Page 142 of The Proposal

I grimace. “What do you mean what’s left of him?”

“I don’t know how you extract information over there, but in Italy, we use whatever means possible.”

“Right. I get it now. I wasn’t sure what you meant. I’m still half asleep.”

“I’m sorry to wake you, boss, but I thought you’d like to know what we found out.”

“Yes … definitely.”

“You were right; he was hired by Giuseppe Salvatori.”

“Hmm,” I hum. Even though I expected this to be the case, that doesn’t stop an uneasy feeling from settling in the base of my stomach.

“Why was he sent here?”

“To see if Lucia Rossi was living in Australia with you and her sister.”

“Did he get confirmation?”

“That he was a little sketchy on, but when a sly smile curved on his lips, my gut told me he did.”

“Fuck.”

“I have a tech guy I know examining his phone as we speak.”

“I want Salvatori on twenty-four-hour surveillance. Any move that cocksucker makes, I want to hear about it.”

“Of course. I’ll get someone over there now,” Roberto replies. “I’m also on my way to meet up with some of our men to discuss what else we can do from over here.”

“I can’t have him anywhere near Lucia, or my wife for that matter.”

“Understood.”

When I end the call, I head into the kitchen because I’m too wired to sleep. I’m not expecting to find anyone in there, so when I see Lucia sitting at the table—with what looks like a bottle of my best scotch sitting in front of her—I’m shocked.

“Do you always walk around the house naked?” she asks.

“I’m wearing underwear,” I answer, half-joking.

Her eyes briefly skim down the front of my body. “They don’t leave much to the imagination,” she replies with a shrug.

“Nobody’s asking you to look.”

She sighs and quickly turns her face away, her unease palpable. Something’s bothering her, and I’m betting it’s Romeo.

“From what I hear, it sounds like there’s more material in my boxers than there is in that teeny bikini you were wearing when you were flaunting your stuff in front of my underboss.”

She audibly gasps as her eyes widen to the size of saucers. “He told you about that?”

“No, Arabella did.”

“Ugh. Of course, she did. I could’ve been butt naked, and he still wouldn’t have cared. I’m starting to think he’s gay.”

I bark out a laugh as I cross the kitchen, grab a glass from the cupboard, return to the table, and take the seat opposite her, reaching for the bottle.

I know for a fact he isn’t, but I’m not stupid enough to tell her that.

“I never picked you for a closet drinker,” I say, filling my glass.

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