His hand slid off the door and he stepped away.
I inhaled slowly. Released it.
Turning, I watched him walk to the minibar and grab a glass of clear liquid that sat on the wooden top.
“Go entertain your guests, Gianna.”
A sliver of irritation ran through me. I hated when he told me what to do. Like he was my lord and master, and I just wasn’t aware of it yet.
“That’s what I’m trying to do, but I suppose some guests are just assholes.”
He braced his hands on the bar and turned a dark gaze to me. He wasn’t here for my party but for whatever meeting was happening downstairs. And his expression was making that abundantly clear. But I didn’t care for semantics.
“Where is my present?” I asked, padding toward him on bare feet.
“What? The room next door overflowing with presents isn’t enough for you?”
“Aw, does that make you mad? That I have friends, and you don’t?”
“You need confirmation that everyone adores you, don’t you?”
“Yes,” I said, straight-faced. “So where is my present?” I tapped the front of his watch, and his eyes narrowed on the movement. “Surely your watch is too much? It’s a Rolex.” When he only gave me a dry stare, I sighed. “Okay, if you insist.”
I started to unclasp his watch just to see if he would stop me, to grab my wrist and tell me to quit being annoying like any other man I knew would. He had never touched me. Not once. Not when I’d messed with his tie, taken his glass straight from his hand, or “accidentally” stepped on his foot when he’d told me that at least my blond hair now matched what was inside my head. To be honest, it made me believe he thought I was too lowly to even come into contact with. For a reason I couldn’t explain, it bothered me. And it might’ve been why I touched him even more.
Hands braced on the bar, he only watched me unclasp his watch. My breath grew dense in my lungs. I was simply removing his watch, yet somehow, it felt like I was undoing his belt.
The Rolex slid halfway down my forearm when I put it on, but I still waved it around like I would a new conflict-free diamond ring.
“Thank you,” I said brightly. “I love it.”
We watched each other, and something thick and heavy flowed through the room. He tipped his glass back and took a large sip. I’d say it was water, but I knew it was vodka. The man could drink, and yet he seemed impervious to getting drunk.
I tilted my head. “Where are you from?”
“Iowa.”
A laugh escaped me. “And I’m the Queen of England.” I took his watch off, set it on the bar, and spun it with my finger. “Fine. I know what I want for my birthday.”
“I’m on the edge of my seat.”
“You’re not. But that’s okay. We can’t all have feelings and things.”
He put his watch back on, and I grew distracted by the movement. Allister had the kind of hands that made a woman wonder what they would look like against her skin.
“I want a secret,” I said, adding, “One of yours, of course.”
“And what am I supposed to get out of this?”
“The satisfaction of making me happy.” I flashed him a sweet smile.
His gaze dropped to my lips. He looked away, but before he did, I saw a flash of something unmistakably sinful. My heartbeat tripped up on itself.
He braced his hands back on the bar. “Tell me what your husband got you first.” His voice was nonchalant, though a tense vibe emanated from him, and it sent a nervous energy through me.
I lifted a shoulder. “I’m sure some piece of jewelry, like he gets me every year. I don’t know. I haven’t seen him yet today.”
“Why not?”
“He’s a busy man.”
“Too busy for his wife on her birthday?” I recognized his indifferent yet vicious tone and where he was taking this. Frustration chafed beneath my skin.
“Stop,” I told him.
“What was Antonio doing today? Or, maybe the right word would be, who?”
Anger scratched at my throat and the backs of my eyes. Antonio didn’t consume my thoughts anymore. I no longer thought of him with a young, wide-eyed wonder. Love had turned bitter—if it had ever been love, and not infatuation. However, betrayal still stung, and Allister was cutting that wound open to bleed.
I choked on my fury. “I hate you.”
“I think about you.”
Those four rough words filled the air between us, settling to the floor with a stillness that rocked me to my core. My blood cooled as silence came out to touch me with cold fingers.
I stared, eyes wide.
He watched my expression, bitter amusement passing through his gaze. “There’s your fucking secret.”
Downing his drink, he dropped it on the bar before heading to the door. He stopped with a hand on the knob and turned to me. “You want to know why I don’t touch you?”
I shook my head.
“Because if I did, I wouldn’t stop. Not until I’d snuffed out that pretty fire in your eyes.” His gaze flashed. “Don’t shut yourself in a room with me again, Gianna.”
He left, but his warning stayed behind.
My heart tripped over itself as I marched down the stairs and knocked on the heavy door. It swung open to reveal Tara standing on the other side. Her bright smile dropped into a scowl when she saw it was me.
“You know Antonio doesn’t like women down here.”
She opened a door for a living, yet she believed she was the equivalent of the President’s right-hand man. I didn’t know why, but every woman who had ever manned this door was a raging bitch.
“You have a second to get out of my way before I have you demoted to taking out the garbage.”
Her gaze narrowed to slits. “You wouldn’t dare.”
“Try me.”
Anger rose to her cheeks. However, as though she’d just remembered something important, a spark of mischief lit in her eyes, and she pulled the door open wide.
Something obviously lay in wait for me, but I couldn’t find the will to care. I was too frazzled by Allister’s earlier words, and furious that Ace had told him what happened between us.
I walked past her and down the short steel staircase.
Cigarette smoke hung in the air, coalescing with dim orange lighting. The card tables sat still, and the booths circling the room unseated. A few men loitered outside the conference room door, and heated conversation filtered to my ears from within. I made my way toward Antonio’s office to wait until the meeting adjourned.
As I walked past the conference room, Lorenzo stepped out of the group of men and blocked my path. “What are you doing down here?”
“Trying to eavesdrop on all your secret plans to take over the world.”
He slipped his hands in his pockets, a smile pulling on his lips. Lorenzo was the cutest of the Russos, if you were ever going to use that word to describe any of them. Blood splatter and the look of the Cosa Nostra usually revoked any sense of cute from their description. But, somehow, Lorenzo still retained it. He might be the cutest, but I’d heard he was the kinkiest, too.
“You have a party upstairs,” he said. “Why don’t you go join it?”