Page 289 of Rosetti Family New York
Because despite what just happened, despite the moment of weakness, I still have one advantage: he doesn't know why I left. He doesn't know the real reason, the truth that would ruin everything.
As long as that's true, I still have a chance, even if he never forgives me for what I had to do.
7
Emilio
The private elevator to Il Lusso requires a key I designed myself—encrypted, changing its signature every thirty seconds. Security beyond most government facilities. My family's exclusive club houses secrets that could topple empires. Including mine.
I check my watch: 10:47 PM. Thirteen minutes until she arrives, if her message can be trusted.Need to talk. Face to face. Il Lusso VIP, 11 PM. Important.Four sentences that could mean anything—genuine urgency, elaborate trap, desperate plea for help.
With Mara, the three are often indistinguishable.
The VIP room is empty. I cleared it with one call to Domenico. My brother knows better than to interfere when I'm hunting, though he assumes I'm tracking Callahan movements rather than orchestrating a reunion with the woman who's consumed my thoughts for three years.
Thinking of her on silk sheets, fingers between her thighs, gasping my name makes me hard. Days of tracking her and building a network of information to find her, and nothingprepared me for seeing her unravel at my command. But I can't let myself get distracted. Not now that I have her cornered.
I position myself in the shadows where cerulean lighting barely reaches, optimal vantage point for assessing threats while maintaining tactical advantage. From here, I can see every entrance, every exit, every angle of approach.
My phone vibrates. Facial recognition has tagged her entering the main floor. The algorithm I built to track her movements shows ninety-three percent probability she's operating under duress—elevated stress indicators, hypervigilant scanning patterns, the particular way she holds her shoulders when someone else is pulling her strings.
She's not here by choice. The question is whose choice it is.
I watch her navigate through the crowd via security feeds, navy dress, dark hair styled with precision that speaks to armor rather than seduction. In public, she moves differently than in private. Every gesture is planned, every step measured. She smiles at security, white teeth against red lips, showing a fake ID that will scan as real. Another carefully crafted identity.
The elevator ascends. My pulse quickens despite years of conditioning that's taught me to control physiological responses under pressure. Three years of digital pursuit, and she's finally within reach again. Close enough to touch, to claim, to demand answers for the questions that have haunted every surveillance algorithm I've built.
Desire coils through me as I remember how she looked, thighs spread, fingers glistening. How she responded to my commands across the digital divide. How she arched when she came, my name a desperate whisper on her lips.
The memory makes me want to pin her against the wall as soon as she arrives. Remind her who she belongs to. But that's not the plan. Tonight, I need information more than release.
I stand straight, putting on the emotionless, calculating face my family knows. Not the man whose hands tremble with the need to touch her after years of online pursuit.
The doors open, and there she is, Mara, framed by golden light. Time stands still. Three years of searching, an empire built just to find her, and nothing prepared me for the impact of seeing her in person. Surveillance footage didn't capture her reality.
She steps into the lounge, and I forget to breathe. Her navy dress hugs curves I've memorized but haven't touched in years. Her movements are precise, the careful grace of someone who knows the value of control. Her short hair frames her face differently, showing off sharp cheekbones, full lips, and wary eyes that were once trusting.
My blood pounds in my ears. She must hear it across the room. My throat is dry, skin warm, muscles tense with the primal need to reclaim what was taken. The calculating machine my family relies on, all stripped away by her presence.
I force myself to breathe as she scans the room, noting exits before finding the bar. Her eyes pass over my corner without stopping, but something in her posture says she senses me. She's too well-trained not to.
She orders something I can't make out. The bartender, who's on my payroll, nods and leaves via the service elevator. Now alone, her shoulders drop slightly. Exhaustion, or maybe relief at being alone for a moment.
"No cameras in this room," I say, my voice steady despite my racing heart. "No surveillance except what I bring. You're off the grid, Mara."
She doesn't flinch. She takes a slow sip, sets her glass down carefully, then turns to face me.
"Emilio." Hearing my name from her still affects me. "I was wondering when you'd stop hiding in shadows."
"Rich, coming from someone who's been running." I step into the light. "I've been following the trail you left."
Her lips curve into a sharp expression. "Is that what we're calling it? Following trails? Not stalking me? Not watching me through cameras I didn't consent to?"
I move closer, drawn to her, until we're only feet apart. Her scent reaches me, new perfume, sharper, with metallic notes that show how much she's changed.
"You consented this afternoon. Quite enthusiastically."
Her cheeks flush, but her gaze stays steady. "That was a calculated risk."
