X. Well-kept secret

My eyes widen, cheeks burning as I catch a glimpse of his defined abs. Still, I can’t look away. The hypnotic movements of his fingers hold me in place in a way I would never dare admit out loud.

“What are you doing?” I force my gaze upward.

Damn, look up, Marina—at his eyes, those eyes that should be light brown but are now almost entirely consumed by his pupils.

Still, Cesare doesn’t answer right away.

He simply keeps going, methodical, undoing the last button before slipping the shirt from his broad shoulders with quiet precision. Every movement is deliberate, calculated, and exact. The fabric slides down his arms and lands on the desk as if part of a ritual, not a moment of intimacy.

My eyes sting.

The body I see isn’t just that of a man shaped by violence. It’s a man who has learned to control even his sins. Every scar, every taut muscle beneath sun-kissed skin, tells a story he’s never had to speak aloud.

Six. Six ridged abs, veins rising under his skin like they’re carrying something dark and volatile, pulsing, about to explode, disappearing into the V-line that vanishes beneath his pants.

I swallow hard.

How does he hide this beneath those expensive, immaculate suits?

I force my eyes up. Again.

“I’m tired, Marina,” he says simply, as if that explains anything. As if that makes sense of the fact that Cesare—of all people—is taking his shirt off in front of me.

I blink slowly. And when I finally realize he doesn’t intend to say anything else, I stand and take a single step toward the door.

Just one.

Cesare’s hand closes around my arm with iron strength—not painfully, but with a firmness meant to make a point.

He’s not finished with me yet.

“I didn’t say you could leave.” His thumb gently brushes over my skin, sliding a bit lower but never letting go. “I gave you a command.”

I shift slightly, not really trying to break contact. I know resistance will just be seen as disobedience. And for Cesare, those are essentially the same. The more I pull, the tighter he’ll hold on. Maybe it’s part of his psychopathic nature.

“You really want me to use those things?” My voice comes out soft, but it still causes his fingers to sink just a little deeper into my skin. “I saw them, Cesare.”

He blinks slowly.

“The gun may be small, but it’s loaded with a single bullet.” I hold his gaze for one beat longer than I should. “The dagger doesn’t have a cutting edge, but it has a sharp point. And the poison?”

Cesare’s eyes drop to the neckline of my dress, and my stomach twists into a cold, tight knot.

“…Smells too strong to be medicine,” I add, forcing my voice to stay even, not to give too much away.

He eases up, just slightly, but keeps his hand on me in a clear warning.

“…You really want me to kill you?”

Cesare smirks. The kind of smile that doesn’t touch his eyes, that carries danger… and something else I don’t dare name.

“Kill me?”

The cold in my belly climbs up my spine in a shiver.

“You couldn’t, even if you wanted to.”

“What makes you think I don’t want to?” My question hangs in the air, thick, heavy.

Cesare steps closer, and the space between us disappears. His body heat is too strong, too close, making the air thick, and I involuntarily hold my breath.

“You’re not a killer, Marina. You’re better than that.”

The way he emphasizes the word makes it clear that it’s not a compliment.

“But I can’t just give you to Enzo Bianchi as a gift, not knowing exactly what’s inside this pretty package.”

My spine straightens, and my chin lifts without me realizing, teeth clenching too late to stop myself.

“A pretty package,” I repeat slowly, letting sarcasm drip from my tongue. “That’s a fancy way of saying you don’t trust me.”

Cesare doesn’t deny it. He simply watches me with that gaze—unblinking, dissecting, stripping away layers. And deep within his eyes, something sparks. Not quite desire, but something older. Something more brutal. A primal urge to dominate.

A craving to always stay one step ahead.

“It’s not about trust.” Cesare’s hand rises again, slower this time, more purposeful. His fingers graze my collarbone, then trace up my neck… a touch so gentle it borders on reverent, yet still bears the weight of a veiled threat.

“I just don’t like it when things slip out of my control.”

“You want to make sure I’m not one of those things,” I say in a quick breath. It’s not a question—it’s a fact.

And it makes his lips curve into a rare, genuine smile.

“You’re clever, Marina.”

Cesare rests his thumb just over my pulse, feeling the rhythm pounding beneath my skin. The change in his eyes is subtle, but it’s there. Darkening. As if he’s captivated by how my heart races for him. Maybe he can smell it. The truth in my blood. The fear. The...

I swallow hard, and he feels that, too.

“…Too clever for your own good, maybe,” he adds, pressing his thumb a little harder on that proof I can’t hide. “But that’s a good thing. It means maybe we’re not as different as you like to think.”

Then he completely lets go of me.

I hate how the absence of his touch and heat makes my body tremble, as if the room suddenly turns to ice. My eyes drift toward the window, hoping it’s cracked open or that the wind has slipped in with a winter chill. It hasn’t.

But the next moment, he moves—passing by me with that unsettling calm, making me feel like prey too scared to look away from the predator circling her. And what I see makes my heart skip a beat.

Etched into Cesare’s skin in stark black ink is a hauntingly lifelike beast—a panther, its hidden spots revealed by an intricate play of light and shadow, framed by the dead forest that climbs behind it and over his shoulders.

His muscles shift, slightly distorting the image, and my mouth goes dry. I try to look away, but all I can do is lower my eyes to the big word stamped across his lower back.

𝕽𝖔𝖒𝖆𝖓𝖔.

My stomach tightens, and my chest clenches all at once.

He runs a hand through his hair, annoyed by a single stray strand, almost as if even that’s an insult to his control, and sits down on the bed, black Egyptian-silk sheets beneath him.

He doesn’t say a word. Doesn’t tell me to come closer. Doesn’t even look at me. But I know he’s waiting. He’s daring me.

I don’t follow right away.

I breathe in slowly, then step toward the bar cabinet, letting my fingers trace the rim of the glass—his glass—still warm from where his lips had just been.

Cesare knows what I’m about to do.

He wants me to do it.

He needs me to do it.

He wants me to pour two fingers of that whiskey into the same glass, to pull the slim, delicate vial from between my breasts and lace his drink with what’s inside.

So I do it.

Because if I don’t, I won’t pass Cesare’s twisted little test.

And the thought of spending the whole night with him...

I close my eyes.

Don’t think about that.

My hands don’t tremble. They don’t dare. The clear liquid swirls in the glass, blending smoothly with the whiskey.

The vial slips back into the neckline of my dress like a well-kept secret—a secret he already knows. And yet, still wants me to pretend to keep.

I grasp the glass and walk slowly, finally entering the adjoining bedroom, where his scent is more potent than tobacco, whiskey, or leather. Where it’s thick with something darker…

Something primal…

Something that could only belong to a Romano.