Page 131 of Scorned Obsession

We traded advice and barbs all the way to Lenox Hill and I forgot about Sandro not texting me back.

When they dropped me off in front of the condo, I spotted Rossi soldiers hovering by the entrance. One of them was on his phone, probably a handoff from Al.

I gave them a nod and handed two of the desserts to him. Then, when I entered the lobby, I handed one to another soldier and the night guard, whose face lit up with a smile.

I didn’t care what Miller or Al said. Normal folks love cake. That left four for me and Sandro. I grinned secretively. I had plans.

I hopped into the elevator and punched the button for the top floor. Our condo was one of the six on that floor. Our unit was the furthest from the elevator. The hallway was narrow and it definitely wouldn’t be conducive for any bodyguard to hang around and not cause suspicions with the other tenants.

My feet hastened down the corridor. I was excited to see Sandro. I realized because it was me coming home to him instead of the other way around. There was an epiphany lurking in the recesses of my mind, but I wasn’t quite making the connection. I touched my keycard to the reader and opened the door.

Most of the lights were dimmed and the one in the kitchen was off.

The only ambient light came from the living room lampshade. It was a three-bedroom condo with a galley kitchen. A table that could seat six was in front of it. The kitchen area was open to the living room. And then finally, French doors led to a balcony. I could see Sandro’s outline standing outside, looking at the New York skyline.

“Sandro?” I called, lowering my bag and the cake jars on the dining table. He slowly turned around and walked inside. His face was expressionless.

I stuttered a step and my tweaked ankle screamed at me.

His face grew more remote.

Why did it feel like he was a predator and I was prey? I mean, that was usually the case, but this was different. It was almost as if he was pissed at something.

“Did you have a good time?” he asked.

Why did this probing question make me feel guilty? Not because I had a good time, but because I instructed the guys not to say anything about the dance-floor incident.

Well, duh, because it was simply guilt and I was projecting.

“Yes.”

He gave a brief nod, before tipping his chin. “What’s wrong with your foot?”

My face drained.He knows.

Still, my self-preservation was nowhere in sight. “What? I stumbled over the rug.”

“Walk to me.”

I didn’t move. We stared at each other for long seconds. It was like a game of chicken, but I knew Sandro would win all day long.

“Who told you?”

He raised a brow. “I want to hear it from you.”

“One question first.”

He didn’t acknowledge in movement or in words, waiting for my question.

“Is the man alive?” I asked cautiously.

That was when Sandro came unstuck and stalked toward me.

Retreat. Retreat.

I didn’t budge.

My pussy clenched and warmth flooded between my thighs. I was digging this version of Sandro.

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