Giovanni returned a few minutes later. He set down a tray with a decanter of scotch, two glasses with a single cube of ice in each, and assorted cheese and grapes. “Mr. Marino is just finishing up with his mother. He’ll be in shortly.”
“Thank you.”
After Giovanni left, I sat still and felt the nerves get to me. There was no reason to let his intimidation affect me, not when I had a mission to fulfill. My father’s life was on the line, so even if he were a good person, it wouldn’t change the way I felt about the task.
I heard his voice a moment later. “I’ll see you later, Mother.” His heavy footsteps echoed in the entryway.
The sound of her heels accompanied his. “Thank you for making time for me, son. I know how busy you are.” She spoke like a queen, retaining so much elegance that I imagined her wearing a tiara.
A door shut a moment later.
Then I heard his footsteps get closer as he approached. Louder and louder they grew until his presence filled the air. Rigid with power and authority, he owned the room the second he stepped into it.
My back was to him, so I couldn’t see his face.
He couldn’t see mine.
He didn’t apologize for making me wait, and he didn’t introduce himself either, like announcing his name was simply redundant. He carried himself like a king, like every single one of his subjects should know exactly who he was and never turn their backs on him.
I rose to my feet and faced him, keeping my poise as if his undeniable power had no effect on me.
He didn’t pause when he recognized my face, but there was a flash of surprise that moved across the surface of his eyes. He stopped near the couch like he was about to shake my hand, but he never extended the greeting. His blue eyes were even brighter than before, probably because of the sunlight coming through the large window. He was in dark jeans and a gray t-shirt, the kind of clothes that fit his frame beautifully.
He continued to stare, his eyes unblinking and his gaze intense. It was the same stare we’d shared across the room in quiet moments, an entire conversation passing between our expressions. Maybe he was thinking about our kiss in the bar. Maybe he was thinking about the way my ankle felt under his fingertips. Or maybe he was thinking of throwing me out of his house right then and there.
It didn’t feel right to say hello or ask how he was doing. It didn’t feel right to say anything at all. So I didn’t.
He moved to the other couch and sat down, slowly lowering his large build across from me. Without taking his eyes off me, he poured two glasses of scotch and took a sip from one.
It was so quiet in the room I could hear every little sound. I could hear the ice cube tap against the glass, the sound of the decanter as he returned it to the tray. I could hear the scotch swirl around his mouth, right over his tongue.
He set the glass down and looked at me again, his hands coming together between his knees. “Siena. Beautiful name.”
That was the last thing I expected him to say. “Thanks.”
“Are you from Siena?”
“No. I was born here.”
He grabbed my glass and handed it to me.
I accepted his offer and took a drink.
He watched every second of my movements, his eyes focused on my mouth and throat.
I returned the glass to the table and didn’t start discussing the job. There was a good possibility he wouldn’t want me in his home much longer. “Do you want me to leave?”
His pretty eyes were the only soft feature he possessed. The rest of him was hard and cold, like a man thawed from ice. He was impossible to read, his expression always stern. Whether he was that way intentionally or not was a mystery. “Why would I want you to leave?”
“Because I called you a pig.” There was no way the memory of that night wasn’t as fresh in his mind as it was in mine.
He tilted his head slightly. “I am a pig.”
I couldn’t stop the slight look of surprise from entering my face.
The corner of his mouth tugged up into a smile, but it happened so quickly I wasn’t sure if it really happened at all. “And I like being a pig.”