an itch under my skin. Hot, irrational, and dangerous.
It takes every ounce of willpower to drag my gaze to his face and keep it there. To fixate on the cut of his jaw, strong, square,and shadowed with the kind of stubble that looks like it belongs there, like it's sculpted into him.
His mouth doesn't move, but I feel like I'm being spoken to. Teased. Judged. And maybe—God help me—seduced.
For some reason, the image of him holding Izzy in his arms last night comes back to me. A yearning spreads through my chest. What would it feel like to be held by those powerful arms like that? To lean against him, to feel safe?
With a cracking voice, I recount last night's events, starting with me sneaking into the kitchen.
"Why did you have to sneak into the kitchen?" He interrupts before I can even begin with the story he is more likely to be burning to hear.
"Uhm, I was hungry." I manage.
"I get that, but why sneak? They didn't want you to eat at night?"
I almost say,they never wanted me to eat, but I suppress it. Instead, I just shake my head. "No, they didn't like for me to go get food from the kitchen."
He tilts his head questioningly, looking so handsome, small electric jolts move through my body. I can tell he isn't satisfied with my answer, sensing I'm withholding information. A bead of sweat rolls down my neck. If he starts thinking I'm not telling him the truth, that I'm lying, will he hit me? Like Giovanni would? Or worse?
"They are very controlling with their food." I supply. "Last night I was sent to my room before dinner; it's how they punish me." I hate saying these words, but I'm too afraid for him to think I'm lying.
"Punishment for what?" He wants to know, his jaw clenching.
Why is he asking me? He's clearly impatient to get to the details about his sister, so why does he want to know about my life with the Giordanos?
"I… I told Camilla that I didn't like one of the dresses she gave me." I lower my head, remembering last evening.
"The dresses she gave you?" He shrugs. "I don't understand."
