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Second, how did I not realize he had so many tattoos?

I’ve only ever seen him at night, and most of those times, I’ve been too…preoccupied withhaving an orgasm to admire the sheergodlinessof his body properly.

There’s amusement in his gaze, but beneath it—something softer. Something unreadable.

“Apparently,” he says.

I let the weight of that settle in my chest. For a man like him, stopping the world isn’t justrare—it’simpossible.

I chew my lip for a second because Iknowthat this is. Nicolas is trying to seduce me. He wants information about my brother. He’s playing the same gameI’mplaying—only he’s playing it better.

“So,” he starts, his voice smooth, calculated. And I brace myself for the question.

What is your brother planning?

What was the last thing you discussed?

Do you know about his shipments?

I brace for the interrogation, for the inevitable moment Nicolas tries to pry information from me. Instead-

“What do you want to do?”

I blink. “Hmm?”

He stretches, muscles flexing as he folds his arms behind his head, completely at ease. “I’m free today. No meetings, no events, nothing. So I figured we should spend more time together.”

My brain short-circuits. Ican’tkeep up with him. One second, he’s ruthless. Calculated. The next, he’s casually throwing out words likespend more time together.

My mouth hangs open for a beat too long, and before I can snap it shut, he reaches up and pokes a finger in the open space.

I jerk my head back, scowling.

He laughs.

“Why do you always look so shocked,Bambina? I’m serious.”

I shake my head, trying to keep up, and justgo withit. Maybe he’ll ask me the real questionslater. If this is a seduction tactic, I might as well enjoy it while it lasts.

I tap my fingers against my knee, thinking. My mind drifts back to something simple. Something warm. A memory.

A smile tugs at my lips before I even realize it. “Baking.”

Nicolas lifts a brow. “Baking?”

“I was recently complimented on my pie,” I say, folding my arms. “I want you to see just how decent I am.”

Nicolas watches me for a moment, then nods. “Done.”

We head to the kitchen—bigger than I expected, with sleek marble counters and stainless steel appliances that gleam in the sunlight pouring through the massive windows. The air smells faintly of citrus, probably from the maids cleaning earlier.

With a simple wave of his hand, Nicolas dismisses them. All except one.

Teresa stays.

She’s in her fifties, gray-streaked hair tied neatly into a bun. I’ve talked to her a few times—one of the only familiar faces in this house.

“Bring out the things we need for baking, Teresa,” Nicolas says.