Roman continually snags my attention throughout the afternoon even though I try my hardest to avoid staring at him. There isn’t a moment when I’m not aware of every move he makes. My eyes track him everywhere he goes.
After dinner, Grace and Matteo open their gifts. I glimpse Roman exiting the tent as my brother holds up a silver picture frame for everyone to see. Acting on impulse, I head toward the house after him.
We haven’t spoken a word to one another even though our gazes have connected several times throughout the afternoon. By unspoken agreement, we avoid interaction at all costs. Since that unexpected kiss took place, arm’s length has grown to yards.
Roman moves fluidly through the thick crowd and slips out the back door. No one notices him except for me. I notice everything about him.
Pulling open the French door, I glance around the Tuscan-style kitchen with its dark cherry cabinets and sand-colored granite countertops. Roman is nowhere to be found. Instead of moving toward the living room, where guests are conversing in loud, exuberant voices, I turn toward the wing that houses my father’s office as well as the security room that contains surveillance monitors for the entire property. I have a feeling that’s where Roman’s headed.
Moving away from the revelry, noise gives way to silence. As I approach Papa’s office, I notice that the door is ajar, which is unusual because my father is paranoid about security and keeps it locked at all times.
I push open the door and peek around the corner, scanning the inside of the wood-paneled room. An antique mahogany desk sits prominently in the center. A massive fieldstone fireplace occupies the far end. Built-in bookshelves line the opposite wall, filled with old leather-bound volumes that Papa has been collecting since he was a child.
My father has a deep appreciation for the classics and has instilled the same in his children. I remember running my fingers over the worn spines before selecting a novel, eagerly devouring the words on each page, and then sitting down with him to discuss my thoughts. We would spend an entire evening in the matching leather chairs with a fire roaring in the grate, cups of hot cocoa and a bowl of buttery popcorn on the end table between us.
Those are some of my most cherished childhood memories of Papa. The best thing about them is that they have nothing to do with Enzo, the mafia crime boss. They’re about a father and daughter bonding over their shared love of a well-told story.
Leaving the door open, I step into the empty room. The air is still, as if it hasn’t been disturbed for some time. Roman may have turned down this hallway, but he didn’t stop here.
Disappointment fills me, snapping me out of my daydream.
Oh my God, did I really follow Roman hoping to find him?
I blow out a long, slow breath.
I’m irritated with myself for not thinking about the ramifications of my actions and for following my instincts instead of using better judgment. I say a silent prayer of thanks that I didn’t stumble across him. The muscles in my abdomen clench uncomfortably at the thought because he wouldn’t have been happy to see me.
More like angry and irritated. Any conversation that would have taken place between us wouldn’t have been pleasant.
I rub my temples in frustration. When am I going to get over this stupid infatuation and get on with my life? My feelings for him aren’t healthy. I should rejoin the party and pretend this little lapse in judgment never happened.
“What are you doing in here?” a voice thunders.
I jump and whirl around, finding Roman looming in the doorway. His jaw looks like it’s been carved from stone. The muscles of his body are coiled tight, as if he’s on the cusp of attack.
All the thoughts circling madly around in my head flee. I gape in surprise as he studies me with hooded eyes.
He breaks the silence by biting out, “I asked what you’re doing in here, Sofia.”
Sofia.
The sound of my name sliding from his lips echoes in my head.
“I…” I trail off and clear my throat to give myself more time to come up with a believable excuse as to why I’m in Papa’s office while he’s outside entertaining guests.
I can’t tell Roman that I came here searching for him. He won’t like it. I don’t want to imagine his response when he’s already pissed.
Looking impatient, Roman arches a brow.
“My father asked me to retrieve a box of cigars from the humidor,” I blurt, my palms damp with anxiety.
His stoic expression never wavers. I can’t tell if he believes me or not. His steady gaze could burn holes through me. My heart hammers against my ribcage, the noise filling my ears in the deafening silence.
“Is that so?” he asks mockingly, making me wonder if he hears it, too.
“Yes.” I swallow down the knot of apprehension in my throat and force myself to move toward the handcrafted wood and glass box in the corner. Opening the door, I select a box of Bolivar Belicosos. They’re pricey, but not in comparison to some of the hand-rolled Montecristos in Papa’s collection. “I believe these were the ones he asked for.”
Not wanting to give Roman an opportunity to poke holes through my lie, I turn toward the door.
Roman doesn’t move as I approach the exit. The closer I get, the harder I pray that he’ll step aside. But he doesn’t. His eyes stay locked on mine until I squirm with unease. The office is generous in size, but Roman’s presence shrinks it, making it feel oppressive. As if there’s not enough space for the pair of us to breathe.
I clear my throat again and summon strength, hoping it will make me appear unfazed. “I should really get these cigars to him.” I internally flinch at how my voice came out as a husky whisper instead of its normal tone.
He shifts slightly but doesn’t abandon his post. My fight or flight response kicks in as if I’m in imminent danger. I want to flee. I’m not a fighter. I never have been.
I’m ill-equipped to deal with whatever game Roman’s playing. I don’t have nearly enough weapons in my arsenal when it comes to him. I allow my instincts to take over every time. I always give in to the need pumping through my veins and end up hurt because he doesn’t want me. He never has, and the sooner I realize it, the better off I’ll be. It’s time to stop the madness.
All I have to do is get out of here. Then I can hide the cigars in my room and replace them at a later time. The party should begin winding down soon. I can make the rounds quickly to say goodbye to everyone before taking off.
Gathering my courage, I shoot past Roman. As I do, he plucks the box of Bolivar Belicosos from my hand. I stop, staring at him in shock. “What are you doing?”
“I was on my way to see Enzo. I’ll bring them out to him myself,” he says with a smirk. “No need to trouble yourself, princess.” His eyes stay locked on mine, the challenge glinting in them evident.
Ignoring the nickname that always manages to prick my temper, I swallow my panic. “No, he asked me to get them.”
I make a swipe for the cigars, and he jerks them out of my reach. Anger stings my cheeks as I come away with nothing but air.
Goddamn it!
My mind spins. Clearly, Roman suspects that my father never asked for the cigars or he wouldn’t bother with them.
Or me.
Desperate to get the box back, I inch closer. I’m tall, but there’s no way for me to reach it unless I close the distance separating us. My body brushes against his, and he stills.
Roman’s stance changes, his muscles bunching and tensing as if he’s gone on high alert. His fingers lock around my wrist, and he pushes me away. “No.”
The simple word cracks like thunder in the dark room.
I stiffen at the harshness in his voice.
A muscle ticks in his jaw. “I don’t want you touching me.”
Stung by the ugly words, my mouth falls open. I wrench my hand out of his grip and step away from him. He’s not the only one who needs distance. Hurt floods through every fiber of my being. I fight back the tears filling my eyes.
My voice quivers as I hiss, “You’re a bastard.” It feels good to lash out at him. I want to inflict just as much damage on him as he’s wreaked on me throughout the years.
Relief softens his carved features. “You’re right,” he agrees. “Whatever you do, princess, don’t forget it.”
Surprised by his spite, I spit, “I hate you.”
Right now, I hate Roman more than I’ve ever hated anyone.
“Good.”
With that, I run out of the room, my father’s cigars forgotten. All the joy from celebrating my brother’s engagement is gone.
When will I learn that Roman Santori is nothing more than a cold, heartless bastard? If I have any brains whatsoever, this will be the final straw. This will be the day I move on with my life and put Roman in the past where he belongs.