Page 33 of Wicked Mafia Mistake
"Then do what you need to do, Mass. I've got your back. Whatever comes from the Ferraros, we handle it together."
I nod even though he can't see me. My jaw is locked and my eyes burn. I don't trust my voice, so I just sit with the silence and listen to Luca breathe on the other end of the line until the tightness in my chest loosens enough to speak.
"I'll be at the office in twenty," I manage. "I need a few hours to draft the contract. Keep all the intel you pulled close by. I have a feeling before this is over, I’ll need the damning material."
"I'll have coffee waiting. The good stuff, not that battery acid from the break room Rafael always drinks."
The corner of my mouth pulls. "Thanks, brother."
"Mass." He catches me before I hang up. "For what it's worth, I saw the way you held that shoe this morning. You looked like a man who already made his decision. You're just catching up to it now."
I hang up. Start the engine. Pull out of Harrison's drive, the gravel crunching under my tires, and head toward Redthorne Holdings with the red heel beside me and a contract taking shape in my head, every clause already forming before I sit down to write it.
I have a few hours of work to do before I show up at Sloane Whitmore's door and do the most unprofessional thing the Syndicate's legal counsel has ever done.
Nine
Sloane
The knock comes late.
I'm on my couch with the remnants of a pint of mint chip melting on the coffee table, the spoon sticking up from the half-eaten carton at an angle that screams defeat. Patsy Cline spins on the record player because apparently heartbreak has a soundtrack and mine is on repeat. Her voice fills the apartment and makes me want to ugly cry.
I stare at the door. Nobody knocks on my door on a weeknight this late. Onyx would call first. Bree would text. My landlord slides passive-aggressive notes under the gap about recycling bins and hallway noise.
The knock comes again. Three sharp hits.
Shit.
I look down at my thin evening gown. The deep V neck does nothing to hide anything. The bra came off hours ago, along with the makeup and the pinned-up hair.
I am in no condition for company.
I push to my feet, drag my fingers through my loose hair, and pad across the hardwood in my bare feet, the old floors cool and creaking under my weight. I look through the peephole. If my father has come to beg me to fall in line…
My heart clenches.
Massimo Santoro stands in my hallway in a charcoal suit with no tie, the collar of his shirt open, the tail of his viper tattoo visible at his wrist where his sleeves are rolled.
I notice because damn it, that is sexy as hell and always has been.
His jaw is set and his whiskey eyes are fixed on my door with an intensity that makes my skin prickle through an inch of wood and a deadbolt. He's holding a box in one hand, a leather folio tucked under his other arm.
My hand grips the doorknob, and I intend to turn the knob, but my hand doesn’t move. The last time I saw this man he was standing in my father's study doorway looking at me like he could see through every layer of armor I had on. Hours of pacing my apartment, eating ice cream out of the carton, and replaying the look on his face when our eyes met over the Lorenzo disaster, and now he's at my door.
Yep, he knows.
I could pretend I'm not home. The lights are low. Patsy is barely a whisper. He wouldn't know.
Another knock. "Sloane. Open the door,tesoro."
Tesoro.
I spin and lean against the door, clutching my chest. Why did he have to go and do that? Say that sweet nickname like that. If Icould love the man more, I’d be a puddle of goo on the floor. My eyes drift closed.
“Tesoro, let me in.”
His voice carries through the wood with a warmth that settles in my stomach.
