Page 55 of Vicious Behaviors
Me: Hey you! Have you thought about what I said re: your training?
I frown when she doesn’t answer immediately. I’m about to put my phone away when bubbles appear on my screen.
Stella: Who dis?
I let out a pent-up breath and laugh.
Me: It’s Izzie. Carmine gave me your number. I hope that’s okay.
Stella: It’s fine. But it’s too damn early to train. Need more sleep
I chuckle again.
If Marcello is the dawn, Stella is the dusk. He seems to run on a military schedule. Always up before the sun to train without fail. On the other hand, Stella doesn’t even pretend to be a morning person. And by the looks of it, my text probably woke her.
Me: How about tonight then? You still owe me a rematch.
Stella: Girl, you have a death wish. But I like it. Fine. I’ll be there at eight.
Me: Works for me. See you then.
I slide my phone into my pocket, a little smirk playing on my lips. For the first time today, I feel like myself. Confident. In control. But just as I move to greet a new client walking through the gym’s doors, the hairs on the back of my neck stand on end. A flush of heat prickles across my skin, chased by goosebumps.
Someone’s watching me.
I don’t need to turn around to know whose dead eyes track my every move.
I know the feel of their heat by heart now.
Let him watch.
The rest of my day is… tricky. After my training sessions, I trail Marcello to the club he always visits in the mornings to start his day. I was hoping he’d stick around long enough for me to catch up on schoolwork, maybe even chip away at my thesis, but no. Today’s a Giovanni DeLuca day. Which means Marcello and his father’sconsiglierewill spend the rest of the morning driving across the city, meeting God knows who.
No sleazy bars or shady alleys for these two. No. Their business takes place in penthouses and private lounges. Swanky skyscrapers and government buildings. They meet a diversity of people—hedge fund lawyers, politicians, judges. People who wear power like cologne. In other words, I spend my day drivingall over Chicago, snapping photos of Marcello and Giovanni as they fraternize with the so-called elite this city has to offer.
Through it all, my stomach knots every time he steps out of his car. Not from nerves but from the way he carries himself in these meetings. There’s something obscene about how effortlessly he wears power.
Gone are the gym shorts and casual sweats. In their place, a suit clings to him as if it were hand-stitched to flawlessly fit every hard line and broad angle of his frame. Midnight black, smooth as sin, with subtle charcoal pinstripes that catch the light just enough to whisper money. The crisp, white shirt beneath is open at the collar—no tie, of course, because Marcello doesn’t need one to command attention. The black winter coat hugs his shoulders perfectly, tailored to their span, the fabric stretching just enough when he moves. His slacks fall clean over polished, Italian leather shoes, and even from a distance, he smells like dominance.
Marcello is elegance and danger wrapped in one devastating package. He’s the kind of man who can turn a street into a runway without even trying. And the worst part? That damn suit probably costs five times my rent.
Of course, as I sit in my car, taking picture after picture of his glorious face, the image of him under that stream of water, bare and unapologetic, still flickers across my mind.
It’s distracting. So much so that when Marcello is out of sight, my thoughts start drifting into dangerous territories, wondering what would’ve happened if I’d just let my gaze drop below his waist last night.
Inch by inch. Lower… Lower… Lower…
Argh! “Goddamn it, Izzie,” I mutter to myself. “Get it together, woman. You’ve seen a dick before.”
I have. Just… not his.
Thankfully, today is also the day he has lunch with Selene Romano, which means his attention will be solely focused on his mother for the next two hours. These lunches are never eventful, which works well for me since I need a fucking breather from all things Marcello Romano. Nevertheless, I park across the street from the restaurant and snap a few pictures of them sitting by the window. After taking a few for surveillance purposes, I put my camera on the seat next to me and grab my school bag to get some work done. As I’m about to pull the laptop out of my bag, someone interrupts me by knocking on the window.
“Miss?” a cop says, instructing me to lower the window.
I roll it down and give him my best non-suspicious smile. “Everything okay, officer?”
“We’ve had a complaint about paparazzi parked out here,” he says, eyes flicking to the binoculars and camera on my passenger seat. “I’m afraid I’m going to have to ask you to leave.”
