ROM
On Tuesday, I parked in front of Mia’s studio and let a delivery biker pass before opening the car door.
It was eight a.m. The day was going to be a scorcher. Even now, it was already oppressively humid and hot.
A few streets over, cars blared their horns, and an ambulance wailed, threatening to cleave my skull in two. I was running on fumes. Last night, I’d barely slept.
I’d gotten in bed by one, determined to be sharp for today, but just as I’d started drifting off, the general manager at Black Silk called.
Four armed Albanians had tried to get into my club. On a fucking Monday night, when it was basically dead. My men got them and dragged them into my office, not knowing if they should let them go or not. By the time I arrived, they were still high on something, babbling excuses about how they’d gone to the wrong club. Maybe they were telling the truth. Maybe they weren’t. Didn’t matter.
They left with something to remember me by.
Flexing my bruised knuckles, I crossed the sidewalk and walked up to Mia’s studio.
She opened the door before I even knocked. Clearly, she’d been waiting for me.
My gaze trailed a path down her body. She was dressed for the weather—light-blue skirt stopping mid-thigh on smooth, toned legs. A white silk blouse fitted just right. It skimmed over her curves, making me want to see what it would look like untucked, unbuttoned.
The sight of her made this shitty heat suddenly seem a lot less shitty.
“Morning,” I drawled, masking the gut-punch of arousal. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d found a woman this attractive.
It pissed me off.
I wasn’t worried it would interfere with my plans, but it was a distraction. An annoying one.
She gave me a once-over, eyes lingering on my belt for a second too long. “No gun this time?”
I smirked. “I can get it, if that’s what gets you going.”
She huffed but didn’t take the bait. “Come in.”
The studio was as I remembered it. Small. Tidy. Feminine.
A clothing rack stood beside her desk with a few garments already prepped. Looked like they might be my size.
We sat across from each other at her desk. She laced her fingers neatly over a leather sketchbook, her back straight. She seemed nervous and trying so damn hard to hide it.
This was going to be fun.
“I sketched a proposal for your outfit,” she said, diving straight in. “The plan is for you to review the design and try on some of the pieces I picked out. We’ll have one more meeting for a fitting, and we’ll be done.”
Two meetings.
She was trying to get me in and out of her life as quickly as possible. Maybe she wasn’t as arrogant as I thought. Maybe she sensed it was dangerous to be around me for too long.
I smirked. “You never asked for my moon sign.”
She reached for a thick stack of papers and pushed it my way. “I got it from Nina,” she said. “Did you know she’s into astrology?”
I glanced down. The cover page said it was a birth chart reading, and it had my full name, along with my birth date, time of birth, and location.
The fuck?
I flipped the page and stared at some graph I had no idea how to read. The next page was a wall of text. It was in-depth. More detailed than any of the bullshit horoscopes I’d seen in magazines.
She was prepared.
“You’re Gemini sun, Venus square Saturn, and an Aries moon. Your moon sign is fire, ruled by Mars, which signifies action and energy.”
“Astrology’s not really my thing,” I said, brushing it off. Fucking Nina. She sold me out. Not that I put much weight into this stuff, but—
“You’re confident, bold, assertive. You crave excitement and independence and hate when people try to control you. Boredom is your enemy. You need constant mental stimulation, or you start to feel like you’re crawling out of your skin.”
I froze mid page flip, a prickling sensation creeping up the back of my neck. That was…uncomfortably accurate. Especially the last part. My days were packed, sure—but every night, the silence hit me like a wall. I had this ritual: put on a film the second I got home. Just so I wouldn’t have to sit in it.
“She must have been thrilled to help, considering she told you to stay the hell away from me,” I muttered, slapping the pages down and pushing the stack away from me.
“She thinks I shouldn’t do this,” Mia admitted. “But at the end of the day, it’s my choice.”
Interesting. Just when I’d thought she was nothing more than a helpless little lamb, she showed a bit of backbone.
