She swallows, a subtle but visible movement in her elegant throat. “I remember.”
“Tonight,” I continue, my voice dropping lower, “everyone at Purgatorio will see exactly who you belong to. What you are to me.” My hand reaches the apex of her thighs, and I feel her heat through the thin fabric of her underwear. “And what I am to you.”
Her breathing is shallow now, her lips slightly parted. “And what is that?” she asks.
I lean in until my lips brush her ear. “Everything.”
The waiter returns with the champagne, even more flustered now to find us practically intertwined. As he fumbles with the bottle, I take it from him.
“I’ll handle it,” I say smoothly. I pour two glasses, my eyes locked on Lea’s. I hand her a glass, our fingers brushing. I turn to the defeated waiter. “The chef’s tasting menu. All courses. And please don’t disturb us again unless the building is on fire.”
The waiter nods and flees. I turn back to Lea, a predatory glint in my eye. “Now,” I whisper, leaning in to kiss her neck, just below her ear where I know she’s sensitive, “where were we?”
She makes a small sound in the back of her throat, somewhere between a sigh and a moan. Her free hand comes up to grip my sweater, either pulling me closer or steadying herself—I’m not sure which.
“Nico,” she breathes, and for a moment—just a moment—I allow myself to believe that the desire in her voice is genuine. Whatever trap awaits me tonight, her feelings, at least, are real.
But then I remember the burner phone, and the ice around my heart thickens. This is a performance. An elaborate deception leading to my downfall.
I raise my champagne glass, offering a toast. “To tonight,” I say, my voice betraying none of the cold fury building inside me. “And all it promises.”
Her glass meets mine with a delicate chime. “To tonight,” she echoes, her eyes holding mine as she takes a sip.
I watch her throat work as she swallows, and I think of Moretti, and Isabel, and whatever they’ve promised her. I think of the elaborate trap being set at Purgatorio right now, and the counter-trap I’ve arranged. I think of how, in just a few hours, this beautiful, dangerous woman will learn exactly who she’s been playing games with.
I’ve been The Diplomat for longer than you’ve been alive, piccola,I think as I sip my champagne.Tonight, we’ll see who the better player truly is.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
LEA
The leather seatof the Bentley is cool beneath my thighs as Nico pulls me onto his lap, his hands spanning my waist. The privacy screen seals us into our own world of dark leather and quiet anticipation.
I stare into his eyes, so dark they’re almost black in the dim light. For all his control, right now he looks like a man coming undone. By me. By desire. By whatever this is between us that defies logic.
This is it. The final act.
A feeling of cold triumph settles in me. He’s completely consumed, exactly where Isabel needs him to be. The elaborate dance we’ve performed has led here. He used me as a pawn to get to my mother; I will use him as a sacrifice to avenge my father.
“What are you thinking about?” he murmurs, his lips brushing the sensitive spot just below my ear. His voice is rough, gravelly with need.
“You,” I answer, and it’s the truth. “Only you.”
His hands slide to my hips, fingers flexing into my flesh. “Good.” The word is a brand against my skin. “Because after tonight, there will be no doubt who you belong to.”
The possessiveness in his tone should repulse me. This man, who orchestrated my father’s murder, who held me captive—I should feel nothing but hatred. Instead, my body responds to him, a betrayal I can’t seem to stop.
It’s just biology,I tell myself.Physical chemistry. It means nothing.But the lie is flimsy even in my mind.
He trails his fingers up my bare thigh, pushing the hem of my dress higher with torturous slowness. “I’ve been thinking about this throughout dinner,” he says, his other hand tangling in my hair, pulling my head back to expose my throat. “Watching you pretend to eat while all you could think about was my cock inside you.”
I gasp as his fingers brush the lace edge of my underwear. “I wasn’t pretending.”
“No?” His smile is devastatingly confident. “Then why did you barely touch your food? Why did you keep crossing and uncrossing your legs?” He applies the slightest pressure, and I have to bite my lip. “Why are you already so wet for me?”
I want to hate him for being right. Instead, I grind down against his hand.
“You’re mine,” he says, his fingers pushing aside the fabric barrier and sliding into me. “Say it.”
