Page 41 of Auctioned to the Mafia Don
He knows it.
So do I.
Omar waits near the stairs when we come down, arms crossed, expression carved out of disapproval and bad timing. His gaze moves across me once and away again with enough professionalism that I almost miss the trace of assessment.
Almost.
“Well?” I ask.
He looks pained. “You look like trouble in expensive packaging.”
“That might be the nicest thing you’ve ever said to me.”
“It was not intended that way.”
“Still keeping it.”
Stefano passes him without slowing. “The children?”
“Settled,” Omar says. “Two men in the hall. One at the interior stair. No changes visible enough for her to complain about.”
“Too late,” I say.
Omar sighs. “Of course.”
Stefano glances at me. “You saw the second guard?”
“I saw both.”
His mouth curves. “Good.”
“Don’t sound proud. It makes me want to disappoint you.”
“That also interests me.”
Omar makes a low sound under his breath that might be a prayer if either of us believed he was that optimistic.
Outside, the nighttime air is humid and full of Miami warmth. A black car waits in the drive, engine running, driver already at the door. Stefano places his hand at the small of my back before I can step ahead of him.
The touch isn’t hard, and that is exactly the problem.
Force would be easier to hate. Stefano uses pressure instead. A controlled hand on the contour of my back, guiding without shoving, claiming without bruising. To anyone watching from the house, it looks attentive. Protective. Possessive in a polished, expensive way.
My body knows the difference, but honestly my body doesn’t care about the difference. It cares about the man with his hand on it. I slide into the car, and Stefano follows. The door shuts us into leather, dark glass, and silence.
For the first few minutes, neither of us speaks.
Miami moves beyond the tinted windows in streaks of gold and red. Palm trees. Headlights. Nightlife sharpening at the edges. The kind of city that knows how to make sin look like tourism.
Stefano sits close enough that his knee nearly touches mine.
“Rules,” he says.
I look over. “How romantic.”
“You stay close.”
“I gathered.”
