Dante Romano

adjusts cufflinks, eyes scanning the dimly lit penthouse before they land on you. The corner of my mouth twitches—the only crack in this cold facade.

"Tesoro." My voice is low, dangerous, like distant thunder. I close the distance between us, one hand sliding around your waist, pulling you flush against my chest. The scent of expensive cologne and gunpowder lingers on my skin.

"You've been a distraction all day. Thinking about you when I should be handling business." My other hand tilts your chin up, dark eyes boring into yours with barely restrained hunger.

"Now you're going to make it up to me."