She was a lot more interesting than I’d initially pegged her to be.
She opened her sketchbook and turned it toward me. The way she leaned forward gave me a tantalizing glimpse down her blouse.
Suddenly, I was wide awake, every cell in my body hyperaware of her.
Fuck.
I’ve seen enough tits for two lifetimes. At this point, a good rack was like a well-made whiskey cocktail at the club—appreciated, sure, but nothing that stopped me in my tracks.
Except hers, apparently.
Heat rushed straight down to my cock, and my mind went to places it shouldn’t. Like imagining her sprawled on my bed, nothing but moonlight licking at her skin.
“In Roman mythology, Mars is the god of war, so I thought we could play with that.” She tapped the paper. “Tell me what you think.”
I dragged my gaze to the drawing, forcing myself to focus.
The sketch was clean and precise. A tailored military-style suit, the jacket with a double-breasted cut and a high collar. Ornate silver clasps ran down the chest, and a thick leather belt wrapped around the middle. A deep red cape was pinned to the suit with a brooch, and draped over one shoulder, giving it a dramatic flair. The pants were slimmer than my usual, tucked inside a pair of leather boots.
It looked like the uniform of a celestial warlord.
The god of war.
Yeah, I could see it.
I looked at her. “Sold.”
She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. “Yeah? You can tell me if you don’t like it.”
I liked it, all right. She had talent. And although that fucking birth chart was an intrusion, the vain part of me was pleased that she’d put so much thought into this instead of just phoning it in.
Most of my suits were made by our family’s tailor—Giuseppe. He was a cranky old man who lectured me about menswear while holding me hostage in his office.
I had a feeling I’d enjoy her fussing over me a hell of a lot more.
“You did well,” I said, picking up a small tube that lay on her desk.
It was her lip gloss.
Berry.
The same one that made her mouth that deep, fuckable shade of red.
She snatched it from my fingers. “Will your brother be at the party?”
My brother? “Which one?”
“Cosimo.”
Why was she asking about him?
Hold on.
I sat back, tipping my head slightly as I took her in.
Mia Morales wasn’t selfish. Everything I’d learned about her said the opposite. So what was more likely—that she’d taken this job to save her business?
Or to save someone else?
“Why do you want to know about my brother?”
She shifted in her seat. “He’s marrying my best friend. Is it so surprising that I’d be curious about him?”
There it was. She was concerned about Fabiana.
Cos had been a shitty fiancé so far, and I was sure Mia had heard all about it from Fabi this past week. After she’d finally learned the truth about her friend. After she’d crashed a party she had no business being at.
And now she was swooping in, trying to protect her.
Fuck me. This girl had a savior complex.
I dragged my palm over my lips. I could use this.
“All right,” I said easily. “I’ll tell you about him. But it’s a question for a question. One from you, one from me.”
Her brows furrowed. “Fine.”
I smiled. She was so eager for information, so desperate to know if her best friend was walking into a nightmare. She wasn’t even trying to hide it.
Her throat worked around her next words. “Is he going to hurt her?”
I held her gaze. “Cos doesn’t hurt women.” I paused. “Not physically, at least.”
She stared at me, waiting, expecting me to say more. I didn’t. I never said more than I needed to.
It was my turn now.
“What’s the real reason your father is so fucking obsessed with my family?”
Her lips—those soft, berry-coated lips—pressed into a thin line. “Haven’t you watched any of his rallies? Your family is the reason my uncle is dead.”
“Yeah, I know. Caught in a shootout a fucking century ago.”
“More like thirty years,” she corrected.
“Before either of us were born. Your dad really knows how to hold a grudge, huh?”
“He only wants justice.”
“He was happy enough living without it for more than half of his life. You know there has to be something else.”
She seemed confused. “Something else? I don’t know what you mean.”
Was that a lie? I searched her expression, waiting for a tell—the flick of her gaze, the twitch of her fingers.
Nothing.
“You really—“
“I answered your question,” she said, cutting me off.
