Page 165 of Mafia Daddy's Christmas Bride
My library door stands ajar, warm light spilling into the hallway. I pause at the threshold, observing her unnoticed.
Gabriella stands before my first-edition collection, fingers tracing the spine of a leather-bound Machiavelli.
She's removed her heels, standing barefoot on the Persian rug. Her dress catches the firelight as she moves, revealing glimpses of skin through the side slit.
"Finding anything interesting?" I ask, stepping into the room.
She turns, startled but not embarrassed. "Don Calabresi. I hope you don't mind the intrusion."
"Marco," I correct her. "And it depends on your intentions with my books."
A smile plays at her lips. "Are you as protective of your library as you are of your territory?"
"More so." I approach, standing closer than propriety allows. "These are irreplaceable."
"Like many things worth having." Her gaze holds mine, challenging.
I take the book from her hands, our fingers brushing. "Machiavelli. Interesting choice."
"I was curious what the most feared Don in New York reads in his private moments."
"Feared?" I raise an eyebrow. "Is that how you see me?"
She tilts her head, studying me. "I see many things."
"Such as?"
"That your reputation serves you well, but it's not the whole truth." She steps closer, her perfume mingling with the scent of old books. "You maintain distance, but are you conceited or socially awkward? A modern Mr. Darcy.”
“Jane Austen books are over there.” I point to another shelf but don’t take my eyes off her.
“Deflecting. You don’t want anyone to know you… the real you.”
"Dangerous conclusions to draw," I murmur, placing the book aside without looking away from her. "Especially alone with me."
"Yet here I stand." Her smile turns playful. "Unafraid."
"Perhaps you should be." I reach out, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear, letting my fingers linger against her skin. It’s amazingly soft.
"Perhaps you should be the one worried," she counters, her hand coming to rest lightly on my chest. "I'm not easily controlled, Marco."
“Who says I want to control you?”
She laughs. “All Dons want to control everything around them, even their women. Especially their women. Why is that? Are Dons secretly insecure?”
"You've always been too bold for your own good, Gabriella," I say, my voice dropping lower as I step closer. The library feels suddenly smaller, the air between us charged.
Her fingers remain on my chest and I can feel her warmth through the expensive fabric of my suit.
"And you've always been too controlled for yours," she counters, looking up at me through dark lashes. "Always observing, never participating. Don't you ever tire of standing apart? Don’t you ever want to be a part of life? Of living?"
I take her wrist gently, intending to remove her hand from my chest, but instead find myself holding it there. "There are advantages to observation. I see things others miss."
"What do you see when you look at me?" Her pulse quickens beneath my fingers.
"Trouble," I answer honestly. "Beautiful trouble."
She laughs softly, the sound intimate in the quiet library. "At least you admit I'm beautiful."
