Page 6

Chapter Five

Angelo

Earlier That Day

The streets of London blur into a gray haze as the car weaves through the city, making its way to Sophia’s flat. The rain has slowed to a drizzle, barely more than a mist, but it still clings to the air, making everything feel cold and damp. I lean back in my seat, staring out the window, my mind already on Sophia and what lies ahead.

I shouldn’t be this restless. Picking her up, escorting her to the car—it was all standard procedure. And yet, there was an undercurrent of anticipation in me that I hadn’t felt in years, a low hum just beneath my skin that made my fingers twitch and my thoughts stray.

She had gotten under my skin. From the moment I saw her at the funeral, she had gotten under my skin. That fire in her eyes, the defiance she wore like designer perfume—it was a challenge, one I hadn’t been able to ignore. And now, as I prepared to bring her back to New York, that challenge was front and center in my mind.

It wasn’t just about her safety. It wasn’t just about fulfilling a duty or protecting an heir.

It was about her—Sophia, her beauty, which was almost ridiculous, her voice which offered that raspy, sultry goodness I’ve always liked. I've had dreams of that voice, but in those dreams, she's not arguing with me. In those dreams, she's screaming my name, begging me to fuck her harder.

Fuck.

I can feel myself getting hard just thinking about it, which is unfortunate because the Audi is pulling up at her building. I can only imagine the look on her face if I were to show up on her doorstep with a raging hard-on. I run my tongue across my teeth and try not to commit an act of indecency on the proper, posh streets of London.

But it isn't just the absurd physical attraction I feel for her. That I could deal with easily. No, it was everything else that drew me to her. It was all her complexities and contradictions.

Her vulnerability was wrapped up in cement and gravel, forming an impenetrable wall I wanted to breach. It was the way she looked at me, like she was daring me to break down those walls, but at the same time, so clearly desperate to keep them up.

We pull up in front of her building, the car coming to a smooth stop. I glance at the driver, nodding once before stepping out into the misty air. The dampness settles on my coat, but I barely notice as I cross the sidewalk to the entrance of her building.

We agreed to meet here by two, but she isn’t on her doorstep like I expected her to be. And so, I press the doorbell. The door flies open with a vengeance and then she’s there, staring at me, her face pale but no less beautiful.

The last time Sophia was in my presence, she’d been wrapped up in beautiful black clothes, her hair tied in a knot at the back of her head, conservative makeup, no jewelry. She’d been a picture of elegance and collection. Someone had clearly made a switch when I wasn’t looking, however, because the woman standing in front of me was the embodiment of chaos.

Her hair is unbound and all over the place in a half-frizzy mess. It looks like it had once upon a time been a ponytail, but the elastic band is hanging off the ends of her hair by literal strands. She’s wearing shorts, very short shorts. I can't stop myself from looking down at her tan thighs.

Even if there was a gun trained on my head, I don’t think I could have prevented myself from staring. The tank top she has on does nothing to hide the hard points of her nipples and…shit, they are definitely not helping the situation.

“What the hell are you doing here?”

I blink and turn to look behind me. Perhaps someone else had sprouted out of the bushes, and she’s talking to them.

“Picking you up.”

“We agreed to meet at two.”

I pull out my phone from my pocket and show it to her. It’s two minutes past two.

“Shit. Sorry, oh gosh, I…was packing and I got carried away with sorting out my mother’s belongings and…you probably don't care about any of that.”

I just stand there staring at her, literally unable to form words.

“I suppose I should invite you in.” She steps aside, and I enter the flat.

Sophia’s flat is a study in contradictions. The space is neat—almost too neat—with minimal furniture and few personal touches. It’s clear that she lives with just the essentials on hand—as if she can pack up and leave at a moment’s notice. Yet, there are signs of recent chaos, traces of a life with more depth than you can see at first glance.

A small stack of boxes sits in the corner, half-filled with what look like her mother’s belongings: old photo albums, worn books, and delicate trinkets that seem out of place in an otherwise unadorned room.

