Page 48 of Beauty and the Daddy

The way he says it makes me think he doesn't mean tourist eyes. He means his eyes. His world.

Once again, his hand lands on my lower back, licking flames up my spine as he leads me to the tarmac.

The car waiting for us looks like it belongs in a Bond movie. Black. Sleek. Silent.

A driver in a cap bows like Luca's some visiting head of state. Which, I guess, he sort of is.

Inside, the leather is buttery soft, and the city unfurls around us like a painting.

Ancient ruins, crumbling arches, fountains that have seen centuries.

Luca starts pointing things out like a man telling pieces of his own story.

"See that?" Luca points out the window. His voice is lower than usual, calmer, almost…proud. "That's Ponte Cestio. Two thousand years old. They built it without machines, without steel. Still standing."

I stare out the window. "You like bridges that much?"

He cuts me a look that says I'm an idiot. "I know history. It matters here."

God help me, but the way he says it makes my stomach flip.

Because it's not a lecture—it's… sexy. Him sitting there in his perfectly tailored black suit, one hand resting easy on his knee, talking about ancient Rome like it's family gossip?

Yeah. Unfair how he's twice the age of guys I've dated, and hotter than them all.

The longer the drive gets, the more nervous I feel.

I start to get too anxious to appreciate the scenery, too busy rehearsing what I'll say to these Council members.

His eyes flick to me. They catch the nervous way I'm twisting my hands, like I've been busted cheating on a test.

Without warning, his palm lands on my knee. Heavy. Warm. Possessive.

Electricity skitters through me like I just grabbed a live wire. I freeze, pulse hammering in my throat.

"Easy," he murmurs. His thumb strokes once, slow, and my whole body lights up like Times Square.

I swallow hard. God, why does he notice everything?

He leans in, close enough that his cologne tangles with my thoughts. "Let me do the talking when we get there."

His voice is silk over steel. "All you have to do is let them see what's mine."

I gulp so loud it might register on the Richter scale. His eyes flash with satisfaction, like he heard it, like he wanted it.

And that cocky little smirk? Yeah. Rome just got a whole lot hotter.

We rollup to what can only be described as a Renaissance fortress wearing palazzo's clothing.

Cream stone, iron balconies, windows that look down like hooded eyes.

It's beautiful in the way a guillotine is beautiful—all clean lines and deadly purpose.

"Jesus," I breathe, craning my neck. "This is someone's house?"

"Don Fiorello's." Luca helps me out, his hand steady at my elbow. "The others are already here."

"Others?"