Massimo crosses the distance between us with slow, soundless steps. His feet are bare, and, for some reason, that only makes him hotter. “Do you want me to fix you some breakfast?”
I blink. Massimo Spada, the man who’ll imminently be crowned Don of Boston Cosa Nostra, is offering to make me breakfast? “Um… I’m not really hungry. I think.”
He lifts his hand, and, for a moment, I think he’s going to touch my face again, but he just braces it on the doorframe. His deep, dark eyes capture me, while the force of his presence seeps into my bones. Envelops me inside and out.
Unsettling me, all the same.
The few minutes I did sleep last night, I dreamed about him. We were alone in a parlor, and he was holding me tucked closely to his side. The roaring fireplace warmed my skin while Massimo whi
