I stare at the screen before sending, overthinking and rethinking.
Then I delete it and try again.
Katya: I have a surprise for you.
There. Let him wonder what the surprise is. He’ll probably imagine me waiting for him, completely naked and on all fours. Ha!
I toss the phone onto the dresser and then head back to my paint supplies. Cleanup doesn’t take me long. It hasn’t escaped my notice that Enzo’s kitchen is immaculate. So clean, you could eat your lunch out of the sink. Naturally, I’ve gone through the cabinets, leaving some hanging open. Abandoning a mess of pink paint in the sink, half watered-down, should add nicely to the overall effect. It’s an excellent complement to the lunch plate I left on the island, the trash I intentionally neglected to throw away, and the stool I pulled out and abandoned.
And that’s just the kitchen.
I also scooped out a few of his drawers, dumping the neatly folded shirts and boxer briefs on his pillow. During my shopping expedition with Antonio, I bought nearly an entire makeup counter. I also bought all the shower gels, creams, scrubs, and shampoos I could find and filled the primary shower with them, leaving his products strewn on the bathroom counter.
I’m not going to lie, I did open his shower gel and take a good whiff of it. Then I showered and left my wet towel in a crumpled heap on the floor.
I get out a few trays of sushi and start placing them on the dining room table in preparation for his arrival. I’m going to be the bestgood little wifeLorenzo Andriani can possibly hope for. I pour him a big glass of sake. I’m just lighting the candles on the dining room table—also hot pink and a garish replacement for the understated, elegant candles that were here to begin with—when the elevator door opens and my husband saunters in.
The main space of his massive apartment is open, a combination of kitchen, dining, and living room all in one. So he sees me before the doors even close behind him. He’s wearing a suit like every other day, and damn the man if he doesn’t look like an actor who’s just walked off the red carpet at the Oscars instead of a Mafia enforcer who’s come back from a long day of questionable work. My heart beats fast and my pussy flutters.
I’m remembering everything that’s happened between us as he gives me a slow, sexy smile. His head between my legs, all the orgasms he gave me, the way he played with me, edging me right before he left. My nipples are hard. I’m still wearing my yoga outfit from this morning, but now it’s been embellished with a few splashes of Flamingo’s Pink Paradise.
“Cara mia,” he greets me in that low, sexy voice of his that never fails to incinerate my panties. “How was your day?”
“Busy.” I smile. “How was yours?”
“The same.” He toes off his shoes and strides into the dining room, a frown creasing his features as his eyes dip to my Adidas sneakers, still on my feet.
His carpet, like the walls of his bedroomused to be, is a stark, glacial white. I wouldn’t have guessed a man like him would go for so much white, but being in his space without him for all these hours has left me feeling like I’ve gotten to know him at least a bit. And he’s clearly a man who values spartan modernity, everything white, gray, or black, neat and tidy, no extra clutter, mess, or fuss.
It makes sense to me that a man whose professional world is filled with mayhem, destruction, violence, unpredictability, and death would surround himself with a calming, neutral palette and careful order. It’s probably good for his brain.
To his credit, he doesn’t say anything about the sneakers I’m intentionally wearing. But his gaze does fall on the sushi laid out on the dining room table.
“I ordered dinner for us,” I announce brightly. “Sushi. I hope you like it.”
He opens his mouth as if to say something, then closes it and flashes me an easy grin instead. “Perfect.”
I’m a little deflated by his lack of reaction. I was hoping for horror or disgust. Or for him to tell me he can’t stand sushi as he angrily tossed two grand worth of tuna, salmon, and eel into the trash. But I’m getting none of that. Instead, he’s being completely reasonable. And it irks me.
“I have the miso heating on the stove,” I tell him. “I’ll go get it. There’s some chilled sake waiting for you. Why don’t you have a seat, and I’ll serve up the soup?”
His smile doesn’t slip. “Thanks,cara.”
He’s being nice. Way too nice. Where is the arrogant Scorpion Andriani? The kidnapping mafioso? The ruthless enforcer?
Nowhere to be found as I breeze past him in my three-year-old Adidas that have seen more city-street mileage than most cars. I walk everywhere.
Or at least, I did.
Now I have a bodyguard named Antonio to escort me wherever I want to go.
It’s as if I’m in another world. One I never wanted to inhabit.
I can feel Enzo’s gaze on me as I’m in the kitchen, ladling up the miso into a pair of bowls. It’s every bit as potent as a caress on my bare skin, except I’m fully clothed.
He sniffs the air as I move toward him, bearing the bowls. “Do I smell paint?”
He’s seated at the place I set for him at the table, looking deceptively relaxed. I know him well enough by now to understand that Enzo is never truly at ease. Not even in his sleep.
