The Woman in the Wrong Place (Grassi Framily)

“Are you okay?” Matteo asked, his hand touching the back of my arm just under my elbow as he led me around the makeshift dining room table then out of the room entirely, down the hall, then into what was clearly the unfinished master bedroom.

I should have been anxious to be stuck in a space like that with him.

But was it anxiety I felt?

Nope.

Not a bit.

No matter how much I tried to convince myself that the way my pulse was skittering around and my belly was fluttering had something to do with discomfort instead of what it clearly was.

Excitement.

“I, ah, yeah. I needed to tell you something. But then you weren’t at work. And I don’t have your phone number, of course. I didn’t know what else to do. I think it is kind of time-sensitive,” I told him, trying my damndest not to focus too much on his very nice California king-sized bed that somehow didn’t completely swallow up the entire room.

The man had nice bedding.

You had to appreciate that, right?

God, I’d once been dating a guy, and when I got back to his place when it was finally the right time to, you know, take things to the next level, I found out that he put towels on his bed.

Towels.

Like that was a sheet.

And we weren’t even going to talk about the tiny, ratty blanket he had spread over it like he’d made the damn bed more presentable by doing that.

I faked getting my period, ran out of there, and never looked back.

If a man couldn’t bother to go to the store and get a damn bed-in-a-bag, was there any chance of them being a successful relationship partner without having to be mommied into everything?

I thought not.

I still think not.

But Matteo, he had more than a bed-in-a-bag.

His bedding was luxe.

He had Silky Tencel bedding in the shade Dark Olive.

I knew the set. I’d eye-banged the set while my wallet lectured me that it wasn’t smart to spend three-hundred-fifty dollars on a bedding set.

“Time-sensitive?” Matteo prompted, dragging my attention away from the bed and back to him.

I wasn’t sure which was worse. Looking at the bed where filthy, delicious acts could be performed. Or at the man some baser part of me wanted to do said filthy and delicious things with.

Maybe I needed to take some of that stack he was paying me for my silence and pay for the therapy I clearly needed.

“Right. Yes. You were leaving work on Monday. And I noticed something. Well, someone.”

“You noticed someone doing what?”

“Following you,” I told him, watching as he went from calm and relaxed to tense and serious in the span of a blink.

“Following me. Are you sure?”

“One-hundred-percent sure,” I told him, nodding.

“Shit,” he hissed, reaching up to rub a hand across the back of his neck. “Okay. Can you hang here? I’m going to go get my brother. Might as well only tell us once,” he said, already moving away.

I’d never seen the man look so anxious.

Granted, I didn’t know him that well, but still. Sometimes people had a vibe and it was consistent and could be relied upon. Matteo Grassi had a calm and laid-back vibe.

Apparently, it was a good thing I came to him.

Though I wasn’t sure how smart it was for me to get any more involved with mafia business than I already was.

It was too late to go back now.

Because not two minutes later, the door was opening.

And a bunch of mafia guys were moving inside with me.

CHAPTER NINE

Matteo

I’d have been less surprised to find the Queen of England at my housewarming party.

I’d just been making the rounds, saying hello to family members I hadn’t seen in far too long, when a movement caught my eye, drawing my attention immediately.

And there she was.

Standing at the makeshift dining room table I’d set up with Milo towering over her, laying it on thick, as he was known to do once he’d grown into his arms and legs and put on about twenty-five pounds of muscle.

She looked good, too.

Great, even.

She must have come from work and was wearing one of those wrap dresses that all but came undone with one practiced flick of the wrist. It was in a rich emerald green that looked great with her skin and hair. Hair that she’d left loose, which she didn’t seem to do often. At least not at work.

I was momentarily stuck in place, watching her as she smiled at Milo and his clear advances, making something ugly and unfamiliar rise up in my system that I was having a hard time calling anything other than jealousy.

Jealousy.

Over my little cousin.

That was what made me break through the crowd and ask what was going on.

I would never admit this to anyone else, but a needy, pathetic part of me was hoping she’d stopped by because she couldn’t stop thinking of me like I hadn’t been able to get her out of my mind either.