Page 463 of Rosetti Family New York
The leather goods are expensive, maintained with surgical care. A flogger hangs beside silk blindfolds. Padded cuffs rest in perfect alignment. This isn't about violence—it's about connection, about vulnerability chosen rather than forced.
I've spent years wondering what it would feel like to trust someone this completely. Now I know exactly who that someone could be.
The sound of a key in the front door freezes me in place.
He's early.
I scramble to close the hidden door, heart racing as footsteps cross the living room. By the time Van appears in the bedroom doorway, I'm standing by his window admiring the view, praying my face doesn't betray what I've discovered.
"You're back early," I say, aiming for casual and probably missing by miles.
His eyes sweep the room, taking in details I can't even see. He notices everything—my too-stiff posture, my unsteady breathing, the flush burning across my cheeks.
"Emergency surgery got cancelled." But his attention isn't on explaining. It's on me, and the weight of his stare makes my pulse flutter.
I nod like this is perfectly normal conversation, like I haven't just discovered his most private space. Like I'm not still warm from imagining those silk restraints around my wrists.
"That's good! More rest for you. Rest is important. Surgeons need rest." Stop talking, Carmela.
"Carmela." My name in his voice stops my babbling. "What did you find?"
The question hangs heavy between us. I could lie, play innocent, but something in his expression—aware, not angry—tells me he already knows.
"I was just admiring your… very organized closet?" The words come out like a question, my default cheerfulness cracking under pressure. "You have excellent hangers. Very… sturdy."
His mouth twitches slightly. "Exploring," he says, stepping closer. I catch hospital disinfectant mixed with something darker, uniquely him. "It's a natural response to new environments."
His eyes drop to my hands, still trembling slightly. The air between us grows thick with unspoken understanding.
"Some boundaries exist for protection, Carmela," he says, voice low and measured. "Others exist because crossing them changes everything." His gaze holds mine. "The question is whether you're ready for everything to change."
My stomach chooses that moment to growl loudly, breaking the tension with mortifying timing.
Van's mouth quirks. "When did you last eat?"
"Yesterday? I didn't feel like breakfast."
He moves toward the kitchen with purpose. "Sit. I'll make eggs."
We navigate around each other, learning new choreography. Every accidental touch—his hand brushing mine reaching for coffee, my shoulder bumping his arm—feels charged with possibility.
"You cook," I observe, watching him crack eggs.
"Basic survival skill." His eyes keep finding me, cataloging my reactions. "Did you find everything you were looking for?"
The question hangs in the air, loaded with possibility. I'm trying to find an answer that doesn't make me sound like a complete deviant when my phone rings.
Dom's name flashes across the screen.
"Hey, Dom," I say.
"Hey Carm, how do you feel about playing Cinderella tonight?"
I blink, still rattled. "What?"
"Charity gala at the Four Seasons. Very last minute, very important." His voice carries that mix of affection and manipulation he's perfected. "I need you there."
My stomach drops. "Dom, I can't just—"
