Page 7 of Twisted Devotion

He hesitates. His fingers tighten around the folder in his hands, and I catch the nervous movement immediately. I don’t like it.

“No news yet,” Luca admits, his voice wavering slightly. “We’re still waiting for confirmation from the port.”

“Still waiting?”

My tone is calm, but I see the tension ripple through him. He swallows hard, his Adam’s apple bobbing as if the words physically hurt to get out.

“I—I’ll call them again, sir. Right away.”

“You’ll do more than call.” My voice remains steady, but the weight of my words is unmistakable. “I want answers by noon. If there’s a delay, I want to know why. If someone’s causing problems, I want their names.”

“Yes, sir.” Luca nods quickly, backing out of the room with such haste that he nearly trips over his own feet.

Silence falls again. It usually helps me focus, but it does the opposite today. My thoughts drift where they shouldn’t—back to her.

Aria Rossi.

I open the folder on my desk, but it might as well be empty. Her image fills the space in my mind, vivid and inescapable. The way her lips curved around that shade of red lipstick. The way her blue dress hugged every perfect line of her body. The way her big, expressive brown eyes locked onto mine like they could see every shadow I kept hidden

And… fuck. It was every fucking thing about her.

Even before she stepped out onto the balcony, I’d been watching her. She moved through the party with quiet confidence, like she didn’t care who was looking—but I knew better. She noticed everything.

I’ve seen countless women, but none who made my blood hum like she did. None who made my control feel so impossibly fragile.

And now, here I am, sitting at my desk with nothing but images of her running through my mind.

I scowl and shake my head. She’s the enemy’s sister, a pawn in Marco’s game. Thinking about her is a mistake. Dwelling on her? Dangerous. She’s a Rossi. Off-limits.

The shrill ring of my phone cuts through the silence, yanking me from my thoughts. I grab it without bothering to check the caller ID, already irritated by the interruption.

“You bastard! How dare you? Is this some type of statement?” Marco’s voice explodes through the phone, sharp and seething. I momentarily pull the phone away from my ear, staring at the screen as if it might explain his tantrum.

“Marco,” I reply evenly, leaning back in my chair.

“What the hell are you playing at, Nicolas?” His voice is thick with rage, his accent cutting through the static like a knife.

I smirk, unable to help myself. Marco always makes this too easy. “Good morning to you, too. To what do I owe the pleasure?”

“Don’t play games with me,” he snaps. “One of my shipments went bust, and I know you had something to do with it.”

I lean back in my chair, the leather creaking under the motion. I have no fucking clue what Marco is talking about, but oh, how much I enjoy hearing the pain in his voice.

“Maybe you shouldn’t let your guard down,” I say, letting my words linger. “You’re inmycity, after all.”

“Don’t play games with me, Paolo. You’ve crossed a line.”

“As you have done many times, Marco.” My tone remains calm, almost disinterested, which only seems to infuriate him further. “Consider this a warning. Stay out of my way, and I won’t have to remind you who’s in charge.”

The line goes silent; I know he’s weighing his next move. I wait, unbothered until his voice finally returns.

“This isn’t over,” he spits.

This was exactly why I hated Marco. All he ever did was make empty threats. He didn’t earn the Rossi name; he inherited it, handed down on a silver platter. Yet he struts around like he clawed his way to the top.

“Good,” I reply smoothly. “I wouldn’t want it to be.”

The line disconnects with a sharp beep, and I set the phone down. My smirk fades into a scowl.

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