On a political opponent? If I get caught, they’ll ruin my life just as easily as the man across from me—more easily, in fact, because their accusations will actually be true.
But Ruthie…
“Your opponents come here sometimes.” Maybe I can reason my way out of this. “They might recognize me.”
The Governor shakes his head, eyes gleaming. “It’s not a political colleague I want you to clean for, Holly. Tell me: have you heard of the De Rossi crime family?”
My stomach sinks all the way to the wine cellar.
Of course I’ve heard of the De Rossis. I haven’t been living under a rock.
And now I’m sure: there’s no way I’ll survive until Christmas.
Two
Diego
Present day
She’s in the library. Holly. The little blonde maid that started work here last month; the number one suspect on my list of potential moles. God knows where a tiny scrap of a girl like that would find the bravado to spy on Santo De Rossi, but the timing lines up.
I hate that fact.
The library is dim, the ornate sconces casting golden pools of light, and Holly stretches up onto her toes to dust the higher bookshelves. As she reaches up, the hem of her black maid’s dress rises up her thighs.
One inch. Maybe two.
Just enough to show an extra strip of soft, secret skin.
Tucked outside on the balcony, swallowed up by shadows, I watch her without blinking. There’s a ladder attached to the bookshelves: one of those old-fashioned ones on rails meant to help readers reach the highest tomes, but either she hasn’t noticed it, or she doesn’t trust it to hold her. Well, Holly can’t weigh more than her feather duster, can she? I could lift her in the palm of my hand.
Should I tell her? I could slide the glass doors open and poke my head inside, nodding at the ladder a few feet to her left. Would it scare her to learn I’m so near? I came out here for fresh air and some goddamn silence, but once she came into the library fifteen minutes ago, I should’ve made myself known. Instead, I moved closer and watched her, my breath fogging the glass.
I’m stupid over this girl. Something about her calls to me—maybe it’s her small, slender frame, so delicate and… fuck, so breakable. Or maybe it’s the swing of her icy blonde bob when she turns her head, the hair so soft-looking and pretty. Ever since she started working here, I’ve been walking around with a ball of tension in my gut, and it’s not just suspicion.
I’ve beenwantingher.
And losing sleep over it, too, tossing and turning every night until I give in and take myself in hand. Picturing her for just a few minutes, in that little maid’s uniform or out of it. With or without the apron. Either way.
Inside, Holly grunts softly, straining to reach higher. I inhale, my heart pounding.
I want her to make that sound again. Want it so badly I can’t think straight, and I need to be closer so I can hear it properly, nothing between us and no wind in my ears.
Because Holly doesn’tactlike a spy. There’s no cunning to her; no calculating gleam in her gaze. The few times I spoke to her already, she flushed bright pink and stammered in response, tripping over her words… but maybe that’s all an act. A rehearsed display.
If itisan act, it’s fucking genius. I’m Santo De Rossi’s scarred, brutal enforcer, and I’ve never been more disarmed than when that girl blinks up at me, lips parting. I want to lay my hands on her alright, but not to hurt her. Not for interrogation.
Only to coax out a certain kind of scream.
Inside the library, she rocks onto one foot, gripping a shelf for balance, straining and stretching to reach higher. Her feather duster quivers. Okay, time to move.
I slide the door open silently, padding across the rug with light steps. People don’t expect it, what with the beard and the brawn, but I can move quietly when I want to—and when it comes to Holly, I’malwaysbattling the urge to prowl after her in the shadows. Wrestling with my final scraps of nobility, trying not to descend completely into the darkness.
In here, without that pane of glass between us, I can hear everything. Her steady breaths; the rustle of her uniform; the silken slide of her hair against her collar. The creak of the floorboards beneath her shifting weight. She looks so small by those shelves, wobbling on one foot as she reaches up, and when she curses under her breath, I hear that too.
“Need a hand?”
Holly jolts, her feather duster clattering to the floor. She spins around, cheeks red and eyes wide.