The kitchen table is cluttered with papers and a half-empty mug of tea, signs of a woman trying to sort through memories she isn’t ready to leave behind.

A well-worn sofa, the only piece of furniture that seems lived in, faces a window where a single plant struggles for sunlight. The scent of lavender lingers in the air, a small touch of warmth in a space that feels more like a temporary shelter than a home.

“I just have to grab a few more things and we can be on our way. Drink?”

“Water, thank you.”

She opens her fridge and bends to retrieve a bottle of water, giving me a full view of her ass.

“How long have you lived here?” I ask because it’s not what I had expected. I expected numerous boxes with treasures and memories, not a few cardboard boxes with pans and old broken things in them.

“Four years, give or take. Why? Not glamorous enough for you?” she says sharply.

I keep my eyes trained on her as I gulp the water down and I see her throat bob as she watches me. Her eyes go languid, losing some of their trained hardness, and I see goosebumps rise on her exposed skin. Good.

“Not glamorous enough for anybody, especially not my fiancé.”

“Putting in the practice for New York, are you?”

I decide that her voice really is my addiction. I love the tinge of an English accent, coupled with her Italian vowels. It makes me feel light-headed.

“You should get used to it.”

She sighs and turns away from me, which is good because I was beginning to think ridiculous thoughts like that I should pin her against the fridge and find out if her body is as soft as it looks.

She moves through the flat with practiced efficiency, gathering the last of her things, but there is a tension in her movements—a reluctance to fully let go.

She comes back into the kitchen wearing a dress. It’s form-fitting and beautiful, and it makes me want to smile.

“Can’t arrive in New York looking like something the cat dragged in, now can I?”

“No. You look beautiful.”

That seems to startle her into a rare moment of silence, her mouth hanging open and her breathing quick. And we stand there for what must be only seconds, but it feels far longer, just staring at each other.

She is used to running, to being ready to disappear, but this time, it isn’t just another escape. This is different, and I can see it in the way she pauses to glance at her mother’s things, a fleeting moment of hesitation before she turns to face me.

“Is this everything?” I ask quietly, breaking whatever the hell is gathering between us.

She nods, but her eyes linger on the room for just a second longer, as if saying goodbye to the life she has built here—the life she is about to leave behind.

“Ready?” I ask, my voice low. It sounds almost intimate in the quiet of the entranceway, and my heart leaps a little. She must feel the tension between us too, because her eyes lock on mine for a moment, something warm glowing in their depths. Then she turns away, and the spell is broken.

She nods, her fingers tightening around the handle of her suitcase. “Ready as I’ll ever be.”

I reach for her suitcase, our fingers brushing as I take it from her. The contact is brief, but it is enough to send a spark of awareness shooting through me, straight to my core. I can feel the warmth of her skin even after I let go, the sensation lingering like a phantom touch.

“Allow me.”

She doesn’t argue, but I can see the tension in her frame, the way she is trying to hold herself together. I admire that about her—the strength, the resolve—but I also want to see what is beneath it. I want to know what it would take to make her drop that guard, to see her for who she really is.

I lead the way back to the car, my hand resting lightly on the small of her back and my fingers twitching like I’m a fucking schoolboy touching a girl for the first time.

It’s a casual touch, nothing more than a gesture of guidance, but the instant my palm makes contact with her body, I feel a subtle shiver run through her body. She doesn’t pull away, but I can sense the way she tenses, the way her breath hitches slightly, as if she’s trying to maintain control.

Good. I want her to feel this. I want her to be as aware of me, as I am of her.

As we reach the car, I open the door and gesture for her to get in. She hesitates for just a moment, her eyes meeting mine, and I can see the conflict there.

“Remember, it’s just a game, Sophia,”

Her lips press into a thin line, but she doesn’t argue. Instead, she slides into the backseat, her movements graceful and controlled. I follow her in, closing the door behind me as the car pulls away from the curb.

The silence between us is thick, charged with an energy that neither of us can ignore. I can feel her beside me, the heat of her body just inches away, the soft scent of her perfume lingering in the air.

