Chapter 9: Sensory Deprivation
1170 Words
Pietro Moretti was a man of ritual.
6:00 a.m. gym. 8:00 a.m. court. 8:00 p.m. scotch. It was a life of cold, hard lines. But those lines were blurring. By the second week of Bella’s silence, the scotch tasted like ash, and the courtroom felt like a cage.
He found himself driving past the Chronicle building at midnight, his knuckles white on the steering wheel of his Maserati. He wasn't looking for a lead. He was looking for a glimpse of dark hair, a flash of a red sole, the arrogant tilt of a chin.
He was starving, and the worst part was that he wasn't hungry for food. He was hungry for the friction. He was hungry for the way she looked at him like he was a stain on her carpet even while she let him take her.
He sent a text.
Pietro: I’m outside your apartment. Come down.
No reply.
Pietro: Bella. Don’t make me come up there.
Ten minutes later, his phone buzzed. His heart skipped a beat—a pathetic, amateur reaction that made him want to smash the device against the dashboard.
Bella: I’m at a bar in Soho. With company. Don’t be a stalker, Pietro. It’s beneath your billable hour.
He didn't think. He didn't weigh the legal ramifications or his professional reputation. He put the car in gear and roared toward Soho, the engine screaming like the thoughts in his head.
The bar was one of those dimly lit, "members-only" holes where the air was thick with expensive gin and pretension.
Pietro walked in, his presence an icy blast that silenced the nearby tables. He saw her immediately. She was tucked into a velvet booth in the far corner. She wasn't alone. She was sitting with a man—a young, athletic-looking District Attorney he recognized from a previous case.
They weren't touching. But they were close. The DA was leaning in, whispering something that made Bella laugh—that low, throat-deep laugh that Pietro felt in his groin like a physical blow.
He didn't wait for an invitation. He strode over and slammed his hand onto the mahogany table. The glasses rattled.
"We're leaving," Pietro said, his voice a low, dangerous rumble.
The DA looked up, startled. "Moretti? What the hell—"
"Get lost, Miller," Pietro hissed, his eyes locked solely on Bella. "Before I find a reason to reopen your last three ethics investigations."
The younger man turned pale, looked at Bella, then back at the radiating fury that was Pietro Moretti. He didn't stand a chance. He grabbed his coat and vanished into the shadows of the bar.
Bella didn't move. She didn't look scared. She looked bored. She leaned back into the velvet, swirling her martini.
"You're making a scene, Pietro. It’s very... un-Sicilian of you. Where’s that legendary composure?"
"You're playing with fire," he growled, sliding into the booth, crowding her space until she was trapped between him and the wall. He didn't touch her, but the heat coming off him was stifling. "You think you can use other men to get to me?"
"I'm not using anyone. I’m living my life. A life that doesn't include a contract or a lawyer who thinks he can command my time."
Pietro leaned in close, his nose brushing her temple. He could smell her—that bergamot scent that haunted his dreams. "You haven't slept with him. I can tell."
"Oh? And how can you tell, Counsel?"
"Because you're still wound tight," he whispered, his hand finally moving under the table. He didn't go for her thigh. He grabbed her hand, his thumb pressing hard into the center of her palm. "Because you're just as desperate for me as I am for you, and it's killing you to admit it."
"I'm not desperate, Pietro. I’m free. There’s a difference."
"Is there?"
He stood up, pulling her with him. He didn't ask. He led her toward the back of the bar, past the restrooms, into a narrow hallway that led to the service exit. He shoved the door open and pulled her into the freezing October night of the alleyway.
He slammed her against the brick wall, his body pinning her there. He took her face in both hands, his grip firm, almost bruising.
"I can't think," he hissed, his forehead dropping to hers. "I'm losing cases, Bella. I’m missing deadlines. My mind is a loop of you in that cellar, you in the shower, you writing those goddamn articles. I don't want to love you—I don't even like you half the time—แต่ I need you to stop this."
"Stop what?" she whispered, her hands coming up to grip his wrists, her nails digging in.
"Stop holding out. Give me what I want, and maybe I can breathe again."
"No," she said, her voice a sharp, clear bell in the dark.
Pietro let out a sound that was half-sob, half-growl. He didn't kiss her mouth. He buried his face in the crook of her neck, biting the skin there, hard enough to leave a mark, hard enough to taste the salt of her skin.
"Please," he whispered against her skin.
The word was a tectonic shift. Pietro Moretti did not say please. He didn't beg. He didn't show his throat.
Bella felt a surge of pure, intoxicating power. She ran her hands through his hair, fisting the dark strands and pulling his head back so he had to look at her. His eyes were bloodshot, his jaw tensed in agony. He looked like a man on the verge of a breakdown.
"You want it that badly?" she asked, her voice a cruel caress.
"Yes," he choked out.
"Then show me."
She didn't unbutton her coat. She didn't move her legs. She simply stood there and watched as he dropped to his knees in the dirt of the Soho alley. He didn't care about his four-thousand-dollar suit. He didn't care about his pride.
He reached for the hem of her skirt with trembling hands.
"Not here," she said, pulling back.
He looked up at her, a devastating look of loss on his face. "Then where?"
"My apartment. 3:00 a.m. If you're a minute late, the door stays locked. And Pietro?"
He waited, breathless.
"You're going to stay on the floor. Until I tell you otherwise."
She walked out of the alley, leaving him on his knees in the dark.
Pietro stayed there for a long minute, his hands pressed into the cold asphalt. He was a titan of the Manhattan bar, a man who held the fate of billionaires in his hands, and he was currently counting the seconds until 3:00 a.m. like a condemned man waiting for a reprieve.
He wasn't in love. He was possessed. And as he stood up and brushed the grit from his knees, he knew he would do anything—absolutely anything—to feel her skin under his again. Even if it meant destroying himself in the process.
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