6. Close Enough to Burn
575 Words
Sienna tilted her head as she looked up at Nico, her voice velvet-smooth, but threaded with steel.
“You followed me.”
He stepped closer, close enough to see the glint of defiance in her eyes—close enough to smell the soft jasmine heat of her skin.
“No,” he said. “You left the door open.”
Her breath hitched.
They stood surrounded by stillness—art on the walls, music faint in the background, city light filtering through high windows. But none of it mattered. Not when she was standing in front of him like a dare.
“People are watching,” she whispered.
“Let them,” Nico murmured.
He didn’t touch her. Not yet. Just looked. Let his gaze move over the lines of her throat, her collarbone, the soft dip where her dress gave way to bare skin.
And then her fingers brushed his wrist—barely a touch, but it felt like a fuse being lit.
“I dreamt of your hands,” she admitted, her voice low. Last night. I don’t even know what they feel like, but I woke up sweating.”
His jaw clenched.
“I can fix that.”
Her lips parted—she wanted to say something else, maybe stop this before it went too far.
But it was already too late.
Nico reached for her, his hand brushing the small of her back, dragging her a fraction closer.
Then—
A sharp voice cut through the moment like a bullet.
“Sienna.”
She froze.
Nico turned slightly, slow, calculated.
Dario Vega stood by the entrance, flanked by two of his men, smile slick and poisonous.
“I didn’t realize I was interrupting a private showing,” he said coolly.
Sienna stepped back. One inch. Enough to signal the moment was over.
Nico said nothing. Just slid his hands back to his sides and locked eyes with the man who’d just broken something sacred.
Dario smiled wider.
And the tension snapped.
---
Dario Vega – One Hour Later
The hum of the vintage car beneath him couldn’t drown out the memories clawing through his head.
Nico Moretti.
He should’ve put a bullet in that bastard’s skull ten years ago.
But back then, they’d been friends—if you could call it that.
Not brothers by blood, but by oath. Dario had pulled Nico out of a ditch once after a deal went south in Naples. Taught him how to clean a body. How to lie with conviction. How to kill without mercy.
And Nico was loyal. For a while.
Until power got in the way.
Until Nico refused to follow orders. Until he started carving out his own piece of the city, street by street, deal by deal.
The final fracture came when Nico flipped one of Dario’s inner-circle soldiers—turning him into an informant. The man was found floating in the harbor, his mouth sewn shut with fishing line. No fingerprints. No trail.
But Dario knew.
He knew Nico had done it.
From that moment forward, the war wasn’t about territory.
It was personal.
And now Nico was sniffing around his wife?
He’d always known Sienna had secrets. But if she thought she could hide from him…
He tapped his fingers against the armrest. Once. Twice.
“Make the call,” he told Tomaso. “If Moretti wants to touch what’s mine… let’s remind him what it costs.”
- Writer
