I raise my chin. “Bet I can outrun you.”
“Hmm, and what do you want if you win?”
I shrug. “Haven't decided yet. I'll let you know.” I already know what I want.
“You’re on,” he responds.
We run. Hard. Side by side. The only sounds are our breathing and the pounding of our feet. I used to go for runs, back home. I push myself until my lungs burn, but he’s relentless. Of course, he wins.
He slows his machine first, barely winded, while I’m gasping for air.
He steps off, grabs his water bottle, and takes a long drink. Then, without hesitation, he holds it out to me.
I take the bottle, put my lips where his just were, and drink. The moment feels shockingly intimate. His eyes darken as he watches my throat work, as a drop of water slips down my chin.
When I hand it back, his fingers brush mine deliberately. Before I can pull away, his hand slides around my waist and yanks me against him. A sharp breath leaves me as my body collides with his chest.
Heat pours off him instantly, sweat, soap, something dark and masculine that wraps around me and sinks straight into my bloodstream.
My palms flatten against his chest on instinct, hard muscle flexing beneath my hands. We’re so close I can feel the steady rise and fall of his breathing, the brush of his thigh between mine.
Every nerve ending lights up at once, heat rushing low through my stomach, between my legs, until it almost aches. My eyes drop to his mouth before I can stop myself. Remembering how they felt against mine last night, I so badly want him to kiss me again.
He bends close, his lips brushing the shell of my ear as he whispers, “I’ll tell you when I decide my price for winning,” he says, voice low and rough.
The sound of someone clearing their throat has me jerking away from Nico instantly.
I spin around and find the same man who interrupted us in Nico’s office the other day standing by the doorway. Heat floods my face in embarrassment.
“Excuse me,” I mumble, mortified.
Before either of them can say a word, I hurry out of the room.
Nico
Marco has the absolute worst fucking timing on the planet.
If he wasn’t my oldest friend and underboss, I’d put a bullet in his head right now.
He’s leaning against the doorframe of the gym with that stupid, knowing smirk on his face, eyes flicking between me and where Eleonora just went, like he walked in on something he can use against me for the next ten years.
“Did I interrupt something?” he asks, voice dripping with amusement.
I give him a flat, warning look and don’t bother responding. Instead, I pick up the water bottle Eleonora just drank from and take a slow sip, hoping to catch even a trace of her on the rim.
Fuck. What am I turning into? What is she turning me into? I set the bottle down harder than necessary.
Marco raises an eyebrow. “So… things going to be more between you and the Caruso girl?”
“No,” I snap. “How about you tell me what I actually want to hear instead of fishing for gossip like a fucking schoolgirl.”
He doesn’t buy it for a second, but the look I give him makes him shut his mouth. He knows when to push and when to back off.
“We weren’t able to get any identification on the guys who hit the warehouse,” he says, switching to business. “No wallets, no phones, no tattoos that link them to anyone. Ran their fingerprints through every database we have, and came back empty. They’re ghosts.”
I groan and drag my fingers through my sweat-damp hair. “Has to be Gallo. That fucker.”
“Yeah,” Marco agrees. “He’s getting antsy. Sending roses yesterday, ghosts today. He’s losing patience.”
