Page 14 of Forbidden

Day one’s a blur. I’m good—damn good—and the staff’s sidelong glances say they’re clocking it. But last night’s gnawing at me—Adriano’s growl when he shoved me out of his SUV, those gray eyes burning holes I can’t patch. It’s a splinter under my nail, sharp and restless.

Afternoon creeps in, and my manager, Mia, glides over, coffee mug steaming, a tight, controlled expression on her face that could cut glass.

“Upstairs, newbie. The man wants you.”

“The man?” I tilt back, chair groaning, pulse kicking. “Who?”

“Figure it out,” she says, sipping slowly, eyes glinting like she’s betting on my crash. “Don’t mess it up.”

My gut twists as I rise, smoothing my blouse, heels striking the floor like gunfire. Nobody’s dropped a name, just hushed talk of “him,” like he’s a myth carved in smoke.

The spiral staircase’s wrought iron is cold under my fingers, tightening the knot in my stomach. The place feels alive, watching me, its elegance a mask for something feral. I pass a display of emerald rings, their green fire winking like eyes, and wonder who really pulls these strings. The office door looms, made with ebony wood, frosted glass etched with a subtle “C.” I push through, holding my breath.

Only Adriano’s there.

My breath stalls, and my legs lock. Him? Here?

“You,” I say, voice flat, fists clenching at my sides.

“Sit,” he says, jabbing a finger at a chair like I’m some punk nabbed with sticky fingers.

I don’t budge, my feet remain planted. “You’re my boss? Since when does Caruso’s belong to you?” My eyes narrow.

Last I heard, this place was a glittery upstart, barely a decade old, pushing its way up with sleek designs and whispers of dirty cash. Word was some syndicate shark snapped it up to wash his money clean, turning blood into diamonds.

Adriano Vieri, Sophia’s dad, the guy who’d grill steaks and dodge her questions about late-night “business” is a mafia kingpin? It fits too well, and that scares me.

“Surprise,” he drawls, tongue sliding slowly across his lips, a predator’s tease. My pulse slams but I choke it down as last night is still raw, his shove-out-the-door a fresh welt, and now this twist guts me.

“Why didn’t you say anything?” I step closer, my anger flaring hot. “Last night—in the car, at my place—”

“Didn’t figure you’d pull that shit if you knew, huh?” he growls, stepping into my space. “Teasing me, daring me to kiss you. What the fuck was that, Penelope?”

“You’re mad at me?” I tilt my chin. “You couldn’t peel your eyes off me the whole night, playing chauffeur like a damn gentleman.”

“Drunk girls need rides,” he snaps. “How’s that a green light for your little game? You should know better.”

Of course I do but why does it have to be that way?

His jaw clenches, those gray eyes slitting when I don’t bite back. “You pushed too far, acting like a brat, begging for shit you can’t handle.”

“Bullshit,” I fire back. “You wanted it, you still do. Don’t play saint now.”

He steps closer, looming, his voice dropping to a rasp. “You’re a reckless little thing who keeps pushing things that should be left alone, and you’ll see what happens when I stop holding back.”

“But you didn’t,” I say, locking eyes, defiance blazing. “And now I’m here, under your thumb. What’s the move, boss?”

He snorts. “To keep you in line. And I’m only doing this because of Gianna. You’re good with numbers so don’t make me regret keeping you.”

“Then don’t,” I retort, stepping into his heat, his cologne sharp and dizzying, oud bleeding into leather. “But you hauled me up here for more than a slap on the wrist. So out with it.”

That thing Adriano does with his nose when he’s pissed, it’s barely a twitch, but on him, it commands both fear and restraint. I remember it from years ago, back when I used to sneak into his beach house, watching him bark orders at unseen men through a computer screen. Now, I’m seeing it again, only this time it’s directed at me.

“Christ, Penelope,” he mutters, stepping back only to flex his hands, his fingers curling tight, then loosening, like he’s strangling the air between us. “You’re a fucking kid, and you’re torching me alive.”

“Twenty’s not a kid,” I say, closing the space he just put between us. His heat pulls me in, the space between us crackling, and I can see it. The storm brewing and the way his shirt strainsas he breathes too fast, too hard. “And you’re not exactly running in the opposite direction.”

He freezes, his eyes darkenIng to slate. His jaw ticks, a muscle jumping under stubble, and I feel it, his control splintering, fraying at the edges like a rope about to snap. My knees wobble, heat surging insistent, but I don’t retreat. I want it and I want him to shatter, to see the beast he’s caging slip its leash.

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