Page 33 of Wicked Mistletoe

“You’re coming home with me tonight, Emilia—kicking or screaming. Arguing won’t change that. I’ll carry you over my shoulders if I have to.” The sternness in his tone and tight set of his jaw tells me he means every word.

The fight drains out of me. Maybe he really did fuck the resistance right out of my body. “Fine.” I concede with a sigh. I can always argue more in the morning when my brain’s functioning again. “But we need to bring the takeout I bought with us. It’s probably cold by now, but I can warm it when we get to your place.”

A victorious smirk plays on his lips, and he leans down to press a soft kiss on my temple, sending warm fuzzies through my body. I shuffle to the closest to grab my coat and shrug it on. Then he grabs a hold of my hand, linking our fingers together, and my heart does a little flip.

We leave my apartment and hop in the elevator to the basement level, where the condo’s parking lot is. He leads me past a row of cars to a sleek, black, BMW. My jaw practically drops. “This is your car? Holy hell, it’s gorgeous!”

His grin is boyish and proud as he hits the key fob. With a soft beep, the car unlocks, the lights flashing like it’s showing off for me. He opens the passenger door, and I slide in eagerly, inhaling the intoxicating mix of that new leather smell and Rafael’s cologne. It feels like luxury and danger all rolled into one.

My hands roam over the sumptuous brown leather interior and the sleek touchscreen dashboard, admiring every detail.

“Buckle up, Emilia.” Rafael reminds me as he settles into the driver’s seat. I comply, but continue my tactile exploration of the car’s interior.

The ignition turns, and the engine comes alive with a low, vibrating rumble that seems to resonate through my entire body, and I giggle, kicking my feet out like an excited child. “Can I drive it later?” I ask, turning towards him with hopeful eyes.

“Absolutely not,” he answers without hesitation, and I smirk.

“Are you sure about that, baby?” I place my hand on his thigh, and he immediately goes stiff. He throws a sharp glance my way, and I freeze.Oh shit, too much?“Is this… okay?”

His brows pull together, his jaw clenching tightly, but after a tense moment, he gives a curt nod and shifts his gaze back to the road. I exhale a quiet breath, relieved, and resume my gentle caress, tracing soothing circles on his thigh. My heart is hammering like crazy.He’s actually letting me touch him. Again.

Slowly, careful not to break whatever fragile trust this moment holds, my hand drifts up his leg, then higher to his hard chest, up his collarbone and along his hard jaw. When I graze his day-old stubble with my fingertips, my breath catches, remembering the way he tensed before, how his cock twitched inside me. At first, I wanted to initiate something sexual, but now it feels too special for that.I’m really touching him again.

And somehow, it feels even more intense now.

My fingers circle the shell of his ear, then glide over his brows, before they slip into his hair. God, his hair is still just as soft. I gently rub the pad of my fingers over his scalp, back and forth, half-expecting him to purr like he did before. Instead, a low groan rumbles through him, and suddenly his left hand flies off the steering wheel, grabbing my wrist.

“Enough of that,” he says huskily. “Don’t distract the driver.”

He nips my fingertips, then links our fingers together and rests them on his thigh. My heart swells with emotions for him. Affection, desire… maybe evenlove.

The words bubble up in my throat, but I swallow them back painfully. No, it’s too soon to be feeling any of that. Sure, he’s basically browbeating me into moving in with him and has flat-out proposed, but he hasn’t said a single word about love either. Not really. ‘Little love’ doesn’t count, right?Amorinais most likely nothing more than a pet name to him.

Besides, I'm in no position to discuss my feelings with him right now. Not when I’m keeping this huge secret—when I’m actively betraying him. Once I get to the bottom of this and prove his innocence to Stacey, I’ll come clean about everything. He’ll understand. He will. He will.He has to.

We stay hand in hand for the entire drive to his apartment—a towering skyscraper off Madison Avenue that screams luxury and power.

“Welcome back, Mr. Moretti.” A hulking man in a bulletproof vest holds the glass door open for us. I frown, taking in the lobby. At least four more men, equally imposing, stand at strategic points. Their jackets bulge suspiciously, and I’d bet my last dollar they’re packing some heat.

Who wears a jacket indoors?

Rafael leads me to the elevators, seemingly oblivious to my growing unease, and presses the P for penthouse. As we ascend, I bite my lip, debating whether to mention those men downstairs. What would I even say? ‘Hey, what’s with the small army in your lobby?” But what if they’re not related to him? Maybe they’re just building security. I nod to myself, deciding to let it go. For now.

The elevator doors slide open into a large hallway, and I freeze. Men with AK-47s and pistols on their hips patrol the hall like it’s a military compound.

“It’s okay,amorina.” Rafael grabs my hand and pulls me out of the elevator. “They’re with me.”

They’re with him.Oh God, he really is back in the mafia now.My grip on his hand tightens as we walk past the armed men, not because I’m scared of them, no, because I’m scared of what this means. What if, in my bid to prove his innocence, I stumble onto evidence of other crimes? Or worse… what if he really is guilty?

I scan the hallway, cold fear seeping through my veins and down my spine as, for the very first time, I’m forced to face a thought I’ve been avoiding—what if it turns out he isn’t innocent after all? No, he is. He’s innocent. Hehasto be.

Still oblivious to my inner turmoil, Rafael nods at the men as he opens the front door.It’s not even locked.But of course, with the mini-army patrolling the hallway and lobby, I doubt anyone would be stupid enough to attempt a break-in.

We walk through the foyer, and for a second, I’m distracted from my worries by the sound of voices coming from the living room.More men?Rafael pushes open a glass door, revealing three men inside.

One is sitting crossed-leg on the floor, typing furiously on a laptop, his back is to me. Another lounges on the sofa, holding up a newspaper like he’s actually reading it. And the third occupies an armchair, flipping through what looks like legal documents. All three stop what they’re doing and turn their attention to us as we enter, and my jaw drops in recognition.

“Maximo! Romero! Michael!” I wiggle out of Rafael’s hand and rush towards them, grinning wide. In an instant, my fears are swept away by a tidal wave of joy as, for the first time in five years, I’m face to face with my friends—no, my brothers.

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