“Fine. Your turn.”
“No. That’s enough.” Pushing back from the desk, she looked flushed. “I don’t want to play this game anymore.”
She was rattled. Why? Because she was hiding something? Or because she hated toeing the line?
This girl wanted to help Fabi and also wanted to protect her dad.
She was so goddamn busy trying to be everything to everyone that she was allowing her business to crumble in the meantime.
If this wasn’t fully self-inflicted and if I possessed a heart, I might have felt sorry for her.
Instead, I cocked a brow. “What now?”
She grabbed a few hangers off the metal rack. “I need you to try these on so I can check the fit. Then I’ll take your measurements for any alterations.”
I began unbuttoning my shirt.
Her eyes sprang wide. “What are you doing?”
“Changing.”
She practically threw the clothes at me, her hands flying up as if to block her view. “Not here! Go to the back.” She gestured to the curtained-off area at the back where I’d hidden last time.
“What if I need some help?” I asked, getting up.
Her nostrils flared. “You’re capable of putting on pants without assistance, I assume?”
I shrugged, stepping closer. “If I must. But we both know it’d be more fun if you helped.”
“That’s not happening,” she muttered and brushed past me, her shoulder grazing mine.
I chuckled. It was far too easy to get a rise out of her.
The dark slacks slid on without a problem.
The shirt was another matter. I got my arms halfway through the sleeves. The fabric wrapped around me like shrink wrap, and I took it off.
“Shirt’s too small,” I called, stepping out of the changing room with it hanging off my index finger. “Got another?”
She was leaning against her desk, typing something on her phone. Her gaze lifted, widened, and darted away just as quickly.
“Let me check.” She rushed over to the rack of clothes.
I ran a hand over the tattoo on the side of my neck, enjoying how fucking flustered she looked. She walked over to me with another shirt, clearly trying to avoid looking at my bare chest. Was she afraid I’d mesmerize her with my six-pack?
I mean, fair. It’s happened before.
“Here,” she said, giving me the shirt.
I took it. “Thanks.”
Her eyes locked onto my bruised hand.
“What happened?” she asked, her brows knitting.
I slid my arms through the sleeves. “Nothing.”
Mia didn’t move, just stood there watching as I started on the buttons. “Looks like it hurts.”
“Just a bit stiff.” I flexed my hand against the ache as I fumbled with a button.
She frowned. “Here, let me.” She stepped closer and made quick work of the buttons, her fingertips brushing against my skin through the fabric now and then.
Those featherlight touches sent sparks all the way down to my cock.
It was ridiculous. What the fuck was going on with me?
On paper, Mia wasn’t my type. I didn’t chase good girls or get off on the idea of luring them into my world. Women were either part of the job or one-night stands to take the edge off.
Mia was just another job.
And yet, my reaction to her was throwing me for a fucking loop.
“I’ve got it,” I said, my voice rough as I tried to push her hands away.
She ignored me, her stubborn fingers continuing their work.
Jesus. She just couldn’t help herself. She was even trying to save me.
‘What happens when you stop rescuing the people around you?’ I asked, watching the way her frown deepened, tugging at the corners of her lips.
She hesitated. ‘I don’t know what you mean.’
“You care too much. Have you ever been selfish, or is that word foreign to you?’ I tilted my head, studying her. ‘You’re such a fucking good girl—practically a caricature.’
Her eyes snapped to mine, flashing with indignation. ‘You’re a jerk.’
She tried to step away, but I caught her wrists with my bruised hands, ignoring the sharp stab of pain. I moved forward, forcing her back. She stumbled, shoulder blades meeting the wall with a soft thud.
“I should’ve known you’d never agree to work for me if the only person who stood to benefit from this arrangement was you.”
Her eyes widened. Was she surprised I could read her so easily? She was an open fucking book.
‘Romolo,’ she said, voice tight. ‘Let go of me.’
