Page 11 of Dark Desires
But when I turn, hoping to see that sexy, lean body next to me, he's gone.
My heart sinks until I notice something on the nightstand—a folded piece of paper with my name written in bold, confident handwriting. Next to it sits a steaming cup of coffee and a single white rose.
I sit up, reaching for the note with trembling fingers.
Devotchka,
Had to handle some urgent family business this morning. Didn't want to wake you—you looked too peaceful. The coffee'sstill hot (I hope), and there's breakfast in the kitchen when you're ready.
Don't disappear on me. Please. Last night meant everything to me.
I'll be back by noon. Wait for me.
-A
P.S. - You're even more beautiful in the morning light.
I read it twice, my chest tight with an emotion I can't name. He wants me to stay. He's coming back. Last night wasn't just a one-night stand to him.
But as I sit there, reality crashes down. What am I doing?
My father would lose his shit.
This was never meant to be anything but a fun night.
I glance at the note again, my resolve wavering.Don't disappear on me.
I gather my clothes from where they'd been neatly folded on a nearby chair—even that small gesture makes my heart ache—and dress quickly. The coffee smells incredible, and part of me wants to curl up and wait for him like he asked.
Instead, I slip the note into my purse and head for the door, my heart breaking with every step.
Exiting his penthouse is eerily simple; the corridors are silent, the plush carpets muffle my footsteps until I reach the marble; then my heels click.
Once in the lobby, I take out my phone to call an Uber, but my phone’s nowhere to be found.
Shit. I’d dropped it back at the club. Damn thing was broken from the fall, anyway. Luckily, there’s a man working the front desk who’s able to call an Uber for me, and it arrives in no time at all.
As the city stretches awake, the skyscrapers blur past as we weave through the traffic. Anxiety begins to gnaw at my insides. Stephania is probably pacing a hole in the floor by now, her anxious mind concocting all sorts of explanations for what the hell happened to me.
The cab pulls up to the gates of what I affectionately call the Mancini fortress—home, sweet prison.
Maybe I’m being overly dramatic, but with the way Dad keeps tabs on me, that’s what it feels like sometimes. Just one of the many charming parts of life as a mafia princess, I suppose.
As I step out of the car, the family mansion looms over me. My gut tightens, and I imagine my father sitting in one of the chairs in the lobby, a pissed-off expression on his face.
With that lovely image in mind, I try sneaking in through the side door into the kitchen, aiming for the stairs that would lead me straight to my room. But luck’s not on my side today. As I tiptoe past the dining hall, a sharp voice stops me dead.
“Isabella Mancini, where on earth have you been?”
My cousin Stephania stands in the doorway, her posture rigid, worry all over her face. It's a look that says she's been up all night, probably imagining every possible nightmare scenario. Little does she know, one of them very nearly came true.
She’s dressed in a little pair of flannel sleeping shorts and an oversized Chicago Cubs T-shirt, her arms crossed over her chest.
“Just out,” I reply, trying to brush past her, hoping she’ll let it slide just this once. No such luck—she steps in front of me, her expression hardening.
“Out? All night? Without a word?” She’s not yelling, but it's close. Stephania never yells. Yelling isn’t her style—her disappointment is usually enough. I’ve been dealing with it since she moved in with us when her parents both died.
“I know, I know, I’m sorry. It was a thing. I didn’t plan it,” I say, attempting a half smile, hoping to lighten the mood.
