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“Stay away from me.”
Well, fuck you too, Miss Hart.
Chapter Sixteen
ELLA
Ilook down at my plate, waiting for him to leave the room. But he keeps looking. I want him to shout, taunt, mock. Do anything but look at me like that.
Every time his gaze lingers on me, an invisible weight descends, settling uncomfortably on my shoulders. It's not the casual glance one might exchange in passing; it's an intense scrutiny that makes my skin prickle. I can feel the heat of his eyes, a palpable force that seems to trace the edges of my body.
It's unnerving, the way his eyes dissect me, as if unraveling layers of my being that I never intended to expose. Anxiety tightens my chest, and a sudden self-consciousness creeps in, making every movement feel scrutinized.
I catch glimpses of his gaze lingering on the curve of my neck and the line of my shoulders, and it sends a shiver down my spine. In those moments, his eyes become an unwelcome touch, a probing examination that leaves me feeling exposed. I can sense the hunger in his gaze, a hunger that I'm not sure I'm ready to confront. It makes me long for him, want him. In every way.
I find myself avoiding eye contact, a feeble attempt to shield myself from the intensity of his stare. The weight of his scrutiny is suffocating, and I can't help but wonder what he sees when he looks at me – a puzzle to solve, a challenge to conquer.
I catch myself adjusting my posture, tugging at the hem of my shirt. The air thickens with tension, and I become hyper-aware of every inch of my exposed skin.
His eyes seem to possess the ability to strip away layers of me, leaving me exposed and vulnerable. This is worse. As he finally gets up, I sense him shutting away the part of himself I have just seen, shifting once again into his bossy demeanor.
“’Later, Ella.”
I don’t even look up at him. I know that look all too well. The look he had on his face that whole night. I hate that look. It makes me forget everything. Everything around me. I hate him for bringing me here in the first place. I hate him for making my pulse catch at odd intervals. I shake my head and ease my shoulders as the door shuts behind Tommaso.
“Let me escort you back to your room, Miss Hart.” The housekeeper says coming towards me.
“I know the way, thank you.”
‘Don Tommaso strictly ordered–’
“I don’t care. I don’t give a fuck what he said!” I feel bad for raising my voice at her but she doesn’t say anything and starts to pick up the plates. I need to control my temper. I need to play it smart. Getting frustrated won’t help. I go outside and into the entrance. There are tall, muscular men in sophisticated suits everywhere. Too many of them.
As I pass them, I can't help but shoot a quick, furtive glance in their direction. It's met with a steely gaze from one of the henchmen, a gaze that makes my skin prickle with discomfort. Why are these men all over this place? Creeps.
Curiosity sparks within me, a need to understand why this legion of men encircles his home. They stand like sentinels, their watchful eyes following my every move. I try to veil the unease that snakes its way through my veins. I give up. I go to the guest room and I lock the door as I see the housekeeper approaching.
“I would like to rest. I have a headache.” No answer. I hear the retreat of her heels. Gone. Good. I look around the ginormous room and at my reflection in the big mirror. The dress is backless and shows my cleavage a little too much.
Why did I even wear it in the first place? I could’ve just not listened to the housekeeper’s instructions. I could’ve just worn my T-shirt. I jolt the heels off and step into the immaculate closet. There isn’t much to choose from. Small dresses and boujee heels. I open a big drawer and find a plain black T-shirt in there. I look at it. It will work. I slip out of the dress and into the t-shirt.
Much better. I lie on the bed, staring at the ceiling. Will he return? No. The door’s locked. I close my eyes at the thought and drift away to sleep.
A jolt wakes me up disoriented and dazed. How long did I sleep for? As I turn my face to the left, I see him. His expression softens as he meets my gaze but I feel my anger surging. What the fuck.
“How did you get in?!” I holler, forgetting where I am, and who he is and what he can do.
“This is my house. What do you mean, how did I get in?” He smirks. Prick.
“This is not funny. Invading my privacy like this.” I spit the words at him. He doesn’t seem to give a flying fuck about it. He blinks and his eyes sweep down my legs and back.
“You should be wearing satin or silk,” he breathes. “But even in my t-shirt, you look beautiful.” His t-shirt? Fuck. No wonder it was so oversized. He stands in front of me, staring intently. The same powerful gaze I have been trying to avoid. I can’t give in. He’s fine-looking. Charismatic, too.
But he is a mafioso. A monster. Nothing more.
“You slept for quite a while. Is that headache better? The housekeeper mentioned it.” I look at the time on my watch. It is 5:46 in the evening. Was he here all this time?
“None of your damn concern.”
