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I watch him walk out of my office, leaving the door open as he goes to the small kitchenette behind Cindy’s desk to make us two cups of coffee. He opens the fridge for the cream, which is just for me, him being a straight black coffee man himself.
As I watch his tall frame approach me, reaching down to hand me my cup, it dawns on me that no man has ever made me a coffee before. At least not like this. I actually need to stretch my memory to think if any male work colleges in the past have done such a thing, but I come up blank.
Nico might be the first.
Grabbing the coffee from him, I take a quick sip, looking at him over the rim of my cup as he takes a seat on the sofa behind me. With me now sitting on the floor at his feet, the power dynamics are evident. I don’t like it one bit.
“What do you think?” he asks, waving his hands across the pile of papers surrounding me on the floor as his body sinks into the white pillowy softness of my sofa, a place I am already wishing to relax into. To anyone else, the papers look a mess, but to me, it is organized exactly how I’ve processed it.
“Too early to say… but…” I trail off and take another sip of the coffee. He really does make it good, I will give him that.
“But what?” he barks out sharply, and I turn slowly to face him, my eyes searing. Patience is not his strong point.
“You know, if you want me to workwithyou, I think you could start with being a littlenicerto me. I could just sit here and shuffle papers and put random names into the laptop and you would have no idea if I was being helpful or not.” I shrug, giving him a big cheesy sarcastic smile, and batting my eyelashes in an overt attempt to grate on his nerves. His total lack of gratitude is frustrating.
“I like when you get fiery…” he says, smirking, taking a sip of his coffee. Of course he likes it. Dammit. Doesn’t he get it that he needs me, not the other way around. This man is so maddening.
“Tell me what you are thinking, bambolina.” I have no idea if he is being genuine or taunting me, but regardless, calling me a nickname gives me butterflies. Only, these butterflies seem to have a death wish.
“What does bambolina mean?” I ask with a huff, assuming it is something crass, and straightening my back, ready to think of a smart response.
“Little doll,” he replies without hesitation, his eyes skimming my hair and my body, filling me with warmth, before settling back on to my face. I remain quiet, but my heart skips a beat, and I raise an eyebrow in question, but he doesn’t elaborate.
Rolling my lips, I take a deep breath and release it slowly before putting down my cup on the coffee table and sitting on my knees. I decide to get back to business. Best to ignore the way that just made me feel the exact opposite of how I was expecting. “So, we have bank statements, insurance policies, company files…” I start to explain, flipping through the papers to find something, then looking up at him. “What is this?” I ask, handing a letter to Nico.
“A letter from the Swiss bank where your father had millions. But we have already looked here, already scanned every account we could find,” he says, handing it back to me.
“So what about this one?” I ask again, pushing another paper into his face.
“From the Seychelles, his hidden bank account,” Nico says, eyeing me suspiciously. “Go on.” He leans forward, now clearly interested in what I have to say.
“Well, there are no investment notices, no medical documents, no trust fund information…” He moves even closer, and I swallow past the growing lump in my throat. I should really tell him to never wear that delicious cologne again.
“Hmmm, and?” His dark eyes shine with anticipation as he looks into mine, waiting for what I am going to say next.
“There is also no passport,” I state, clearing my throat as I wait for him to put the pieces together. Only, his face remains blank as he watches me.
“Nico, all of this paperwork is international documentation, but we don’t have his passport or travel details, plane log book, hours for his jet, or anything like that,” I say, looking up at him again to see if he understands what I am getting at.
“What are you saying?” he asks me, his eyes penetrating mine, his forehead crinkled in thought.
“There has to be another box. There has to be more… there is so much that is missing. And…” I stop as I watch him process, seeing his jaw tighten.
“And?” he prods.
“And, I think whatever you are looking for is in international borders…” I say in merely a whisper because I am afraid to say anything out loud, not sure of his reaction, suddenly feeling like I am swimming in dangerous territory. I hope he doesn’t think I know more than I really do. Being on the wrong side of the mob is not my preferred position.
He moves a little in his seat, and I immediately stiffen and move away from him slightly, not wanting to meet his eye. Tilting his head, he pauses, looking at me questioningly.
“Are you afraid of me, Emilia?” his eyes crease a little as he asks the question. My first instinct is to lie, because screw him, but why even bother at this point.
“You are the mob, Nico. Everyone is afraid of you.”
“But are you? Or are you just afraid because you think you should be?” Nico searches my face as I try to understand his question.
His hand comes out and grabs my chin, the action making me gasp as he tilts my face up toward his, which is now mere inches away.
His grip is warm and firm, and I don’t want to move away. My body craves to move closer, while my mind is telling me to run. The warring feelings slam into me, making me second guess everything.
