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I grin from behind my mask. “Quinard, this has nothing to do with some underground gambling. This is about respect. I’m about to teach you some.”

18

PORTIA

I’m alonein Rafael’s huge bed come morning.

I snap upright with a thundering heartbeat, my eyes scanning the room.

He’s gone.

Oh no.

No. No. Not again!

I’m trapped in a wave of déjà vu as I push aside the covers and leap out of bed. I’m in nothing but my pair of panties from last night. I scoop his button-up shirt off the floor and shrug it on as I’m reaching the bedroom door.

Rafael Calderone’s penthouse apartment is bigger than the Newport Metropolitan Museum.

Navigating the halls feels daunting and complicated.

I turn left and follow the traces of voices coming from further down the hall. With each footstep my distrust grows. My worst fears are confirmed as I reach the kitchen and get ready to tell Rafael it’s over.

He won’t pull what he did in Sicily a second time.

Then I step into the kitchen and freeze mid-step.

My eyes widen in sheer horror at the group of men I find in the middle of a conversation in Italian. Rafael is among them, in nothing but a pair of sweats. Though he’s the half undressed one, rumpled hair and bare chest and all, he’s still serving alpha energy.

He’s the leader among them. They’re deferential to him.

As I appear at the entrance in only his button up shirt and my panties, the room falls silent. The men glance from me to Rafael as if waiting for his reaction first.

Rafael plays it cool as he always does, though I’ve started picking up on his subtlest tells. His dark eyes quickly pass over me and the muscle in his jaw bounces.

“Continueremo questa discussione più avanti. Sparisci dalla mia vista.”

His men make themselves disappear.

It’s alarming how promptly they file out of the room. No questions asked. Zero objections. I stand by idly, still struck speechless, as they vanish from sight. Two of them I recognize as Adagio and Maurizio, the equally handsome, strapping men the last to leave.

“Good morning,dolcezza,” Rafael says after a second. He steps toward me and presses a kiss to my brow. “Are you hungry? I was just coming to the kitchen to make us some coffee and breakfast.”

I finally manage to swallow down my shock. “And host an Italian business meeting.”

He smirks, turning back toward the kitchen cabinets. “What can I say? I’m a busy man. Sometimes business calls at all hours. Even while at home.”

“Are all of your employees Italian?”

“Most, yes. But the more important question is,dolcezza, what were you coming marching into the kitchen about?” he asks, setting two mugs down on the counter. His broad back faces me, the deep ridges of muscle distracting enough on their own.

And then I notice the scars etched into his skin, the strips of raised flesh. Scars that no tattoos can fully cover.

Scars I haven’t noticed until now since every time he’s been shirtless around me we’ve been in the middle of the most amazing sex of my life.

I make a mental note to ask him about them some other time.

Choosing my words carefully, I say, “I was just coming to see you.”