chapter 3
1241 Words
"You're staring, princess."
Adrian's voice was rough a salt velvet as he stood before the three way mirror in Savile Row's most exclusive atelier, his new suit clinging to every lethal line of his body. The charcoal Tom Ford ensemble should have looked out of place on a man who'd been scrubbing dishes an hour ago, but instead, it looked like it had been painted onto him by Renaissance masters, beautiful perfection.
I crossed my legs, the silk of my red dress whispering against my thighs. "I own the building. I'll stare if I want to, sir.”
The tailor, a wisp of a man with nervous fingers adjusted the jacket's shoulders, his tape measure fluttering like a white flag. "M-Mr. Vincenti has an exceptional physique for tailoring. These shoulders! This waist! It's like dressing Apollo himself."
"Out." I didn't raise my voice, I didn't need to.
The man fled.
Adrian arched a brow as I circled him, my fingertips trailing along the lapels. "Enjoying yourself, principessa?"
"Immensely." I stopped behind him, our eyes locking in the mirror. The suit transformed him from a struggling bartender to a mafia prince in three yards of Italian wool. But it was the scars peeking above his collar that fascinated me most, thin white lines that told stories I ached to hear, I wanted to know his deepest of darkest secrets.
I reached up, my fingers brushing the one just below his hairline. "Where did you get this one?"
He caught my wrist, his grip firm but not painful. "You ask a lot of questions for a woman who doesn’t like answers."
"Maybe I like your answers."
His thumb stroked the inside of my pulse point, slow, deliberate. "Maybe you won’t."
The air between us thickened, charged with something dangerous. I could feel his breath on my temple, the heat of him pressing into my space.
"Try me."
A slow smirk curled his lips. "Another time, princess. Right now, I’m more interested in what you’re hiding under all that silk."
I laughed, low and dark, stepping back just enough to let him see the flush creeping up my neck. "Careful, Adrian. Some secrets cut deeper than others."
His gaze dropped to my mouth. "I’ve got steady hands."
"Prove it."
The door had barely clicked shut behind the tailor before Adrian turned, his movements liquid and predatory. The suit moved with him like a second skin, the fabric whispering secrets of its own. I didn’t retreat. Instead, I leaned back against the edge of the fitting platform, the wood cool through the thin silk of my dress.
"You know," I mused, tracing the rim of a crystal champagne flute behind, "most men would be nervous alone in a room with me."
Adrian prowled closer, his smirk a slow-burning match. "I’m not most men."
"No," I agreed, tilting my head. "Most men don’t look that good in a three-piece suit are mopping floors."
He braced a hand on the platform beside my hip, caging me in without touching me. His cologne—smoke and something darker—wrapped around us. "And most women don’t own half of London before thirty."
I lied his shoulder. "What can I say? I’m overachieving. I'm so lucky."
His gaze dropped to my lips, then lower, lingering where the neckline of my dress dipped just enough to tease. "I noticed."
I reached up, adjusting his tie with deliberate slowness, my fingers brushing the hard line of his throat.
"You should be careful, bartender," I murmured. "Flirting with the boss is a dangerous game."
He caught my wrist again, but this time, he brought my knuckles to his mouth, his lips grazing the delicate bones there. "Good thing I like danger."
A shiver raced down my spine, but I refused to let him see it. Instead, I twisted free, stepping around him with a laugh. "Cute. But I don’t play games with employees."
"Good." He turned, watching me with those wolfish eyes. "Because I don’t work for you."
I paused, arching a brow. "Oh? Then why are you here?"
He reached into his jacket, pulling out a folded slip of paper. "Because you requested me."
I didn’t take it. "And here I thought you just had a thing for red dresses."
His grin was all teeth. "That too."
The air between us crackled, a live wire begging to be touched. I could play this game all day, but where was the fun in that?
I closed the distance between us in two steps, plucking the paper from his fingers.
"Tell me, Adrian," I said, unfolding it with deliberate slowness, "do you always let women lead, or am I just special?"
He leaned down, his breath warm against my ear. "Oh, princess, you have no idea how special you are."
I dodged his attempt to kiss me on the lips and smiled, “I know.” I run my slender fingers up the knot of his throat and continue, "I'm hungry. Let's stop here."
The private elevator to my penthouse restaurant hummed between us, the mirrored walls reflecting Adrian’s smirk back at me a dozen times. I adjusted the slit of my emerald-green dress, watching his gaze track the movement in the glass.
"See something you like?" I purred.
He leaned one shoulder against the elevator wall, his tailored suit pulling taut across his chest. "Just admiring the view, principessa."
"Careful," I said, stepping closer as the elevator slowed. "Men who stare too long tend to fall."
The doors opened directly into La Regina, my Michelin-starred playground where the wait staff carried tasting menus and concealed knives. The maître d’, a former Serbian enforcer named Luka, didn’t blink at our arrival.
"Your usual table, Miss?"
"No." I pointed to the center of the dining room, where a crystal chandelier dripped light over a table set for two. "There. I want everyone to see."
Adrian’s fingers found the small of my back as we wove through the room. "Showing me off already?"
"Hardly." I slid into my chair, crossing my legs slowly. "I just enjoy an audience when I destroy someone."
The sommelier appeared with a bottle of ’47 Margaux, my father's favorite vintage, stolen from his private cellar after his arrest. Adrian watched as I dismissed the man with a wave and poured my own glass.
"No tasting notes?" Adrian swirled the wine, his eyes glinting. "I thought you liked playing with your food."
I sipped, leaving a perfect lipstick stain on the rim. "I already know you’re full of surprises. Why waste time?"
The first course arrived with oysters topped with caviar and a whisper of poison. Metaphorically. Probably. Adrian ate one without hesitation, his throat working as he swallowed.
"Good. But I need a bite."
"Funny." I leaned forward, resting my chin on my hand. "That’s what your ex said about you."
He nearly choked on his wine. "You researched me?"
"Please." I stole an oyster from his plate. "I had you investigated before you finished your first shift at my club."
The second course came with a handmade pappardelle with black truffle, shaved tableside by a chef who definitely didn’t notice Adrian’s hand sliding up my thigh beneath the linen.
"Tell me, bartender," I murmured, twirling pasta around my fork, "do you always use your hands this much?"
His thumb traced circles on my skin. “Only when I’m not using my mouth. Do you want to try it?”
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