Page 65 of Seduced By the Mafia Don

“Okay,” I mutter.

“Seriously – nothing happened. Nothing has ever happened. And nothing is going to happen.”

“Thank you for telling me that,” I reply. “I’m tired. I want to get some sleep… alone.”

“Vignette—”

“All that about you owning me, possessing me, whatever, you understand that’s sex talk. I hope you get that. You don’t literally own me. You have to take my wishes into account sometimes.”

“I know,” he replies. “But I mean it?—”

“Nothing happened. I heard you the first time. Please, just let me sleep.”

He stands, looking hurt. Despite what I’ve learned, I almost apologize for upsetting him. What a joke that would be. “I’m staying here tonight. Mother has a few spare rooms. If you change your mind and want to see me, text me.”

“Okay. I’ll do that.”

“Piccola pittrice, I don’t want anyone except for you. Ever.”

The word ever bounces around my head, my soul, as he leaves the room. Once he’s gone, I lock the door and strip off my dress, climb into the shower, and let the hot water flow over me, hoping it’ll burn away my indecision and anxiety.

No such luck. Returning to the bed, I grab the recording device. The bulky part is a battery. The wires connect to several microphones, maybe in case one fails. I’m not a spy. I don’t trust myself to wear it and guide Nico into saying something incriminating. I’ll be too nervous.

Maybe I could plant it somewhere in the house. I’ve noticed that Gianna and Nico seem to talk in her kitchen quite often. Gianna is his second-in-command, which means that their conversations probably have something to do with the mob.

I take some slow breaths in a vain attempt to stop the frenetic beating of my heartbeat. I don’t want to incriminate Nico. I don’t want to hurt him, despite the report, the gunshot that tore my mom away from me.

I should ask him what he was thinking when he lied to me. What sort of sick game was he playing? He told me it was the Bratva, but it’s right there in black and white.

Will Adrian and the Bratva be able to get to me with Nico’s protection? Outside the walls of Gianna’s large property, there are several cars filled with mafia men, presumably ready to start shooting if anyone approaches.

But I can’t stay here forever. I can’t commit to my mother’s killer. Sooner or later, I’ll have to leave. On the ride home, Gianna mentioned running to my place tomorrow to grab some of my things. I’m living in borrowed clothes, borrowed toiletries, borrowed everything.

A sudden, sick thought strikes me. What if Gianna only hired me out of guilt? Maybe she knows what her son did, and that’s why she’s been so kind to me.

It doesn’t ring true. None of this does.

I sit up, smoothing my hands up and down my legs, my heart pounding heavily. It’s been – I look at the clock – hours since Nico was here. All I’ve done is shower and sit here, thinking about what I should do.

They’ve been so, so kind to me. The portraits, the banter, the connection. The sex. The longing. The commitment. All of it seemed so real. Now, it’s like my world is imploding again.

But if Nico killed my mom, the last thing I should do is protect him. I should hate him. It hasn’t even been a long time. I’m not some ditsy, silly, misguided girl, am I?

I think about this logically. I’ve still got some cash even after I bought that absurdly expensive outfit. I rented the dress. Gianna offered to pay, but I didn’t want to take a handout, so I saved money there. The most logical route for me to take is to plant the device, give the Bratva what they want, and then leave Dallas and never look back.

My heart hurts just thinking about that. I’ve always tried to be – and wanted to be – a woman who isn’t led by her emotions. In my art, I’ll let my feelings fly, but in real life, I’ve had to be focused, independent. But it’s not like that now.

My heart screams for Nico. Nico is the one who hurt me, betrayed me, and yet he’s the one I want to talk to about this.

I grab the device from the bedside drawer, sitting up. I have to do this. I don’t want to, but that’s nothing new. I didn’t want to work a series of dead-end jobs. I didn’t want Mom to die. I didn’t want to be a weird loner in high school who spent all her time lost in a world of sketches and fantasies.

Leaving the bedroom in a baggy T-shirt, I sneak down the stairs. The device clutched tightly in my hand. Nerves twist through me. I seriously have no desire to do this.

What will happen if Nico and Gianna are caught on tape?

I step into the kitchen. It’s a large, luxurious space with three light switches. I turn on the mood lighting, the dimmest light they have, and then walk around the kitchen island, looking for a place to put the device.

“Sienna?”

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