Chapter 3
The threat should have scared me. Instead, it sent heat racing through my veins.
Get it together, Aria.
"Fine. But I'll need ingredients."
"Already taken care of." He gestured toward the kitchen, where I now noticed grocery bags I definitely hadn't seen before. "I had them delivered."
An hour later, I was in his kitchen, trying to remember how to make a simple marinara sauce without revealing that I could probably out-cook half the restaurants in Little Italy. The whole situation was surreal—me, an FBI agent, making dinner for the man I was supposed to be investigating.
I was struggling with an onion when I felt him behind me, his chest pressing against my back as his hands covered mine on the knife.
"Like this," he murmured, his breath warm against my ear. "Slow, steady cuts. You don't want to hurt yourself."
My heart was hammering so hard I was sure he could feel it. His body was solid and warm behind me, and when he guided my hands through the cutting motion, I nearly sliced my finger just from the distraction.
"Careful, bella," he said softly. "I don't want you getting hurt."
The endearment sent shivers down my spine. There was something so gentle about the way he said it, like he genuinely cared about my safety.
This is just manipulation. Don't fall for it.
But when he stepped away, I immediately missed the warmth of his presence.
"I'm going to grab a shower," he said. "Try not to burn the place down."
I nodded, not trusting my voice. As soon as I heard the water running, I allowed myself a moment to breathe. This assignment was getting more complicated by the hour.
Twenty minutes later, I thought he'd left the apartment. I'd seen him take a call and assumed he'd gone out for business. So when I finished cleaning up the kitchen, I figured it was safe to use his bathroom to freshen up.
Big mistake.
I was standing under the rainfall shower, letting the hot water wash away the stress of the day, when the frosted glass door suddenly slid open.
"What the hell?" I shrieked, grabbing for a towel that wasn't there.
Dante stood in the doorway, still fully clothed, his amber eyes taking in my very naked form without the slightest hint of embarrassment.
"Get out!" I yelled, trying to cover myself with my hands.
"This is my bathroom," he said calmly, making no move to leave.
"Then why didn't you say something?"
"I thought you understood boundaries."
"Boundaries?" My voice went up an octave. "What boundaries?"
He leaned against the doorframe, completely unbothered by my outrage. "In this house, I am the boundaries."
Heat that had nothing to do with the shower flooded my cheeks. The way he was looking at me—like he had every right to be there, like I belonged to him—should have made me furious. Instead, it made my knees weak.
His gaze traveled slowly down my body, and I saw his expression change. The lazy amusement faded, replaced by something sharper. Dangerous.
"Who are you?" he asked quietly.
Shit.
I knew what he was seeing—the thin scar along my ribs from a knife fight in Detroit. The puckered skin on my shoulder from a bullet graze in Chicago. The faded marks on my knuckles from years of tactical training.
These weren't the scars of a broke art student. These were the scars of someone who'd been in real fights. Deadly fights.
"I'm nobody," I said, reaching for the towel he finally handed me.
I tucked the towel tighter, trying to buy time. "Everyone has scars."
"Not like those." He stepped closer, close enough that I could see the gold flecks in his amber eyes. "Bullet wound. Knife fight. Professional combat training." Each observation was delivered with clinical precision. "So I'll ask again—who the hell are you, Aria?"
He knows. The thought should have terrified me. Instead, what terrified me was the part of me that wanted to tell him the truth.
"Maybe you should ask yourself the same question," I shot back. "Because you're sure as hell not just a banker."
Something that might have been respect flickered across his face. "Fair enough."
We stood there in the steamy bathroom, staring at each other like two predators trying to decide whether to fight or flee. The tension was thick enough to cut with a knife.
"Dinner's ready," I said finally.
"Good." He stepped back, giving me space to escape. "I'm hungry."
As I brushed past him, he caught my wrist gently. "Aria?"
"Yeah?"
"Next time you want to use my shower, ask first."
"Next time, maybe mention that you're still in the apartment," I replied.
His smile was pure sin. "Where's the fun in that?"
Later that night, after we'd shared a surprisingly normal dinner conversation about books and travel, I lay in the guest room staring at the ceiling. Everything about this assignment was wrong. Dante Romano was supposed to be a monster, but he read books about helping victims. He was supposed to be my father's killer, but he had a photo of Dad looking happy and safe.
And he was supposed to be my target, not the man who made my pulse race every time he looked at me.
What am I missing?
My phone buzzed with a text from Morrison: Status report. Now.
I stared at the screen for a long moment, then typed back: Still gathering intel. Need more time.
It was the first lie I'd ever told my handler. But as I hit send, I realized it wouldn't be the last.
Something was very wrong with this mission. And I was going to find out what.