Page 92 of Vicious Behaviors

“I told you, I’m fine,” I giggle at his overprotectiveness.

“Leftover Chinese or a tub of ice cream does not constitute a dinner,” he grumbles, placing me on the kitchen counter before rummaging through my cabinets and finding the frying pan on his first try.

“That’s oddly specific,” I say, suddenly frowning. “How do you know that’s what I usually eat at night?”

Marcello doesn’t answer. He just focuses on the task at hand, grabbing some cheese from the fridge and a loaf of bread from the pantry.

I watch in silence as he prepares a grilled cheese sandwich, still wondering how the hell he knew what I had for dinner most nights.

Has he been spying on me? Stalking me? Deep down, I expected that sort of behavior from Haynes. But Marcello? I never thought he’d be the type.

What was I thinking? Of course, he’s the type. Aside from his neurotic paranoia, he’s mafia royalty. Spying is just the thing a man like him would do when he sensed a threat around him.

My gaze immediately sweeps across my apartment in search of a clue, and I find one the instant my eyes land on my curtain-less windows.

Damn it! I was supposed to buy curtains weeks ago, but my schedule hasn’t let up long enough for me to do it. And now, I’m regretting my procrastination, especially since Marcello’s family owns half of Chicago—literally. Real estate, law firms, restaurants, and God knows what else. If anyone could install a camera across the street to spy on me without setting off alarms, it’s him. And let’s not forget that he’s been coming and going outof my apartment without even scratching the lock for the past week, which means he somehow has his own key to my place.

How blind have I been to not read the writing on the wall?

Or, perhaps the better question is… how long have I been wearing these rose-colored glasses to not see the truth literally in front of my face?

I mean, it’s not like he tried to hide these clues from me. I’m the one who’s been too enamored to see them clearly up until now. But if he’s been watching me all this time, long enough to have memorized my eating habits, what else has he seen? What else does he know about me?

“Marcello?”

“Hmm?” he replies absentmindedly, still too focused on feeding me.

“Do you know who I am? Who I really am?” He glances over his shoulder, his penetrating gaze pinning me to my spot.

“Do you really want me to answer that question?”

I mull on my bottom lip, carefully considering what he’s implying. If I keep pressing to get an answer, I’ll be opening Pandora’s box. And once it’s open, our whole dynamic will shift.

Still, it’s not the agent in me that needs answers. It’s the woman in me who needs to know what part of us is real and what isn’t. If what I’m feeling is one-sided, and if he’s only with me to gain access to my case. Am I being naive to hope he doesn’t have ulterior motives? That this isn’t some kind of trap I’ve walked straight into, blinded by his touch, his voice, his eyes?

I open my mouth to ask him outright if he knows I’m an undercover agent, but to my shame, nothing comes out. Marcello must read the hesitation in my eyes, because he turns off the stove and walks toward me, sliding my thighs open to settle between them.

“You’re not you, and I’m not me. Remember?” My forehead creases at his words.

“But one day, I’ll have to be me,” I retort, the truth lying heavy in my throat.

One day, I’ll have to stop pretending. One day, I’ll have to turn him in. Hell, it should have been today. I should have told Haynes the truth about Aldo, but I just couldn’t bring myself to do it. That right there is a blatant red flag that I’m losing my way.

“That day is not today,bella,” he murmurs reassuringly. “We have time.”

“How much time?” I ask, swallowing hard.

“Does it really matter?” The words land like a weight in my chest, tensing my shoulders.

Yes, it matters. But if the extent of the time we have together is befallen only on me, then I would rather not know.

Sensing my nervous breakdown, Marcello’s hands slide to my hips, pulling me closer.

“You’re too wound up,” he says softly, pressing warm, deliberate kisses into the crook of my neck. “Let me fix that.”

I want to tell him that nothing he can do will fix what’s unraveling inside me. That I’m spiraling. That I’m seeing the end before we’ve even begun. That I should never have let it get this far.

How did Marcello get into my head…my heart, this fast?