Page 19 of Seduced By the Mafia Don

"Is 'sorry' the word you’re looking for?" I snap, hoping my conflicted emotions remain hidden. I yearn to touch him again, to receive further comfort. Even if he might be responsible for my suffering.

He forces out his response. "I don't want to see you upset.”

"Upset," I repeat, shaking my head incredulously.

"Devastated. Your life was shattered. I wish there was something I could do."

You could reveal the truth.I mentally paint the words in the space between us before they dissipate. If he insists on deception, then deception it shall be. This charade won't be for long, anyway.

"If you can sit down and let me finish, that will help."

He raises his hand. Hesitates. Then decisively takes mine. We remain connected for several bewildering moments before I pull my hand away. He's disrupting both my physical and emotional equilibrium. My very soul, if I want to frame it artistically... which, unsurprisingly, I do.

"Nico. Please sit so I can finish my work. Thank you."

But he remains immobile, continuing to gaze intently as though our very existence depends upon it. His familiarity exceeds propriety. Yet it feels... natural? Is that right? Interaction with him flows effortlessly than with most people. I feel authentically myself.

What am I even thinking?

"Nico."I put my hand against his chest again, urging him backward. "Please."

He captures my hand. He pulls me toward him.

ChapterSeven

Nico

We move like dancers as she pivots within my embrace. Her curvaceous form presses against mine, her resilient, defiant heart pounding erratically. I can feel both her softness and her determination through her clothing. I long to embrace her. To possess her. To heal her wounds.

But she can’t know the truth. I can’t risk exposure. I am Don first, lover... never.

Except with her, apparently.

She presses against my torso. For a second, she clutches me, as if preparing to initiate a kiss. I inch toward her. My hand settles on her hip, eliciting a gasp from her... But then she forcefully distances herself.

"I'm serious, stop," she demands, raising her hand emphatically.

I retreat a step. My body rages with desire. Everything burns. I hadn't intended such intensity, but this sensation remains entirely unfamiliar, beyond my control. She runs pencil-smudged fingers through her hair. There’s something provocative about her gesture. I recognize her desire. It matches my own.

I'm behaving like a savage. Like a Don. Taking as other powerful men take. If she surrenders to me here, could I ever trust her actions to reflect genuine desire?

That realization jolts me back to the present. I distance myself to maintain clarity, to think with something beyond the primal desire straining against my pants. Yet simultaneously, my heart aches for her—for her mother, for her profound loss.

"Thank you," she says when I sit, momentarily flustered but quickly regaining focus. I admire that quality in her. "Let's just pretend none of that happened. I'm a stranger artist, and you're a stranger hedge fund manager. Deal? Great—good."

I remain motionless for the next several minutes. I can offer her this small courtesy, at least, if I can’t provide the truth she so deserves.

"Your mom isn't thinking of commissioning any more portraits, is she?" Sienna asks after a while.

"I'm not sure," I reply, minimizing my mouth's movement.

"It's just—I might be occupied for the next few weeks. So, this will probably be my final assignment with her."

This disappoints me more profoundly than it should. It's probably for the best, though. Perhaps it means I can finally regain some self-control. I'm captivated by everything about her—physically, intellectually, her life experiences, her thought processes, and her personal history. I yearn to understand how she's navigated solitude since losing her mother, to learn about her art, to discover what drives her.

But my initial assessment remains valid. She despises the mob. She despises me. I could attempt to change her mind, deliver some eloquent speech about my redeeming qualities.

For what purpose? She's better without me in her life.

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