He puts a finger to my lips. For a moment, he just rubs my bottom lip as if fascinated by its smoothness. I feel his touch all the way down to between my legs.
“Would you feel better if I let you call Mr. Rossi?” he murmurs.
“Yes.”
He drops his hand. Without moving out of my space, he pulls out his phone and dials a number. He holds it to my ear, holding my gaze as we both listen to it ring.
“Hello?”
Relief trickles down my spine as I recognize my boss’s voice. “Mr. Rossi? It’s Leah—are you all right?”
“Ah, Leah. Yes. I’m fine. The doctor is here. He stitched me up. Now he’s looking at Cedella.”
“The doctor came there?” I repeat, because I’ve never heard of a doctor doing house calls.
“Yes. He check me first. The men are downstairs, cleaning. It is a miracle.”
“Men? What men?”
But Mr. Rossi doesn’t seem to hear. “Thank you, Leah,” he’s gushing, “for delivering the money.”
Right, the money. Royal’s men must have delivered it. Thank you, I mouth to Royal. He lifts his chin.
“I must go now,” Mr. Rossi says in a distracted rush. “Everything will be fine. Big storm today. We will close the shop until it passes. Ciao!”
“Ciao,” I say, but he’s already hung up.
“The doctor came to his house,” I say, because I can’t quite believe it.
“I told you I'd take care of it.”
“What is going on?” My call with Mr. Rossi didn’t explain anything.
“Stefanos made a move, but I was ready. What I didn’t anticipate was him targeting the bakery. I had men watching before today, but I had called them away. I’m sorry, principessa. I failed you.”
Men watching? “Stefanos made a move?” I repeat.
“He did. But you don’t need to worry about him anymore. He won’t bother you or anyone ever again.”
I stare into Royal’s coffee-black eyes. All the pieces are falling into place, and I know more than I want to. “Why are you telling me this?”
“I won’t keep anything from you, Leah. Not if you ask me. Not if you really want to know.”
I squint at him. It’s like he’s answering a question, but one I haven’t yet thought to ask.
“This is a lot.” I raise a hand between us, but he captures it. His fingers are long and so warm.
“I know, Leah. But you can trust me.” He brings my hand to his lips and kisses my palm. A simple gesture, but one of the most intimate things anyone’s ever done to me. The softness of his lips, the reverence in his eyes… something is happening here. I feel it again in my stomach, the seismic shift of fate.
I swallow. “What happens now?”
“Now, you are safe. We will wait out the storm.”
Whether he means the snow storm outside, or some metaphorical mafia war, I don’t know.
I’m in over my head. This is nuts, but I don’t want to step away from Royal. Ever.
Do you believe in fate?
He touches my face with just the tips of his fingers, and brushes his lips over mine again. A light, feathery kiss. When he draws back, his eyes are twin pools of darkness.
“Bella,” he breathes, and kisses me again. “You taste so sweet.”
His touch turns my thoughts upside down. His lips are like a shot of Strega, warming me. I sway on my feet, gasping. Why would he kiss me? What would he see in me? I try to turn my head, and his fingers tighten on my chin. “No, open for me.” He tilts my head and I let him guide me into a deeper kiss.
My thoughts tumble out of my mind. Who cares why someone as beautiful as this man is kissing little ‘ol me? I’m going to enjoy the moment before he changes his mind.
I surge to my tiptoes and kiss him back. My breasts smash against his chest. I’m clumsy but eager, and Royal seems to enjoy it. He steadies me with hands on my hips, then angles his head, guiding the kiss so our mouths slant across each other, allowing his tongue to probe deeper. The move penetrates the very core of me.
When the kiss ends, I’m shaking, and wet. Royal’s hair is disheveled—I may have dug my fingers into it in the throes of the kiss, but he’s otherwise as put together as usual, while I’m shaky and flushed.
“Wow.” My voice is slurred; I sound drunk.
He chuckles and swipes a thumb over my lips. “I want to taste you, princess,” he says. “Will you allow me to do that?”
“Yes,” I say slowly.
He scoops me up—I love how easily he picks me up—and marches through a vast dining room, into a dark inner room lined with bookshelves and wood paneling, where he sets me down on an overstuffed armchair. Seating himself on the footstool, he draws off my ugly boots.