“You already know me better than most…” I assure her.
“I mean I want to know about your past, the life you had before we met.”
“Here, this will help,” I offer as I go over to my desk and scribble on a piece of letterhead. “This is the link and password to my private photo archive. Everything I’ve ever cared about is somewhere in there. Look over it a bit today while I handle business, then later you can ask me anything you like.”
“I’ll do that.” Constance smiles at me as she takes the paper I offer her. “I’ll check this out as soon as I’ve had a shower,” she adds as she walks over and unlocks the door to my office, then leaves me standing there, half-dressed and still stunned in post-orgasmic bliss.
She has no idea how dangerous it is to want more of me.
But I already know that I’ll give her every piece she asks for.
26
Constance
The hot sprayof the shower washes over me, but I know it can’t clear the thoughts tangling in my mind. My skin still hums from Maximo’s touch, my body remembering him even as I try to steady myself. He’s been… everything. Gentle, commanding, attentive, more than I ever knew a man could be. And yet the contradiction gnaws at me.
Because he isn’t just a man. He’s the king of this city’s underworld. The most powerful gangster in a place drowning with them.
I want to see him as he sees himself, though. Not the way the newspapers paint him, or even the way other people whisper about him, but through his own lens.
When I get out of the shower, I wrap my robe around me, reach for my phone, and send a quick text to Melissa letting her know that I’m still at Maximo’s, and that I’m doing well. Then, I go to the link he gave me.
I scroll through images of him in tailored suits, standing before landmarks in Rome, Paris, Dubai. I notice how he always seems so composed, calm, and guarded. And that he’s never pictured with a woman. In every photo he’s only with his men; dark-suited, watchful, shadows that follow him like bodyguards but carry themselves with the same air of quiet danger he has.
Further back in the archive, I find a video clip he posted of a local news report. A female reporter interviewed him outside a ribbon-cutting ceremony, the gleaming glass of a skyscraper stretching into the sky behind them. I recognize the building as the Luciani Financial Group’s new business management headquarters.
The reporter smiles too brightly as she asks, “How do you respond to rumors that you’re not just a businessman, but the head of a crime family that’s turned the entire city into one giant protection racket?”
In the video clip, Maximo doesn’t flinch. He only tilts his head, eyes glinting with amusement. “Is the police union a protection racket? Is the Bar association? Both take dues from their members, and in exchange, offer benefits, resources, and yes, sometimes even protection. My corporation is no different. We protect the businesses under our umbrella, promoting unity through collective action. Businesses which are part of our association enjoy the stability of working with us. The ones who don’t… well, they take their chances going uninsured in a city of this size.”
Then, smoothly, he adds, “But I appreciate the question.” And the clip ends.
I set my phone aside, my heart feeling unsteady and heavy in my chest. Maximo answered without answering, defended without defending. As if the entire city really does exist at his pleasure.
And as I stare at image after image of the man I’ve beensleeping beside, someone so untouchable, composed, terrifyingly self-possessed, I feel something inside me shift.
Wanting Maximo is dangerous. Needing him is worse.
But I can’t stop.
Later that night, lying in the dark beside Maximo, I turn my face toward his sleeping profile. Strong, unyielding, and… mine in a way I wasn’t expecting.
I had fought it, argued with myself, listed every reason why it was foolish, dangerous, impossible. But none of it mattered anymore.
I’m in love with him.
The next morning, I wake up when the mattress creaks and shifts as Maximo gently disentangles himself from me. My eyes crack open to see he’s already out of bed, his bare backside disappearing into the closet where he keeps his army of suits. I glance over at the clock to see that it isn’t quite six a.m. His early rising must be habitual which is going to take some getting used to. Maximo moves like a man who’s always lived by discipline, as if even sleep dares not delay him for long.
I lay there for a moment, listening to the sound of the shower starting in the adjoining bathroom before slipping from the bed myself. I pull on the bathrobe that I’ve come to adore and then go downstairs. The kitchen’s calling me this morning. For reasons I hadn’t expected, I find that I like making breakfast for Maximo. The way he looks at me as though trying to figure out why I would bother making food for him without being paid, makes me realize that no one does anything for Maximo without expecting something in return. Even cooking for him, just for the joy of it, seems to puzzle him.
By the time he comes downstairs, his black hair damp, shirt crisp, the smell of coffee, sausage and eggs fill the kitchen.
“Morning,” I say as I slide a plate across the counter toward him.
He sits, the faintest curve of a smile tugging at his lips. “Thank you. Did you sleep well last night?”
“I did, until someone left me cold and lonely at the crack of dawn,” I remark.
