Under the Mistletoe... with the Mafia King.

Chapter 11 - I'm not afraid of you.

R H E A

Cassie leaves first, following Alexander down the long hallway as he promises to show her where temporary rooms have been prepared for us, and I watch her go with a hollow sense of disbelief, wondering how any of this is real, how we went from a Christmas Eve party to this labyrinth of polished marble and quiet shadows, this mansion that seems to breathe with secrets. The moment she disappears around the corner, the silence folds around me like a fragile curtain, and I slowly turn back toward Micheal, who stands at the center of the hall with a stillness that seems intentional, almost calculated, as if he has been waiting for this quiet moment to settle between us.

His gaze lifts to meet mine, steady and unreadable, yet there is something else beneath the surface, something that pulls at me with a magnetic force I do not yet understand, and when he steps toward me, the world seems to narrow to the shape of his figure and the controlled grace in his movements. The lights above us cast faint shadows across his features, highlighting the sharpness of his jaw, the calm intensity in his eyes, the way he carries power like a second skin.

“You must be overwhelmed,” he says quietly, his voice deep and smooth and far too gentle for the man who commands an empire of violence, and something in me falters because he looks genuinely concerned, genuinely present, as if he is trying to see beyond my fear and into something hidden beneath it.

“I am,” I admit softly, the truth slipping out before I can temper it, and I wrap my arms around myself slightly, not out of cold but because my body feels unsteady, untethered, like I am floating in a reality made of smoke. “Everything has happened so fast and I cannot even process half of it yet.”

He nods slowly, taking a step closer, and the air between us shifts with something warm and heavy and dangerously familiar. “I did not intend for you to be pulled into any of this,” he says, and the sincerity in his tone almost shocks me. “If I could change the events that brought you here, I would.”

“I know,” I say, though I am not entirely sure how I know. Something about him makes it hard to doubt him, even though doubting him should be the safest option.

We fall into a silence that is not awkward but charged, suspended like a held breath, and I can feel him watching me with the same focus he had the night we kissed, as if he is remembering it too, as if the memory has been haunting him in the same quiet, intoxicating way it has been haunting me.

He gestures subtly toward a nearby sitting room, a smaller space with tall windows and quiet lighting, and I follow him inside almost without thinking, drawn by the way he moves, by the gravity he carries so easily. Once we are inside, he closes the door gently behind us, sealing the world out, leaving just the two of us in a room filled with golden lamplight and the faint smell of expensive cologne drifting from his presence.

He does not sit, and neither do I. Instead, we stand facing each other with a few feet of air between us, though it feels like hardly anything at all.

“I suppose,” Micheal begins, his voice low, “we should talk about what happened last night.”

The words make my pulse quicken, and my breath catches in my throat because suddenly the memories rush back with startling clarity, the music, the lights, the mistletoe that fell from the ceiling, Cassie pushing me into a dare, and then him, the stranger whose eyes had held mine long enough to make the rest of the room disappear. The kiss had been impulsive, brief, unexpected, but the moment our lips touched something ignited inside me, something wild and unfamiliar and far too strong for someone I had never met before.

I swallow lightly. “Right,” I say, my voice barely above a whisper. “The kiss.”

His eyes darken in a way that makes my stomach clench and my skin warm, and he tilts his head slightly as if observing every subtle shift in me. “I did not expect it,” he says, the corner of his mouth lifting in the faintest trace of a smile. “Not from someone who looked as shy and hesitant as you did.”

“I was dared,” I murmur, heat rushing to my cheeks as embarrassment flickers through me, but even as I say it, something inside me knows that is not the whole truth. The dare may have pushed me into motion, but the choice was mine. I kissed him because I wanted to. Because something about him pulled me in before I even understood what was happening.

“And yet,” he replies softly, “you still chose me.”

The words strike me harder than they should, resonating in a place I do not know how to guard, and I look away for a moment, feeling my pulse pound in my ears. “You were the closest person,” I say weakly, though the lie tastes thin and transparent.

The smallest smile touches his lips, the kind that looks like it was pulled out of him against his will. “You could have picked anyone in that room,” he says, his eyes holding mine with quiet intensity. “Men who were less dangerous, less intimidating. Men who would not pull you into their world with a single mistake.”

I stare at him, my breath unsteady. “I did not know who you were,” I say truthfully.

“I know,” he answers, stepping closer, slow and deliberate, until there is only a short distance between us, a distance that feels impossibly fragile. “And yet the moment I kissed you, I knew I wanted more.”

My stomach sinks and rises all at once, a dizzying mix of fear and attraction and confusion. “Micheal…” I whisper, though I do not know what I intend to say.

His eyes lower to my lips for a heartbeat before returning to my gaze, and something warm settles beneath my skin, something that makes me aware of every inch of proximity between us. “You do not have to be afraid of me,” he says quietly. “I know what I am, and I know what people believe about men like me. But I would never harm you.”

The sincerity in his tone disarms me, and for a moment I forget the guns, the kidnappers, the burning remains of my home. I forget the world he belongs to because all I can feel is the pull of him, the calm strength in his presence, the warmth in his eyes that feels impossibly out of place in a man who commands death with a word.

“I am not afraid of you,” I whisper, surprised by the truth in it.

“Good,” he murmurs, taking one more step that leaves almost no space between us now, and my breath hitches as his warmth washes over me, as his scent wraps around me, as the memory of his mouth against mine rises like a tide. “Because I have not stopped thinking about that kiss since the moment it happened.”

The confession hits me like a soft blow to the chest, and my lips part soundlessly as I stare up at him, my heart pounding so loudly I am certain he can hear it. “I have thought about it too,” I admit, my voice trembling, barely audible.

His hand lifts slightly, stopping halfway as if asking permission without words, and the gentleness in the gesture makes something inside me unravel. I nod once, small and uncertain, and his fingers brush my cheek, warm and steady, sending a shiver down the length of my spine.

“You should rest,” he murmurs, though his hand lingers against my skin, his touch careful and unhurried, as if he is memorising the shape of me. “We will talk more tomorrow. There is much you deserve to know.”

I swallow, my breath shaky. “Okay,” I whisper, though I do not move, and neither does he.

For several long moments, we simply stand there, breathing the same air, holding a silence thick with everything unspoken and everything inevitable.

Then, in a gesture so unexpected it steals the breath from my lungs, he leans forward and presses a soft kiss to my forehead, lingering just long enough for the warmth of it to spread through my entire body.

“Goodnight, Rhea,” he says softly.

And as he steps away, I realise the truth with startling clarity.

I am no longer afraid of Micheal Vescari.

I am afraid of how effortlessly I am falling for him.