AVA
The following morning, I rolled out of bed and pulled my hair into a ponytail. I washed my face, brushed my teeth, and then slapped a quick coat of concealer under my eyes.
I opted for my favorite Balmain blazer, paired with a silky spaghetti strap shirt, skinny jeans, and flats. I looked decent enough to go downstairs to get coffee. Grabbing my keycard from the table, I stuffed it into my pocket and left the room with my purse clutched under my arm.
A dozen guards spread throughout the floor. Their heads snapped at me as I approached the elevator. It was strange to have so many armed men right outside my apartment. My dad had a security detail, but nothing like this.
I rode the elevator downstairs and strolled through the casino, which had a decent amount of people at this hour. Some patrons looked like they hadn’t slept in days. Dark circles under their eyes, hair pulled in different directions.
I passed dozens of tables and rows of slot machines and eventually found my way to Starbucks, where at least a dozen people waited in line.
Someone bumped into my arm. “Buongiorno, bella.”
I looked up at Nico, both loving and hating all his cute Italian nicknames for me. This wasn’t the first time he called me beautiful. And each time he said it, my heart did a flip.
Be still, heart.
I tilted my head to get a whiff of his masculine scent. “What are you doing here?”
His fingers brushed mine, sending a ripple of electricity through my body. “Have breakfast with me. I was thinking pancakes.” He shrugged. “Maybe waffles.”
I stared at him, slack-jawed. My brain was working slower than my body, and I finally nodded. “Both sound good.”
Nico gave my hand a quick squeeze that made my heart race. Then he led us past the line of people and to the front counter. He waved his hand at the woman behind it.
“Good morning, Mr. Luciano. What can I get you?”
“Hey, Gloria. We’re in a rush. I’ll have my usual. And Miss Vianello will have...” He held out his hand and gestured for me to tell the woman my order, which I did quickly.
All eyes were on Nico as we got our coffees in record time. He strutted from the coffee shop, broad-shouldered and graceful in a pair of designer jeans and a black button-down shirt that looked imported.
Is this a date?
Does breakfast count?
I had little experience with men.
And zero with men like Nico.
Older.
Dangerous.
Mobbed up.
I sipped from the latte. “Where are you taking me for breakfast?”
“I’m cooking for you.”
I got the feeling Nico didn’t cook for women.
A few minutes later, Nico stopped in front of the elevator bank. He jammed his keycard into the slot on the wall, repeated the process once the doors opened, and then hit the penthouse button.
I didn’t ask questions, even though I had many of them. Nothing about our first meeting was luck or a chance encounter. For whatever reason, Nico planned every single second we spent together. He was always the one in control, the one dictating our plans. And now, I was following him to his apartment in silence.
What am I doing?
A dozen red flags went off in my head, signaling this was the time to run. We were almost at his place. I considered making an excuse to get away from him because I was nervous and didn’t want to be alone with him.