Page 28 of Covert Desires

“How strange,” I say like it’s really strange and I don’t have the very Don-to-be in question tied to my bed right now.

“Quite. All the families are on edge. His brother has taken the reigns for now. But between you and me, Ricardo Ricci is even worse than his dad.”

“How is that even possible?” I snort. Enzo Ricci was the worst of the worst. I’ve seen the reports of the carnage he’s caused. And for every story you know about, ten more are usually hidden.

“Beats me. I don’t think anyone would be upset if the entire Ricci family tree was wiped from the earth. Scum, all of them,” J. spits.

“Can’t say I disagree,” I say, eyeing the beautiful villain in my bed.

“It will only be a matter of time before they find him though, the missing Ricci. The family has a massive bounty on his head, wanted dead or alive.”

Fucking savages.Dead or alive.

“Thanks, J. Everything else okay there?”

“Yeah. And you? Ready to stop hermitting and return to the real world yet?”

“I’m happy here,” I reply, but we both know I’m lying.

J. sighs. “Look after yourself, Kiah.”

She puts down the phone before I can say or ask anything else.

Keep the calls under 60 seconds, always, that’s the rule.

But 60 seconds was enough for me to get all the information I needed.

The remaining questions I have now aren’t ones J. can help me with.

This is worse than I thought.

I can’t be harboring a fugitive.

Especially not a mafia prince with a bounty on his head.

I throw the phone down on the kitchen counter as I pace around the room. But it does little to alleviate the tension. It’s just stressing me out more.

So, I grab another canvas and sit down behind my easel, hoping to distract myself from the chaos in my mind.

As I go through the soothing routine of setting up my paints, I can’t help but steal glances at the bed where the caged man lies groaning and squirming.

Almost absentmindedly, I start painting, finding relief in the soft strokes of the brush as it stains the acrylic onto the white surface.

I already have his torso done before I realize what (or rather,who) I’m painting—Nico.

It’s been so oppressively hot in this weather that I’ve left him with only a sheet that he’s since discarded to lie before me fully uncovered, except for the chastity cage.

Over the past weeks, I’ve become familiar with every inch of his skin as I cared for him—washing him, wiping him down, cleaning up his shit without so much as batting an eyelash.

There is something so stunning about his slightly tanned complexion that gets lighter around the areas normally hidden from the sun. I’ve had to stop myself numerous times from crossing the line, resisting the impulse to kiss that small clover-shaped birthmark on his collarbone.

Studying Nico’s face, I let my paintbrush dance around the canvas in rushed strokes, capturing the depraved enigma spread with his ankles tied to the corners of my bed.

If I wanted to, I could kill him right now, and there’s nothing he could do.

But I don’t want to.

Even after everything he’s done.

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