Page 40 of Empire of Seduction

To be fair, I hit on him that night in the casino. But he should’ve said no—or at least admitted he was married and asked if I was okay with it. Part of me wanted to find his wife and apologize. The sisterhood mattered, after all. She deserved to know what a douche canoe she’d married. And they probably had kids together?—

Kids. Oh, my god.

Was Vito a father?

I shook myself. What did it matter? I needed to focus on getting him to leave rather than wondering over his life back in Toronto. Whatever his sins, they were onhishead. Not mine.

But I did want to discuss these changes he was planning to make to the cottage. Espresso machine and blinds, my ass. He wanted to tear down walls! Going from a two-bedroom to a one-bedroom decreased the cottage’s appeal to renters. Shouldn’t Mr. Investment already know this? My brother might not want to tell Vito no, but I sure as shit didn’t mind.

Now on a mission, I walked faster in the direction of the guest cottage, the frozen ground crunching beneath my soles. Stomping up the steps, I crossed the deck and raised my hand to knock on the back door.

Just as my knuckles were about to make contact, the wood opened. Vito stared down at me, his hair disheveled. He wore a plain t-shirt and striped pajama bottoms, and on his face was a pair of stylish eyeglasses. He looked smart and sexy and undone—and I absolutely hated myself for noticing.

His brows lowered in confusion. “Maggie? What are you doing here?”

I held up the to-go containers. “Your brother sent breakfast.”

He eyed the containers carefully. “Did you poison it?”

“No, though I definitely considered it. Can I come in?”

More confusion flashed across his expression, but he stepped aside. “Of course.”

I walked inside the cottage—and stopped in my tracks.

The bottom floor had been redecorated. Gone were the outdoorsy, winery touches. In their place was a sleek, modern look more suited to a Wall Street penthouse, with manly furniture and bold art on the walls.

“What the fuck?” I blurted as my head swiveled. “When was all this done?”

“Yesterday. I called in a few favors.”

“One of those favors had better not be about knocking out the wall between the bedrooms.”

He strode toward the open kitchen. “It was, actually. They’re coming today to finish the work.”

I followed him and slammed the containers on the marble island, the urge to yell at him burning my tongue. I desperately longed to shout that he didn’t have the right to make changes like this. But hedidhave the right—and that was infuriating.

I wanted to throw this frittata at his head. But Mikey begged me not to cause trouble and I told him I’d try to try to be a team again. I didn’t know what that meant, but stabbing Vito with a fork probably wasn’t it.

For my brother, I would try to act civilly. Professional. A mature twenty-three-year-old woman. I could reason with a mobster and keep my cool.

Pressing my lips together, I exhaled through my nose. By the time Vito turned around with forks and napkins, I was slightly calmer. “I get it. You want to be comfortable here. No doubt your digs in Toronto are lush.”

One dark eyebrow shot up over the top of his glasses as he set the forks and napkins on the island. “I sense there is abutcoming.”

“But,” I emphasized. “You told me you were only putting in blinds and an espresso machine. Not knocking down walls. You lied. Again.”

“I changed my mind. And even though I didn’t need to, I informed your brother about what I was planning. This hardly feels like a conspiracy, Maggie. Would you like a cappuccino or juice?”

The abrupt switch in topic made my head spin. He thought I was staying for breakfast? “I have to go. I’m going to eat this as I work.”

“Don’t be ridiculous. Sit and have breakfast with me.”

His eyes bored into mine from behind those stupidly sexy glasses and I felt my resistance crumble like dry dirt. “Okay. I guess water and a cappuccino, then. Please.”

Slipping out of my coat, I tried not to watch his wide shoulders as he worked at the espresso machine. It wasn’t easy. As good as he looked in his clothes, I had first-hand knowledge of how good he lookedwithouthis clothes, too. But I didn’t allow my eyes to move any lower. The memory of his ass—a muscular masterpiece—was already burned into my brain, and I couldn’t lust after another woman’s man. That meant no checking him out.

After he finished the cappuccinos, he poured me a glass of water and came around to the seat beside mine. He flicked open the container. “Maz’s frittata. I have died and gone to heaven.”

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