“A gift.”
I unzip it slowly. Red silk spills out—deep, wine-dark, the same shade as the dress from the restaurant.
“You’ve been wearing the same three blouses in rotation for weeks. If you’re going to be my assistant—officially—you should look the part.”
“I’m not wearing that.”
“I wasn’t asking.”
“You can’t just?—”
“I can.” I move around the desk. “I can do whatever I want. That’s the point you keep missing.”
She stands. Tries to step back. The chair blocks her retreat.
I stop in front of her.
“This.” My hand reaches out to trace the collar of her blouse, down to where the first button strains slightly. “This is what an underpaid receptionist wears. Not what a D’Amico assistant wears.”
Her breath catches. I feel it—the slight hitch, the tension that runs through her body like a current.
“You’re…”
“I’m what?”
She doesn’t answer.
My hand flattens against her collarbone.
What am I doing? Stop.
I yank my hand back.
She’s staring at me. Flushed, confused, waiting for something I’m not going to give her.
“The dress. Put it on.”
I watch her disappear down the hallway.
So, this is why you skipped the gala.
I sink into my chair. Run a hand through my hair.
The gala. Nico. Vincenzo. The Morenos. The delicate web of alliances and obligations I’ve spent fifteen years maintaining.
Fuck.
My phone rings.
I check the screen. The name flashing there is exactly who I expected.
Nico.
“Where the fuck are you?”
No greeting. No preamble.
“Good evening to you too.”