Every part of me is hyper-aware of her—of the way she shifts slightly in her seat, the way her fingers curl into the fabric of her coat, the way her chest rises and falls with each measured breath.

I want to touch her again. I want to feel that spark, that connection. I want to see if it is as electric as it was the first time. But I hold back, letting the tension build, letting her feel the weight of it.

“Why are you doing this?” she asks suddenly, her voice breaking the silence. There is a vulnerability in her tone, a crack in the armor she wears so carefully.

“Doing what?” I reply, my voice calm, even as the intensity between us threatens to boil over.

“This.” She gestures between us, her brow furrowing slightly. “This whole…act. Pretending to be engaged, pretending to care about what happens to me. What’s in it for you?”

I consider her question, knowing that the answer is more complicated than she realizes. There are so many layers to this, to us. Layers that I’m not ready to peel back just yet.

“You're an asset of sorts. Having you dead would be really bad for business,”

She snorts loudly. “Good to know that’s all I am to you.”

She doesn't look at me, and I don't look at her either.

“I didn't take you as someone who liked or wanted empty words.”

“That’s good, because I'm not.”

“I also made a promise to your father.”

She scoffs again and turns to face me.

“My father didn't give two shits about me. He was a sadistic, awful man and I'm happy my mom took me away when she did.”

It really isn't my business what she thinks or how she feels, at least it shouldn't be, but I can't stand the pain behind her cold words.

“Carlo Agostini was the most powerful man in the Cosa Nostra. He excelled in finding people. Do you think he couldn’t find you? He could’ve come and dragged you back to New York to live under his reign of terror, but he didn’t. Make of that what you will.”

She sighs, closing her eyes. “I suppose I knew that,” she admits. “But I always figured that he just didn’t care. Part of me imagined that he must have another heir, a son. Maybe he remarried and that was why he didn’t come looking for me. It was a relief…and an insult.”

Her words are raw and I feel a pang, at the pain I can hear in them. Her life has been complicated, strange, full of lies and deceit, yet she still wants to know that her father loved her. Maybe none of us is exempt from wishing for the fealty and support of our parents.

“If it’s any consolation,” I say to her, “he never remarried, and he never stopped talking about you. He never mentioned your mother, but he always spoke of you with pride.

Her eyes snap open and she looks at me closely. “He had people watching me,” she says perceptively, and I look down, uncomfortable under the intensity of her gaze. She has hit upon one of the things that I didn’t want to reveal to her just yet. It was how I knew where she was. It was how I knew her mother had died.

I finally lift my eyes to meet hers. “Yes,” I say honestly. “It’s how I knew where you were and how to find you. He told me to go to you when he knew he was dying. He was afraid for you.”

Her face is tight, but I can see the conflict warring within her. I reach out and pick up her hand, giving it a squeeze. “I know it’s not easy, and you have every right to be angry, but he did love you.”

She squeezes my fingers back, and looked away, but not before I see a tear slip down her cheek. I look at our joined hands, and my cock throbs, even as my heart hurts for her. I ponder the mixture of emotions that she is making me feel.

I want her. I have wanted her from the moment I saw her, and now, as I feel her respond to my touch, that desire burns hotter and more fiercely than ever.

But this isn’t just about desire. This is about trust. About getting her to let go, to open up, to see that I’m not the enemy.

I can’t rush it. I have to let her come to me, let her make the choice. Because when she does—when she finally lets those walls come down—it will be all the more satisfying.

“I’m not your enemy,” I say, my voice a low rumble. “You know that, don’t you?”

Her eyes flutter open, and she looks at me, really looks at me, as if she is seeing me for the first time. The conflict in her gaze is still there, but so is something else—something that makes my heart pound and my blood sing.

“Maybe,” she whispers, her voice barely audible.

The rest of the ride passes in a charged silence, the air between us thick with unspoken tension. But I can feel the shift, the slow, inevitable pull that is drawing us closer together. She can fight it, resist it, but I know that sooner or later, she will give in.

And when she does, there will be no turning back.