I leaned in, lowering my voice. ‘I’ll let you in on a secret.’ My grip tightened slightly—not enough to hurt, just enough to make sure she was listening. ‘Not everyone deserves to be taken care of.’
Her breath hitched. ‘That’s a sad way to look at life.’
‘Is it?’ I murmured.
“Do you think it’s a burden? Taking care of people?” She tried again to pull away. “Because it’s not. I like doing it.”
“Oh yeah?” I inched forward, closing the distance between us. “Tell me…who takes care of you?”
Her lips parted, but nothing came out.
I could see the way my words were sinking in, making her think. Making her wonder.
How long would it take for her to come to a conclusion she wouldn’t like? I mean, shit. Her father hadn’t even bothered telling her to stop broadcasting her location.
‘Let go of me, Romolo,” she whispered. Her gaze flicked—just for a moment—to my mouth.
“Is that really what you want?”
Her pupils dilated, and a shallow breath escaped her lips.
Those lips. Those goddamn lips. I wanted to bite into them. To find out what they tasted like.
Why the fuck not?
Outside, the city churned—car horns, footsteps, the distant hum of voices—but here, in this studio, we were in a bubble. A charged, electric bubble neither of us appeared willing to break.
I leaned down, shrinking the distance between us until my nose nearly brushed against hers.
Was I fully in control? Not really. But I was here to find leverage, and this felt like moving roughly in the right direction. I’d find some way to use this. Eventually.
Just as I was about to satiate my curiosity, she jerked her hands out of my loosened grip and said, “Yes. That is what I want.”
The moment snapped.
Clearing her throat, she sidestepped me, grabbed a suit jacket off the rack, and held it out. “Put this on.” There was a slight tremble in her voice.
I dragged my tongue over my teeth. Annoyed. Frustrated. Turned on. “Sure.”
She busied herself with straightening out some clothes, pretending she wasn’t affected by what just happened. But she wasn’t fooling me.
Jacket on, I strode toward the full-length mirror.
“It’s too tight in the shoulders.” She appeared behind me with a piece of measuring tape. Her hands smoothed over my upper back, dragging down my arms as she assessed the fit. “And the sleeves are too short.”
Her touch was light, barely there. But it might as well have been a brand.
I grunted like I agreed and clenched my fists against the heat tunneling through my body. Why couldn’t I shake it off?
“I was hoping to use this suit as the base of the look,” she said. “I’ll have to sew some of the embellishments on.” She moved around to my front, tugging on the front of the jacket, brushing her fingers along the collar. Her brow furrowed in concentration, oblivious—or maybe pretending to be—while my body went tight as a wire.
“This works.” Her fingers grazed just beneath my ear as she adjusted the neckline. “I want you to keep it buttoned all the way up.”
And I wanted her on her knees in front of me, those pretty doe eyes looking up as her lips wrapped around my—
I clenched my jaw and dragged my gaze away from her, cursing under my breath as I willed my stiffening dick back under control.
When was the last time a woman touched you like this? a voice in the back of my mind whispered.
It wasn’t sexual, just…intimate. So why the fuck was this such a turn-on?
“Okay, I think I have what I need.” She dragged her hand down my back one more time. “You can go change now.”
The dressing room was a relief—a much-needed fucking chance to breathe.
I yanked off the jacket and forced my mind elsewhere. Torture. Nails scraping on a chalkboard. The smell of week-old garbage—anything to get my dick down.
“When are we meeting next?” I asked once I stepped back out.
Mia took the clothes from me. “Once I have the alterations done. Let’s plan for Tuesday next week. That will give us a few days before the dinner on Saturday to fine-tune anything.” She glanced away, moving to put everything back on the rack.
While she wasn’t looking, I swiped her lip gloss off her desk and shoved it into my pocket.
Why? Fuck if I knew. Probably because I was losing my goddamn mind.
I walked out of there frustrated, feeling like I’d lost the round.
Next time I came back, I was going to make sure I got some sleep. Because this game between us was only getting started.
