Page 16 of Seduced By the Mafia Don

Now he’s got me tripping over my own words. This dangerously resembles flirtation, precisely what I should avoid with this mafia man.

"Is my attire appropriate?" he inquires, maintaining that self-deprecating smile I noticed before. When he looks at me like that, it’s like we’re both in on a secret, just me and him.

"Yes, a suit is ideal, classically appropriate."

The suit appears exceptional on his frame. It's impeccably tailored, dark blue, accentuating his powerful physique. While sketching my mystery man, I never contemplated his physical form. That oversight now seems inconceivable. I feel an overwhelming desire to remove that jacket, to paint my body with his.

"Should I position myself here?"

"You're directing yourself."

He reclines in the armchair. "Perhaps I should be asking if crossing my legs is acceptable. Or would you rather I growl like a tiger?"

If I surrender to my laughter once more, I’m sewing my lips shut. "Growl like a tiger?"

"Isn't that what photographers tell their models to do?"

"I'm not a photographer, and you're certainly not?—"

"A model? You're crushing my dreams, Sienna." His vulnerability appears when sincerity replaces humor. "But after last night's events, are you truly alright?"

"I'm perfectly fine," I respond tersely, almost grateful for the reminder of mafia entanglements. "You'll need to remain motionless soon. I need to focus entirely on you."

The light cuts beautifully across his features, casting striking shadows and highlighting the silver flecks in his hair. My pulse quickens—not with the familiar adrenaline of confronting the Bratva, but with the exhilaration that accompanies a new idea.

Whatever complications exist between us, he’s got a great face for a portrait.

"I discovered online that portrait artists can accommodate conversations during sessions," he remarks.

"Some can, but I don't fall into that category."

He tilts his head, making direct eye contact. The connection feels disconcertingly natural. I've always wondered what it’d be like to find somebody I could effortlessly banter with like on TV—that instantaneous rapport I never imagined someone like me could achieve. Too awkward. Too intense. Too trapped in my own thoughts.

"Why do I sense you're being dishonest with me, Sienna?"

"Because if I revealed the truth, you'd want me gone," I whisper.

"Pardon?"

"Nothing."

"No." He leans forward. "What did you just say?"

"I said we need to get started, so please try to remain still."

I sketch his silhouette. In some ways, it would be simpler to preserve him like this—merely an outline of a man. I could envision him as my ideal match, though I've never gotten specifics when it comes to that. Yet even as I trace his contours, his presence permeates my consciousness—his protective stance at the restaurant, his effortless smiles.

"How’s this?" he asks, barely moving his lips.

I can't suppress my smile. "That's perfect."

"Should I smile or..."

"No. Just maintain your natural expression. Which appears predominantly grumpy."

I work from bottom to top. The portrait will begin at his waist, with his legs dissolving through a blending technique—something I'll incorporate later—extending upward to encompass his head. I'm determined to capture the texture of his suit, to somehow convey the power it exudes.

He emanates affluence. It transcends the luxurious surroundings. It's embodied in his tailored suit, his polished brown shoes, his very essence.

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